Monomyth

The kitchen is dim with flickering candlelight, the scent of garlic and parmesan still heavy in the air, a small pile of dishes currently forgotten in the sink. You and Leon are leaning against the counter, enjoying the sugar rush of dessert.

Leon’s hand lingers on your waist, his lips grazing your forehead. You look up at him, intimately familiar with the way his blue eyes look in the shade, the way his brow creases faintly when he’s ruminating. You smile, brushing the furrow with your fingertips. Leon’s been thinking hard the past few days, turning something over in his head repeatedly, not quite ready to tell you yet.

You know your husband well enough to let the thought breathe. That’s the way things have been between you and Leon for as long as you can remember: the trust that each person needs to take things in their own time, the faith that everything important will be shared. You know Leon’s mannerisms well enough to know that whatever he’s planning on telling you will surface soon: you see it in how he looks at you longer than necessary, the way his eyes glaze and refocus sometimes, the way his lips part to speak, then shut again.

You wonder what Leon has to say. Whether it’s good or bad. How you plan on sharing both his burdens and joys with him, as you always have.

Leon brushes his lips against your hair, then pulls back and holds you at arm’s length.

“I’ve been thinking…” Leon begins, pauses.

“I noticed.” You say, smiling up at him. “So what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he continues, his hand reaching up to catch your chin. “What we talked about. The future.”

“Ah.” You look into his eyes. You hadn’t thought it was possible for Leon to look even more serious than usual. “That sounds important.”

Leon looks awkward. You watch as his eyes flick away, close, then rest on you again. “I don’t think so. Well, maybe. I don’t know yet.”

You lay your fingers on his wrist, thumb gently tracing the vein there. “I’m listening.”

“I had the idea to open an ice cream shop. A gelato place, actually.” He huffs a laugh. “I know it sounds silly–”

“I’m interested.” You tilt your head at him in open curiosity. “What’s up with this ice cream shop?”

Leon leads you to your chair, pressing on your shoulders so you sit down. He kneels between your legs then takes your hands in his. “I’ve got to find something to do after I retire, right?”

“Leon, you–” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Leon Scott Kennedy, one of the DSO’s top operatives, fighting bioterror for thirty years, actually floating the idea of retirement? You swallow hard. “You’re–you’re sure?”

Deep down, you know it’s a pointless question. The fact that Leon’s bringing this up with you surely means he’s mulled over the prospect for a very long time. Months, perhaps. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was years: contemplating the cost of a slow and steady wear and tear, the accumulation of grief and fatigue from an unending war against nightmare horrors.

“No, no I’m not sure.” He admits, giving a low and weary chuckle.  “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“I suppose none of us do.” You say, still in shock. “But if you’re serious, I’ll back you 100%. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Leon agrees. “I figured you would. I wanted to hear your thoughts anyway.”

“I guess I’m not sure why you chose an ice cream shop.” You frown. “Not that it’s a bad choice. I just thought you’d want something more…”

“Heroic?” Leon says dryly. “Something filled with guns and explosions?”

“Well… yeah.” You finish lamely. “Not the heroic bit. Just… you know. Your usual way of helping people.”

Leon nods. “I haven’t really given you reason to believe I’d choose something else, I know that. Always a first time for everything, huh?”

“It does sound lovely.” You reach out instinctively, brushing aside a lock of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. “I’m not sure that it would be relaxing per se, but I’m sure it involves fewer guns–”

“No guns.” Leon says firmly.

“–and no blood, if you abide by workplace safety standards.”

“Haha.” Leon gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

You grin down at him. “Well, now I’m intrigued. Sell me on this vision: Leon Scott Kennedy, gelato snob. Ice cream shop proprietor. Serving up artisanal scoops and fresh batches of rosemary waffle cones. Also, get up from the floor baby, you know how those old knees hate hard floors.”

Leon looks even more unimpressed at your jab. He gets up anyway, making sure to nudge you with said knees as he settles beside you. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, another hand reaching up to pull your head onto his shoulder. “You think you’re funny.”

“I think you think I’m funny.” You clap your hands decisively. “Anyway. Yes, tell me about Kennedy’s.”

“You’ve already named it for me.”

“Tsk, it’s a working title.” You wave your hand airily. “We can workshop names later. Where’s your ice cream shop going to be?”

“I spoke to Ariel at the espresso bar. She’s planning on moving back home, so the space’ll be freed up by next year. We’re going to discuss rent soon.”

“Oh no.” You gasp. “You’re going to lose your favourite coffee place!”

“How will I survive?” Leon deadpans. “The place is about 500 square feet, so 150 in the front, the rest for the kitchen, storage, and wash station.”

“Huh.” You try to visualise the space. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“I’d start small.” Leon continues, taking your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Six flavours to start. Maybe eight, if things go well.”

“What are we talking in terms of flavours?”

You feel Leon chuckle, his voice a pleasant buzz against your shoulder. “What, you taking notes now?”

“Naturally. It’s my husband’s first business proposal. I’m obligated to celebrate this major milestone.”

Leon snorts and ruffles your hair. “A nice vanilla. That’s a must.”

“Mm.” You hum, already imagining the smoothness of the ice cream. “Yup, the good kind that has flecks of vanilla bean in it. I like it.”

“Gotta have chocolate. I’ve been looking up some sources for single origin cocoa.”

“Wow.” You nod seriously. “I forgot you were a chocolate snob.”

Leon elbows you in your side and you laugh, shielding your waist from further attack. “Let me guess: Tanzania?”

“Nah. Sur del Lago. The listing mentioned notes of almond and coffee.”

“Ooh. Fancy. Fancy indeed.”

“And then Neapolitan, of course.”

You straighten and turn slowly to Leon in disbelief. He stares at you. “What?” He asks.

“You’re joking about the Neapolitan.”

“What’s wrong with Neapolitan?” Leon frowns. “It’s popular. Kids love it.”

“It’s a coward’s choice.” You scoff. “It’s for indecisive people. Those people don’t appreciate good ice cream at all. I wonder if they even have tastebuds.”

Leon actually throws his head back and laughs. You grin too, because watching Leon laugh so unrestrainedly is a rare treat.

“You say that, and you call me a snob? Really?” He shakes his head.

“I stand by my statement, and my principles.”

“Your principles aren’t going to sell ice cream.” Leon grins back, tweaking your nose. “I’d like my business to stay open, thanks.”

“Fine. I can see that I’m not in the presence of good taste.”

“You’re petty.” Leon doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Anyway. Strawberry?”

“I can appreciate a good strawberry.” You grumble. “Ooh. Maybe once business takes off, you can consider toppings. I think a nice strawberry compote could go with other flavours.”

Leon props his chin in his hand, considering. “I don’t think that’s a bad idea. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Just a thought.” You say agreeably. “Other flavours?”

Leon checks them off his fingers. “Cookies and Cream or Rocky Road. Either one, I’ve not decided. Then, for seasonal flavours–”

“Ooh, my baby’s getting ambitious.”

“–I want to make a lemon sage sorbet.” Leon says.

“... Huh?” You blink at him, thoroughly confused. “That’s… a pretty niche flavour, isn’t it? Very unusual, actually.”

“Well.” Leon looks down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really liked it, remember?”

“Um. I mean, yeah. But it’s been such a long time since I had it.”

“Sweetheart.” Leon turns to you, giving you a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t stop talking about it on our honeymoon.”

You freeze, suddenly guilty. “Listen, it was good. I’d never had it before!”

“I know.”

“And it was from a very famous gelateria in Florence, okay?”

“Uh huh.”

“You said it was good too!” 

“I did.” Now Leon is smirking at you in a thoroughly infuriating way. “But I wasn’t the one talking about it days later in Rome. And Positano. All the way down to Sicily.”

You cross your arms in front of your chest. “Leave me alone. It was delicious. And now I want some.” You groan.

Leon pulls you in close again, dropping his voice to soothe you. “I know. I liked it too.” He concedes. “Not as much as you–”

You swat at him, half-annoyed, half-laughing. In hindsight, you’re not even sure why you thought Leon would forget. Because of course he wouldn’t. He’s delighted–and embarrassed–you again and again with the things he remembers.

“–but soon, you can have it at home. As often as you like. No flight to Florence needed.”

Goddamnit. And then he goes and says disarmingly sweet things to you, in that serious tone of his. Now how are you supposed to respond to that?

All you can muster up is a rather meek: “Thanks, baby.” And a kiss to his cheek.

Leon absentmindedly trails the back of his hand over the place your lips touched him. “... Yeah. You’re welcome.”

“Ahem. Uh, so that’s six flavours. That seems like a good mix so far–”

Leon clears his throat. “I’m thinking of another seasonal flavour for the first run too. A summertime thing, maybe.”

“I respect the drive.” You nod approvingly. “So what’ll it be?”

“Cremino.” Leon’s voice is low enough that you have to lean close to hear it.

“Cremino.” You repeat. “Why cremino? I didn’t even think you liked it that much. When was the last time you had cremino?”

Leon gives you a look. “In Bologna, remember?”

You freeze. Then you gasp in outrage. “Don’t talk about Bologna with me. Don’t you dare–”

Now Leon laughs. “You’re still mad about it huh?”

“Of course I’m mad!” You hiss. “I didn’t even get to eat it!”

Leon’s shoulders start to shake again. “Sweetheart.” He mumbles through pursed lips. “It’s been years. I think we can let–”

“No.”

“–let this one go.”

“I said no, Leon.”

Leon spreads his arms helplessly. “You could’ve eaten it. It was just melted, not–”

“–just melted? Just? I paid twenty euros for it. I tucked it in my backpack. I was saving it so we could eat it together–”

“Oh, here we go.” Leon presses his hand to his mouth.

“–and then I open my backpack in that cafe, and what do I get for my effort?”

“... a shapeless blob of melted cremino?” “... a shapeless blob of melted cremino!” You say at the same time.

“You really could’ve just eaten it–” Leon starts.

“NO. It’s the principle of the matter! It wasn’t meant to be eaten that way!”

“–but instead, you scraped chunks of it off with a spatula and fed them to me.” Leon laughs at the absurdity of the memory.

“It cost twenty euros!” You bristle. “I didn’t want it to go to waste!”

“So you fed it to your husband.” Leon teases you. “You’re too good for melted chocolate, but your husband isn’t. We were just married too, mind you.”

You throw your hands in the air. “You said it was nice! AND–” you jab your finger at him. “You were so smug about it too.”

You think back to that warm summer’s day in Bologna. You remember sitting down at a cafe, Leon setting two coffees down on the cramped wrought-iron table, the way you were still marvelling at the porticoes as you reached into your backpack. You pulled back your greasy hand with a noise of surprise, fishing out a paper bag with a conspicuous oil slick on its surface. You might’ve wailed. Maybe.

And yes, you might have grumpily scraped flakes of chocolate off the melted blob, mourning the beautiful layers now melted into a mysterious mass.

Leon though? Leon happily accepted the chocolate. “It’s nice. It’s not too sweet, I like the hazelnuts.” He opens his mouth again so you can spoon more into it. “And I think there’s almonds in this too. You sure you don’t want any?”

Leon waits, then stares meaningfully at you. “It’s very good.”

“Don’t.” You grumbled, utterly miserable in the moment. You place more chocolate on Leon’s tongue. “Don’t make me think about what I can’t have.”

You shake your head, coming back to the present. Leon is still trying not to smile. You sigh heavily. “All I had was that little sample the shop gave us. I don’t remember what it tastes like any more.”

“I do.” Leon says, his voice warm and fond. “I want you to taste it too.”

Now your throat feels a little tight. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Leon leans against you, resting his cheek on top of your head. “Didn’t seem fair that you never got to enjoy it.”

“Oh.” You blink rapidly, trying not to get emotional. “That’s… God, that’s… not the kind of sweetness I was expecting today.”

Leon nudges you. “Damn. You saying I haven’t been sweet enough to you on the daily?”

“No, not that.” You smile. “I like that you somehow surpass yourself all the time.”

You hug Leon back. “I really think Kennedy’s is a good name. Although, I’ve seen plenty of pretentious ice cream shop names in my time.”

Leon hums. “Like what?”

“Monarchs and Milkweed.”

“... What?”

“Uh huh. Petals and Peak. Birds of Paradise. Although–” You think back to Leon’s callsign. “Imagine if we named your place Birds of Prey. Hey guess what? Condor One owns this ice cream shop.”

Leon groans. “No, we’re not doing that. Besides.” You feel Leon adjust your arms around his waist, pressing you closer. “I’ve already got a name in mind. It’s going on the paperwork.”

“So what is it? It’s not Kennedy’s?”

“No.” Leon brings his lips to your ear and whispers your name.

The revelation lands like a flashbang, and for a long moment, you can’t speak.

“Sweetheart?”

“You… you want to name your new ice cream shop after me.”

“Yes.” Leon says, in a tone that’s so matter of fact, you’d think he was reporting on the colour of the sky. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

“Well, no, it’s not that. I’m just…” You shrug helplessly. “Surprised, that’s all. It’s your place. It belongs to you. I want it to be yours.”

“And I want to name my place after you.”

"Of course you can, but you're sure? You’re really sure.”

“Yes.”

That’s when something occurs to you. “Wait. Leon.” You reach out and touch his arm. “You didn’t… you’re not…” You frown, thinking about everything Leon has said. Surely not. Leon’s always been practical about the things that matter, and you know he’s taking this future ice cream business seriously. But…

Leon waits for you to speak.

“You’re not… opening an ice cream shop… because of me, are you?”

Oh, now he looks defensive. “Not for you, not like that–”

“Ouch.” You pout at him, though you’re really not offended at all. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of the way Leon responds to you with such openness and immediacy.

“I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant to say is…” Leon thinks, fishing for the right words. “I’m opening it for us. For the things we actually like. For my bad knees and my creaking back.” His mouth quirks. “But also for your peace of mind. For the retirement I promised myself. And you.”

Silence. Pure silence.

It takes you a moment to recover. Because you know the man you married. Know him like the back of your hand, and yet, he still finds so many ways to surprise you. 

He surprised you with his sense of duty when you first met.

He surprised you with his kindness, optimism, and gentleness, qualities that you hadn’t expected to find in a man in such an intimate relationship with violence and pain. 

He surprised you–not always in a good way–with how he almost always put others before himself. Always laying down his life, gambling with his wellbeing.

You’d never really gotten used to that, and then he surprises you with his desire for something else after thirty years of choosing duty above self. He surprises you with the way he chooses peace, for himself, and by consequence, for you too.

God.

“Well.” You give a wet laugh, wiping a faint trace of tears from the corner of your eye. “Guess I’m going to have to go apron shopping now.” Leon frowns. “What for?”

You drape your arms around his neck. “Because I’m going to be working a part-time job soon.”

Leon startles. “You don’t have to–”

“–and,” you cut him off with a finger to his lips. “I’m buying you one too.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“World’s Sexiest Gelato Lover.”

Leon groans, pressing a hand to his face. “I should’ve known.”

“Come on. I’m going to bet a hundred pints of future-cremino that you’re going to have plenty of fangirls.”

“Fangirls.” Leon repeats, already unimpressed at the bizarre turn of your thoughts.

“Oh yes. They’re going to post videos of you and your forearms as you’re scooping ice cream, with captions like: Came here for dessert. The gelato’s not bad either.” You give a devious cackle that only makes Leon sigh.

You perk up at your next brilliant idea. “Then I’ll get you a t-shirt that says: Most Beloved Husband underneath.”

You watch Leon’s eyebrows lift. “You’re possessive.” “Yes? And?”

“... and I’ll wear it every day. God help me.”

“Deal. I’ll buy you three.”

When Leon steps over the threshold that evening, he expects it to be just another Tuesday night. He’ll sit down with her, they’ll have dinner, maybe talk about something that happened today at work, and then he’ll crash on her couch, the way he’s done for dozens of nights. They’ll slip into the sort of rhythm they’ve gradually built up over the months, almost familiar, almost comfortable, at the edge of something neither of them has named quite yet.

His plans are soon derailed when he hears something entirely unexpected. A person crying. Not quiet, dignified crying either: this is helpless, broken sobbing. The sound settles like lead in the pit of his stomach.

Leon’s eyes immediately flick around her bedroom. To the mess within it. His gaze comes to rest on the heap of clothing piled up at the open door of her closet. He sees the shirt that’s crumpled on the floor, right beside her bed. He bends over to pick it up: something smart-casual, buttoned up, perhaps for work or a night out. The scent of laundry detergent rises off the fabric: the shirt is clean and unworn.

He carefully dusts it off and folds it on her nightstand.

Then he turns to her.

She’s facedown on her bed, one hand folded beneath her face, the other flung to the side, loosely curled into a fist. He sees the skin of her back, bare beneath the tangle of her hair.

She’s overwhelmed, he assesses. He looks at the shirt he folded on her nightstand, then considers how she’s currently half-dressed while a clean shirt was tossed on the floor, and the way clothes have piled up in front of her closet. Almost like… she gave up getting dressed.

Leon approaches, steps measured and quiet, treading lightly as if moving towards a wounded animal. Her back heaves, her body shudders and shakes, too small and fragile to contain her grief. Each sob is choked from her throat like it’s being squeezed from her lungs. Every breath sucked in emerges as a strangled cry.

Leon carefully lowers himself beside her, hovering at the edge of the bed. The mattress dips. If she wasn’t aware of his presence before, she would surely be aware of it now, and yet, the crying doesn’t stop. Whatever has broken through her usual defences has seized her in a death grip and isn’t ready to relinquish control.

The lead weight that settled in his stomach earlier is now bubbling into something hot and tight in his chest. He’s always hated witnessing pain and suffering, felt it far too deeply, viscerally, seized by the instinctive revulsion of being confronted with something unbearable and not acting. He wants to do something, anything, to ease the burden of her distress.

But what?

He’s never seen her like this before, and something about that makes him cautious, even hesitant. Leon hates himself for hesitating in a moment when someone—not just anyone, but this specific someone—is in pain. The sight and sound of her uncontained, overwhelming distress is not something she’s shown him before. Leon trusts his instincts, and here, those instincts tell him to be gentle. But how?

What should I say?

What should I do?

Leon leans forward. His hand hovers over her back, still in his fingerless gloves from work. He pauses for longer than he’d like. His fingers flex, closing around thin air just above her skin. Should I…?

The sobbing continues. And Leon knows that if she isn’t hiding her crying from him, that her need for comfort and relief probably outweighs even her need for dignity right now.

Leon pulls his hand back. Takes a deep breath to ground himself. His right hand closes in a fist, then releases again. He reaches for the closure on the right side first, slowly undoing it, trying to reduce the volume of the loud rip that sounds from the velcro. He does the right glove first, then the left. He lays them on the nightstand, beside her abandoned shirt. He reaches forward again, letting his fingertips graze her shoulder first, wordlessly seeking permission.

She’s running hot. Her skin feels overheated, faintly pink from the heat and the intensity of her emotions. Leon gently grips her shoulder, trying to steady her with the softest pressure.

For a brief moment, the crying seems to stop. Leon wonders if he startled her, wonders if he should pull back. She draws in a shaky breath and lets out a soft whimper.

She doesn’t stop.

If anything, Leon thinks the crying has intensified. It wasn’t enough. He feels her back rise and fall rapidly as she fights for another breath, every exhale breaking through as another sob. And although she’s the one crying her eyes out, Leon feels her tears land like a mark of failure: the failure of not being enough, of not being the person she needs in a crisis.

Leon doesn’t know what to do. Clearly, more drastic measures are needed.

Leon pauses to regroup before an idea occurs to him. He casts his gaze around the room, looking for her plush: the one he’s seen in her arms so many times before. The plush she cradles in her lap while she works, the same plush she drapes around her neck as she moves around her home, and the very same plush she falls asleep with every night.

He peers over the other side of the bed, scanning the messy floor. He lets out a huff of relief when he sees a furry tail snaking out from beneath her bag. Leaning over the edge, he grabs the plush and dusts it off. It’s well-loved and rumpled, its fur slightly dull and matted from its long service of companionship. “There you are,” he murmurs, patting dust and lint off the old dragon.

Leon knows the plush has a name, but he doesn’t know it yet.

“Little guy got a name?” He’d asked one time, watching her fuss over the plush, grooming it with a slicker brush.

She’d grinned enigmatically. “He’s shy. He’ll tell you when he likes you.” And then grasped a stubby paw to wave at him.

“Hmm. Deeply suspicious.” Leon narrowed his eyes.

“Even a plush must retain his sense of mystery.” She’d given him a solemn nod, as if this all made sense somehow.

Now, Leon reaches for the arm that’s thrown carelessly beside her. He lifts it, feeling her muscles tense in response, her breath hitching suddenly. “It’s OK. You’re OK.” Leon soothes, slipping the plush into her grasp. When she recognises the texture of the fur against her skin, she pulls the dragon into her embrace, tucking it close to her hidden face.

Leon thinks that her crying might have quietened down for the moment.

He begins to move his hand up and down the back of her arm in slow, soothing strokes. He should say something, but not yet. Not now. He freezes when he feels the texture change beneath his palm. Lifting his hand, he sees the pink line of a scratch, disappearing beneath her hair.

“I’m just going to…” Leon murmurs, brushing her hair aside to bare the expanse of her back. He sucks in a hushed breath through his teeth. A web of pink and red lines criss-cross and mark her skin: some scabbed over, some clearly still fresh and angry. Not serious wounds, not exactly. But serious enough to him. He notes the spacing between the lines and their uneven edges. His gaze lands on her hand, still fisted in the sheets, and takes in how her nails are longer than he remembers. He exhales. “Wait for me. I’ll be back in a second.”

She burrows further into the covers, not giving any other indication that she heard him.

Leon strides over to her desk and crouches down. He knows exactly where the first-aid kit is: at the bottom of her desk drawers. She relocated it after the third time he came through the door, bruised and bleeding again.

“You get injured too often.” She’d said, lips curved in a wry, exasperated smile as she opened the kit. “I’m going to need to leave it somewhere I can get to immediately. Also, have you considered a line of work that’s less dangerous? I’m sure there are exciting alternatives to mortal peril.”

Now, he retrieves the kit and moves back beside her. He pops the latch, pulling out some dressings, scissors, and tape. He pauses briefly over the antibiotic and antiseptic creams, thinking before he settles on the former. This I can do, he says to himself. Leon knows he can’t make the pain go away, but one thought surfaces loud and clear in his head: she deserves to know that someone cares.

“I’ll take care of these.” He says. Leon reaches for the scrunchie on her nightstand and pulls her hair into a loose ponytail. He tucks it beside her on the pillow.

For the next ten minutes, Leon works methodically. He sanitises his hands, squeezes a dollop of cream on his fingertip, and touches it to the worst of the scratches. When he touches a reddened one, she hisses, the first real break in her crying. “Sorry–” he says, hands stilling immediately. “I’ll be more careful.”

The process takes longer than he expects. Every time her back heaves or her breath shakes, he stops. He waits. Then he continues, his touch featherlight and careful.

He ensures that every scratch is covered in a thin layer of medicine. “I’ll dress the deeper ones.” He informs her. “I don’t want them to get infected.”

To his relief, only a handful of them need that sort of treatment. He lingers on three or four, still deep and angry-red, covering the wounds with breathable dressing. He secures every edge with sections of surgical tape, cut to precise lengths. As he finally stops to evaluate his work, he notices something: she’s no longer crying.

But she isn’t saying anything yet.

Leon puts away the first-aid kit, tucking the cream, dressing, tape, and scissors back into their usual compartments. He lays the box beside her on the bed.

Then he waits.

And waits.

The first five minutes pass. Leon reaches out again, his hand more sure now, landing on her shoulder. He resumes the slow, repetitive movements from before, up and down against warm skin, now careful to avoid the patches of gauze and tape on her back. She hasn’t shrugged his hand off. Hasn’t inched away from his touch.

“I’ve got you.” Leon says.

Another ten minutes pass. His hand doesn’t stop.

Leon senses that she’s getting restless. The muscles of her back bunch and then release. Her arm tightens around the plush, pressing him tighter to her side. Leon watches how the sheets are bunched in her left fist, the way her fingers clench and slowly release. There are times where she seems to be holding her breath.

It takes another ten minutes. But Leon doesn’t mind.

Eventually, he feels her move beneath his palm. She pushes herself up, her movements sluggish and heavy.

She opens her mouth. No sound comes out.

Leon waits.

She tries again.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is hoarse. 

“What for?”

“Sorry you had to see me like–”

“No.” Leon interrupts, his own voice firm. “Don’t apologise for that.”

“It won’t happen—”

“You shouldn’t have to promise me that.”

Leon notices how her head hangs. The way she can’t look him in the eye, the way she’s turned a little to the side, hiding her face.

“Hey.” Leon scoots closer to her. “Hey. Look at me.”

She draws a shuddering breath, scrunches her face like she’s pushing through pain, seems to steel herself, then looks up at him. Her eyes are almost swollen shut from tears. Her lips are puffy and red; her hair is plastered to her forehead with a fine sheen of sweat. He thinks about how exposed she must feel, having never been this way with him before.

He wonders about how badly she’s hurting.

Leon feels another surge of emotion within him. Not alarm. Not pity. Just a… wave of protective tenderness, if he really had to label it. He blinks, caught off-guard by the feeling, not remembering the last time he felt it. What he knows is that he’s never felt it here with her before.

He shakes his head to clear it and refocusses on her.

“You’re gonna be OK. Yeah?” He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder again.

She gives a dry chuckle, followed by a deep sigh. “God, I sure hope so.”

She tries to stand. Leon freezes, his eyes fixed on her face. “You…” He coughs awkwardly. “You should probably… get dressed first.” He gestures vaguely in her direction, resolutely looking past her shoulder.

She looks down at herself. Slowly looks back up. Her eyes widen. “Fuck,” she whispers.

“Hang on. I’ve got you.” Leon hurries to her closet, rummaging through her folded shirts. He pulls out an oversized one, worn soft and thin from multiple washes, something that he remembers wearing before.

She snatches the shirt, rather pink in the face. “Thanks.” She squeaks, turning her back and hurriedly pulling it on over her head. “Sorry.” She mumbles.

“It’s fine. You’re good.” He coughs again.

Neither of them are looking at the other.

“You… uh.” She clears her throat, still looking at the floor. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No.” Leon says, privately relieved when the tension breaks.

“I’ll go make something.” She says, pulling the door to her room open. “I didn’t have time to make dinner.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I’ll help.” Leon holds the door and gestures for her to move ahead of him.

“Thanks.” She gives him the first genuine smile he’s seen today. “How about spaghetti? I’ve got some smoked duck in the fridge.”

Leon smiles back, pulling the door shut behind him as he follows her to the kitchen. “That sounds delicious, actually.”

They assume their usual positions at her kitchen island. She pulls open the fridge and reaches for the smoked duck; Leon retrieves the chopping board and knife from the drawer where she’s always kept them.

“I’ve got it.” Leon gets to work, skillfully slicing the smoked duck, shallots, and garlic into fine pieces.

She’s bringing water to a boil, salting it, and putting the pasta into the pot. 

Leon brings the chopped ingredients and works beside her on the stove, searing the duck, frying up the garlic and shallots. He watches her from the corner of his eye, musing at the sheer normalcy of their movements. A stranger standing in her house wouldn’t have thought that just an hour ago, she was sobbing facedown on her bed. And now, they’re making dinner like it’s just one more day among the dozens they’ve spent together. Her eyes are still puffy, he thinks. I’ll get her some ice later.

"You're staring at me." She says.

"I'm not—" Leon begins. "Hey. About what happened just now. Do you wanna—"

He pauses, jaw tightening. "Never mind. It's fine." He nudges her with his hip instead. “You doing OK?”

“I feel like a million bucks.” She mutters, giving him a crooked smile.

Leon just shakes his head and smiles. “You’ve got a lot of pride.”

“I assure you, it’s extremely bruised right now.” She huffs.

Working in tandem, dinner is put together in a flash. Leon brings their food to the coffee table, his plate piled high with a heaping mound of duck because she insisted.

“You sure you have enough to eat?” She says, frowning dubiously at his portion. “I’ve got more duck in the fridge actually.”

“I’ll be fine. Wasn’t a training day.”

“Got it.” She sits at the coffee table beside him, twirling spaghetti with her fork. Leon watches her, not touching his food yet.

“Hey.” He calls, her name gentle on his lips. “Listen.”

“Hmm?” She turns to him, busy chewing.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Not if you don’t feel like it. But I’m here. And…” Leon looks into her eyes, feeling more serious than he’s ever been with her. “As long as that door still opens, as long as I can walk through it… You’re not alone. OK?”

She blinks, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. There’s a beat of silence that drags on.

Because Leon has never said anything like this before.

“Oh. Um.” Her cheeks flush pale pink. “Uh… thank you. Leon.”

They turn their attention back to dinner. And although they usually slip into easy chatter, today they eat beside each other in companionable silence. It’s different. Leon puts down his fork, thinking. But I don’t mind it. He thinks about how quiet used to be a luxury.

When she reaches for his plate to bring it to the sink, he pushes her back down by the shoulder. “Sit. I’ll take care of that.”

“You can just leave them in the sink, I’ll wash up later.”

“I’ll handle it. And I’ll fetch you some ice. For your eyes.”

She mouths a thank you, and for the moment, it seems like she doesn’t have anything more to say. But when Leon stands, about to head into the kitchen, she stops him by calling his name. “Leon–”

She touches him on the arm. “Thank you. For everything. It really means a lot.”

Leon lays his hand on hers. “It’s fine. We’re…” His mind searches for the right word. “... friends, right?”

The word is strange on his tongue, though he can’t explain why.

Something flickers behind her eyes.

Leon's shoulders drop the moment he steps over the threshold of their home that night. The lights are warm and low in the living room, and given how the fragrance of garlic and tomatoes lingers in the air, Leon knows that his wife is probably in the kitchen. Leon smiles; she asked him last night if he’d be home for dinner and teased him with the promise of something delicious if he agreed to be back early. Looks like she kept her word, Leon thinks. As she always does.

He turns the corner and steps into the kitchen to see her leaning against the counter, cosy and comfortable in one of his shirts, sipping from a glass of wine as she scrolls on her phone. There’s music playing in the background, something slow and moody, a woman singing about taking her lover’s hand.

“Hello sweetheart.” Leon makes a beeline for her, wrapping his arms around her waist immediately. “I missed you.” 

She turns in his arms and raises an eyebrow at him. “Leon. It’s only been twelve hours.”

Leon brushes her hair away from her neck and presses a kiss to the back. “You're wrong."

She glances at the clock, frowning. "Well, it's 7:00 PM—"

"So it's been far too long." Leon concludes, firmly.

She laughs, her cheeks very faintly pink. Leon isn’t sure if it’s because of the heat in the kitchen or because… 

“You happy to see me?” Leon nuzzles her, his arms tightening around her waist as he breathes in her scent, radiating warm, gentle, and comforting from the surface of her skin.

“Is the sky blue? Is water wet? And did I make your favourite dinner tonight?” She teases, tweaking his nose.

Leon cracks an eye open and peeks at the stove, where meatballs and tomato sauce are bubbling merrily in a large pot. He groans appreciatively. “You’re the best.”

“Hey!” She smacks his hand away as he reaches to lift the lid. “You can’t touch them yet. They’re supposed to simmer for an hour.”

“An hour?” Leon repeats, dismayed. His stomach chooses that time to rumble in solidarity.

She pats his stomach fondly. “Don’t worry, it’s just fifteen more minutes. Good things come to hardworking husbands who wait.”

Leon heaves a dramatic sigh and slumps on his wife’s shoulder; she sags under his weight and laughs, swatting at him. “Is this when I ask if you skipped lunch… again?”

Leon straightens, rubbing the back of his neck in a distinctively guilty fashion. “I ate.”

“Hmm.” She squints at him. “And what time did you eat?”

“... 8:00 AM.”

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “I asked about lunch, not breakfast.”

Leon steps back and raises his hands warily. “Look, it’s not my fault. Cafeteria food just doesn’t taste the same after I started on your cooking.”

His wife shakes her head, exasperated. “If this is you flattering me for leftovers again…”

“Is it working?” Leon grins, pressing the advantage. 

“... It’s working.” She grumbles.

“Yes!” He pumps his fist and plants another kiss on her forehead. “You really are the best, sweetheart."

She opens her mouth, probably ready with a sarcastic rejoinder, when the song on the speakers changes. Gone is that low, lilting voice he’s heard on so many of her playlists, replaced by a shimmering guitar riff echoing into a hazy atmosphere. 

His wife’s eyes brighten; she grins and extends her hand to him, beckoning with her fingers. “Come dance.”

Leon steps into her embrace like he’s done a thousand times before. “I don’t know this song.”

“Mm, doesn’t matter.” She hums, drawing him close and leaning against his chest. Leon wraps one arm around her, his other hand settling instinctively on her hip. “It’s romantic.”

Leon sways gently with her, neither of them really dancing, simply moving with the heavy pulse of the music. The singer begins his verse: his voice languid, almost drowsy, drenched in reverberating guitar notes. Leon huffs in disbelief when he hears the first few lines.

“These are the most unromantic metaphors I’ve ever heard.”

“Leon.” She chides gently. “What’s really unromantic is you trying to ruin the mood here.”

“I’m not!” Leon protests. “He’s not trying very hard, is he?”

She continues to sway. “They’re good metaphors.”

“... are they though?”

“Mm-hm."

"Enlighten me." Leon prods, rocking with her as the verse continues to unspool into the dreamlike instrumentals.

"It’s steady, reliable love. The desire to be useful.” She pauses to think. “Essential. Just like you.”

Leon feels heat immediately creep up the back of his neck. “You say the most inconvenient things.” He clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious.

She giggles, utterly unrepentant. “Am I wrong?” She tries to look up at Leon; he doesn't let her, pressing her tightly to his chest.

The singer launches into a bridge about secrets. Leon's wife mouths the words against his skin.

“You know, I met some friends for lunch today.”

“Hm? Did you have a good time?” Leon reaches up from her hip to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I suppose you could say that.” She nods. “It’s just…” 

Leon feels her lips curve against his chest, waiting when she goes silent, probably reliving her conversation with said friends.

“They said I looked good. ‘Radiant’, they said. That they’ve never seen me so happy before.”

Something tightens then breaks open in Leon’s chest, settling like warm syrup in his belly. “That’s good.”

He hadn't thought deeply about it. Because to him, she's always been radiant.

She laughs to herself, soft and quiet. “I suppose… happiness is harder to hide than I thought.”

Leon leans back from her and angles her head back. “You shouldn’t have to hide your happiness.” 

“Mm. They don’t know why I’m happy.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “That I’m married to my favourite person.”

Leon nods, tucks her back into his arms. “But we know.”

“Alas,” she says, returning to the moment with a crooked smile. “They’ve been spared from hearing me wax poetic about the light of my life, Leon Scott Kennedy. They’ll have to wait in suspense to hear about the million and one ways I find him patient,” she tiptoes to kiss his nose. “—loving,” She tugs him down to kiss his cheek, “And kind.” She kisses his jaw.

“You’re very enthusiastic.” Leon rubs his face where her lips brushed his skin, feeling heat bloom where she pressed her kisses, dazed by her unreserved affection.

The chorus plays, the music swelling, the singer repeating his refrain, his voice aching with yearning.

“I don’t want to hide.” Leon confesses. “And it looks like I haven’t been discreet either.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes are closed. “Tell me.”

“Small things at work.” He shrugs. “People asking me how come I’ve been bringing leftovers for lunch. Staring at my ring, like they think I won’t notice. Pointed remarks about me being in a good mood.”

“—you do brood a lot, baby.” She interrupts, nodding gravely. “That’s deeply suspicious—”

Leon flicks her forehead. “—higher-ups complaining that they’re losing me to vacation days.”

“True. I don’t want to ask how many of those you accumulated.”

“Not nearly enough to spend all the time I want with you.” Leon admits, nuzzling her neck again.

“How very glib of you.” She laughs, delighted. “I do hope they’ll forgive me for reclaiming my husband.”

Pleasure curls in his chest, a secret joy that Leon would never speak out loud. Something about these rare shows of possessiveness are his own private bliss.

“They might be getting a bit suspicious,” he says. “That I’ve been leaving work on time so much.”

“Oh no!” She gasps in mock consternation. “No more overtime? What’s the DSO coming to these days?”

“I’m sure they’ll find a way to survive without me.” Leon says dryly. 

“Success!” She crows, triumphant and gleeful. “They’ve lost you to my enhanced pay structure. Meatballs, cuddles, and kisses are the superior incentives. It’s a very comprehensive compensation package.”

The song shifts back to another verse. Leon listens and laughs, low in his chest. “Do the metaphors ever get better?”

“You don’t get it.” She looks up at him, amused, then leans in close like she’s about to share a secret. “It’s simple, unvarnished love. Devotion stripped bare. Wanting to be yours in the most fundamental, uncomplicated ways.”

Leon swallows, registering the sudden intensity of her gaze. He could cast his mind back years and still not be able to pinpoint the first moment he started wanting to be hers. Just as you’re mine, he thinks. “We talking about the song?” He says lightly.

“Maybe.” She grins. “You’ll have to stick with me to find out, hmm?”

“You’re never getting rid of me.” Leon chuckles. “I’m yours. No returns, no refunds.”

The song fades into a suspended guitar chord, the echo of a lone voice ringing out into the emptiness.

Leon is seated on their bed, hair still wet from the shower, sleeves rolled up and arms bare in one of his favourite shirts. His wife is slowly kneading up and down the length of his forearms. He sucks in a sharp inhale of pleasure as her fingers squeeze with firm pressure, tension finally beginning to release from tight muscle. Her palms are warm even through the fresh bandages on him, Leon still feels the comforting weight of a home-cooked dinner in his stomach, and he smells the scent of her shower gel, fresh and clean on his skin. He slips into comfortable drowsiness.

“Leon?”

“Hmm?”

She continues to expertly knead his forearms. “Can I…” Her brows pinch then relax. “Can I ask you about something you said?”

Leon turns to her to see that she has an unusually serious look on her face. He sits up straighter against the headboard. “Yeah. Of course.” 

“You told Sherry that you still think about Raccoon City every single day.”

His wife feels his arms tense beneath her fingers. She doesn’t miss the way he suddenly forgets to breathe. She rests her hand on his chest, trying to ground him in the moment. “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about it. You can always let me know if it’s too much.”

“No, it’s alright.” Leon shakes his head, trying to slip out of the grip of an intrusive thought. “Yeah. I do.”

They sit in mutual silence for a while, the gentle rustle of fabric the only sound as she continues to rub soothing circles over his chest.

“It’s not just about being unable to save the city, is it?” she observes. Leon watches her take his left hand, her head tilting and eyes glazing as she’s drawn into deep thought. His grip tightens around hers while her thumb brushes their wedding band, turning the silver ring around his finger, a habit she formed over many years of holding his hand.

“You say the cop inside you died that day.” 

“He did.” Leon’s voice is hushed.

“And… you’re still grieving him. That life. Those uncomplicated convictions and beliefs. The state of things before you realised… unspeakable, endless horrors inhabit the same world you do.”

“There’s no going back.”

She looks up at him, eyes soft. She hears what he’s trying to say. She hears Leon shrugging off pain and suffering and sentimentality, the way he always does, because he doesn’t know how to function otherwise. “No. There isn’t.”

She waits for Leon’s breath to slow before she continues. “You don’t like grieving him.”

He shrugs. What’s the point?

“Do you still hope for that life?”

The truth is, Leon doesn’t really know. That life has been lost to him for 28 years, and with every passing moment, the distant daydream of simpler times recedes under the oppressive shadow of a neverending nightmare. Rookie Leon didn’t know anything about the world, after all. What would he have known about leading a peaceful life? Would it ever have existed, even without the outbreak? Maybe that dream was too grand to begin with. It never could’ve survived.

Then she says, “I do, you know. Sometimes.”

“Do what?” Leon asks, surprised by the direction of her thoughts.

“Think. Daydream. About rookie Leon.”

“Huh.” Leon blinks. “You’ve never told me that.”

She gives a small self-conscious huff. “I mean, it’s a bit weird to talk about, isn’t it? ‘Baby, I spent two hours today thinking about past you. Anyway, dinner’s ready.’”

Leon finds himself chuckling despite the sombre conversation. “It is a little strange to hear that you daydream about 21-year-old me.”

She bumps his shoulder. “Oh come on. Not like that.”

“Then like what?”

“I’m not talking about 21-year-old Leon specifically.” 

Leon wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her in closer, feeling the weight in his chest lift slightly as his mind drifts from the ruins of Raccoon City. “22-year-old me then?”

“Ugh, no.” She snorts.

“Wow, ouch.”

“I was thinking about…” She grins, eyes sparkling with mirth. “40-year-old Detective Kennedy.”

Leon looks down at her in disbelief. “What?”

“Picture it. Detective Kennedy works in a small town police department.”

“And where’s this police department?”

“Alice Springs.” She responds, the answer instantaneous.

“Wha—you exiled me to Australia?” Leon gawks at her. “Go easy on me now, sweetheart. That’s cruel and unusual punishment, even for you.”

“Hear me out: it’s very far from the United States.”

“Yeah, and I’d be like a fish out of water.”

“Second: it’s got a population of about 30,000 people. It’s a smaller community: you’ll probably get to know the people around you pretty well. They’ll get to know you as that goody-goody cop who’s actually really good at giving directions, being kind, and de-escalating difficult situations.”

“Hey. I’m not goody-goody.”

“You are. Third: yes, Alice Springs is remote, but it’s still connected to broader society. You’ll get that nice and quiet life, natural scenery, but actually be in civilization rather than in isolation.”

“How remote are we talking again?”

“And finally,” she frowns a little, the words coming out slower this time. “It’s 1,500 kilometres from both Darwin and Adelaide.”

“That’s over… 900 miles, is that right? Why does that matter?”

“Because… that means it’s much more difficult for biohazards to spread and take root there.”

Leon’s hand stops moving up and down her back.

“... Jesus. You’ve really thought about this, huh?” He rubs the back of his neck, finding himself startled at the prospect.

“Of course. Who do you think I am? Anyway,” Her voice turns light again. “Detective Kennedy has two dogs, a very expensive custom bike, and–”

Leon nods. “Okay, that I can manage.”

“– a minivan–”

Leon protests. “Why the minivan?”

“... because he has five children.” She finishes with a serene smile.

“FIVE?” Leon repeats, louder than he intends.

“You seem like the productive sort. You know, good cop in the streets, bad cop in the sheets.”

Leon is too stunned to laugh. “That is… a lot of responsibility to put on my wife. Sweetheart, I didn’t know you had such ambitions–we probably should’ve discussed this before–”

She presses on, unperturbed. “He spends his free time riding that fancy bike, bushwalking, attending his kids’ soccer practices and recitals, and surprising his friends with how ruthless he is at board games.”

For a moment, Leon is rendered utterly speechless. After thirty seconds of recovery, he shakes his head in mock consternation. “I see. This is a joke to you. I thought you were supposed to want better things for me.”

“Oh baby, I do.” She closes her eyes, leans against his shoulder. Leon feels her weight soft and warm against him, and he knows she’s about to slip into a daydream. What he doesn’t expect, however, is her whispered invitation. “Come walk with me. Let’s go back for a bit. Okay?”

“What does that mean?” “Shhh.”

Leon dutifully hushes.

“It’s a warm summer’s day.” She says, in that low, soothing voice of hers. “When you breathe in the balmy summer air, there’s the nectar-sweet perfume of bottlebrush flowers filling your lungs. When you look out at the heat, you see that telltale shimmer over the asphalt. There’s red petals scattered bright and vibrant against the tar-black surface.”

She takes a breath. “But Leon Scott Kennedy is standing in the shade at his favourite coffee place.” 

“I’m a hipster in this one, aren’t I?”

“Leon, behave. He’s leaning against the shop window, enjoying the shade of the black-and-white striped awning. Lets himself take refuge from the heat for a while. He’s found a nice parking spot under a large tree: oh, he got real lucky that day. That’s the prime parking spot outside Beans and Blooms.”

“Christ. It is a hipster place.” Leon groans.

“It’s a cafe and florist concept, okay? Very whimsical. Now are you going to let me get on with it or not?”

“Fine.” He grumbles, tucking her closer to his side anyway.

“The vast canopy of the tree bows gracefully over your car, its boughs weighed down with dense clusters of fine leaves and red pepper berries. The branches drape and caress the glass of your windshield, and the crushed berries emit a mild, spicy fragrance. Outside Beans and Blooms, Leon sips his coffee: it’s so creamy and sweet.”

Her lips quirk in wry amusement. “He doesn’t think drinking black coffee is cool yet.”

“I never thought it was cool.” Leon says quickly.

“The ice cubes rattle in the cup; the plastic is cold against his hand. He presses his palm to the back of his neck and tries to ease the heavy summer heat. It’s lovely and cool and takes his mind off the 95-degree weather. He’s about halfway through his coffee. It’s really, really good today: even the milk seems to taste lighter and sweeter than he remembers. Got that hint of hazelnut syrup too, as a treat. Perhaps Joy was in a great mood today.”

“Joy?”

“She’s one of the two baristas there. You know her by name.”

“I’m a regular there already?”

“Mm-hm. Leon Scott Kennedy is a creature of habit. And his habit is having a morning and afternoon coffee. Also, their coffee prices aren’t too painful on a 21-year-old rookie’s wallet.”

Leon chimes in. “Somehow, I don’t think a hipster place like Beans and Blooms is serving up coffee at rookie-friendly prices.”

“They’re very anti-capitalist.” She grins. “Their dream is to seize the means of coffee production and make caffeine accessible to the masses.”

Leon snorts. “That’s a dream alright.”

“And then: a dog barks as he starts to head towards his car. It bounds up to him, tugging its exasperated owner behind it. You hear its nails clicking on the pavement, hear the way it pants because boy, it’s hot out.”

“What’s the dog’s name?”

She giggles, eyes still closed. “The owner says his name is Pancake.”

Leon mouths the name to himself. Pancake. Silly but sweet, probably like the dog himself.

“Golden retriever. Big and friendly, eager to please. He’s got a gloriously glossy coat: obviously well-brushed, and a tail that’s wagging a mile a minute. He just about jumps on you because he’s intent on licking your face.”

She lets out a happy sigh. “Leon thinks he’ll get one someday.”

Leon does like dogs.

“Leon brushes the pepper berries off his windshield before he pulls the door open and slides into the driver’s seat. The leather is still blissfully cool from the shade and doesn’t scorch the back of his legs. He checks his phone: no work messages or emails.”

“That sounds nice.” Leon mutters under his breath.

“He worked hard today. His coworkers thanked him as he walked out the door. They told him that he did well de-escalating that domestic dispute earlier this afternoon. Everything else can wait until Monday morning. For tonight, he’s going to go home, take a nice, hot shower, change into that cosy hoodie he bought with his first pay check, and have a great, big dinner.”

It occurs to Leon how resolutely mundane her storytelling is.

“Leon cruises along the route he knows by heart. As he approaches his apartment block, he sees someone wave to him.”

“Who is it?” 

“Mr Darwin lives two blocks down. You helped find his son in the park the other day and he’s been very grateful.”

“... oh.” Leon swallows.

“And Mrs Maya says she’ll bring you some fresh-baked bread tomorrow, because you rescued her cat from a tree yesterday morning.” She pauses, chuckles to herself. “You don’t say no. You do like bread.”

“Her daughter giggles when you pass by. She remembers the time you helped her parents fix their broken window. She’s probably whispered about you to her friends. They rolled their eyes at her because they thought she was being corny.”

“Hey. Stop giving me teenage admirers.” Leon gently pokes her temple.

“Leon.” She sighs. He can just hear the eye roll in her tone, even with her eyes closed. “You’re 21. She’s just started her first year in college and she’s home for the summer. Can I continue?”

Leon nods while pressed against her cheek.

“Leon steps into his apartment and straight into the bathroom for that long, hot shower. He changes into his hoodie: it’s navy blue with a skull and wings embroidered on the back. Wonderfully soft and cosy, perfect now that the night is getting cool. He’s going to make dinner.”

“What’s for dinner?” Leon perks up.

“Buttered noodles.”

“Really? I don’t deserve a little protein after working hard?” Leon sighs. 

“We agree you worked hard today. Who even has the energy for cooking? Also it’s comfort food.”

“I suppose rookies aren’t paid well.”

“Leon brings the water to a boil on his stove, salts it generously, drops the entire bag of fettuccine into the pot.”

“Damn. I’m really hungry.”

“Didn’t we say you worked hard?”

“That’s fair.” Leon concedes.

“He sets the cooked pasta aside and melts the butter into the pot. It’s that good butter too: rich, creamy, and smells absolutely sinful. That’s what Leon splurged his grocery money on this week. His stomach rumbles just breathing in that buttery fragrance.”

“The pasta goes back into the pot with some pasta water. And then parmesan falls like snow on his mountain of noodles.” She gestures with her hands to indicate a generous portion. “He finishes with black pepper, maybe a touch of salt. The noodles are piping hot but he eats them right out of the pot, burns his mouth a little. They’re perfectly al dente, of course.”

“Leon slouches on the couch with his hard-earned pot of buttered noodles and thinks about tomorrow.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?” Leon can’t help but ask.

“He’s a bit nervous. He’s pretty excited too, honestly. He asked someone out on a date, you see. She was cute and smiled at him like she thought he was handsome.”

She pauses, smiles wickedly to herself. Her voice is a silky, slightly mischievous murmur as she tips her head up, bringing her lips closer to his ear. “Because he is.”

He coughs, feeling suddenly overheated at the surprise compliment.

“And she looked at him like he was a winning lottery ticket when he asked her out.”

“They’re going out to that Italian place tomorrow: Bella Alice. Leon asked his coworkers at the station for ideas. He’s new, after all. He wants to take her somewhere nice. The food’s supposed to be good. And Leon knows they’re going to have a lovely time. Knows it the way he can count on the sun to rise, red and hot over the MacDonnell Ranges tomorrow.”

“Because he gets the feeling that even if he could only afford to take her to McDonald’s…” she slows her voice even more. “She’d still get excited over the most mid milkshakes ever.”

“Why?”

“Because Leon Kennedy asked her out. She feels like she won at life.”

“Leon doesn’t know she’ll be his wife in two years. Doesn’t know that they’re going to spend a lot of time laughing on park benches and picnic mats, telling bad jokes, cooking in his kitchen, and hanging out in his car every Friday evening, when he pulls off Larapinta Drive, to where the buildings are mercifully low and the sunsets are always beautiful.”

Here, she stops. She doesn’t seem to notice Leon has gone quiet too. Somewhere along the way, those minute details have settled over his shoulders like a warm blanket: strangely familiar yet foreign, hopeful yet melancholic, creating a sharp, lingering pang for a life that exists nowhere but her daydreams. Until now, he hadn’t known it was possible to miss a place you’d never been.

Leon nudges her as he comes back to reality. “Hey. You still here with me?” “Mm.” She nuzzles his shoulder, humming under her breath. “Don’t wanna wake up yet.”

Leon looks down at her, at the way she’s gripped his arm, how she’s rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. He thought, perhaps, that she was only indulging in this idyllic daydream to soothe him. But her eyes are still closed, and Leon realises in that moment: she really does think about this. Perhaps more than she’ll ever tell him. Her eyes move beneath her lids, like she’s seeing him pass her in her dreams, again and again, always crossing paths with her. He realises that whatever she narrated could only have been partial, an imperfect window into her inner world.

“It’s all very mundane, isn’t it?” His voice comes out a tad huskier than he anticipates.

“That it is.” She takes a brief pause before she continues. “But is that so bad?”

“No.” Leon says firmly. “No, it’s not. It’s… a beautiful dream.”

Leon finds himself wondering what exactly she’s seeing, the vivid details of a life she’s rendered in glorious technicolour within the theatre of her own mind. He wonders if, in her head, she’s putting two of their kids to bed while he fusses with the other three. He wonders about what she says to him as they slip into the kitchen, exhausted but laughing, sharing a kiss before he steals a sip from her wineglass. He wonders if she’ll swat at him, pour him another, or share her wine. He hopes she’ll share.

He wonders what else she’s dreamed of for him.

Leon rests his hand behind her head, tucking her into the crook of his neck. “That girl in the daydream. My wife. That’s you, right?”

Her eyes open. She hums, noncommittal. “Who can say?”

“You mean you don’t know? You invested so much into my dream-life.” 

“All I know is that…” She shrugs, wraps her arms around herself. “She makes him really happy. It’s very nice.”

Leon sees the faint shadow of melancholy on her face. Of course it’s you, he thinks. Who else could it be?

Leon pauses outside his front door and takes a deep breath. He reaches up, gingerly prodding the cut on his forehead: still fresh, still sticky. “Ow,” he mutters. Yup, that hurts alright. In fact, now that he’s gradually coming down from the adrenaline rush and easing off autopilot, everything hurts like hell. His ribs ache. His back is protesting in that way it always does. Just before leaving HQ, he looked in the bathroom mirror and was unsurprised to see vivid purple blooming all across his torso.

… Good, he thinks to himself.

He turns the key in its lock and eases the door open, lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and just… smiles. She’s home. The lights are warm and low. There’s that woody, green fragrance from her candles, a scent he’s come to associate with home. He drops his bag and peeks over the couch, sees her laptop open, a woman’s soft, mournful voice crooning at low volume from the speakers. “Sweetheart?” He calls out.

“Leon!” She responds immediately, emerging from their bedroom. Her smile is unreservedly delighted, joyful and surprised.  “You’re finally back! You said—oh my god.”

She marches up to him, stands on tiptoe and reaches for his face. “Leon, what the hell? I remember sending out a very normal husband on Monday morning and he comes home a week later looking like a bruised banana!”

“Got cocky for a sec,” he admits.

She’s aghast, groaning in dismay. “Say it ain’t so.”

Leon rolls up the hem of his compression shirt, tone deceptively breezy. “You should see the other guy.” 

“Holy… shit…” She presses both hands to her cheeks, utterly speechless for a moment. “You’re half eggplant!”

“It’s not that bad.” Leon shrugs, watching her face closely.

“No. No, I won’t stand for this.” Her voice is firm. She grabs him by the hips and marches him to the couch. “Sit down. Good grief. I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

Leon sits down on the couch and removes his shirt as she disappears into their bedroom. He pumps his fist, just a little. Yes.

She returns, bearing a comically large first-aid kit in her arms. She sets it down on the coffee table, immediately rummaging for familiar items: antiseptic, ointment, bandages, butterfly closures, Q-tips. Leon reaches out to help; she smacks his hand away and pushes him back down on the couch by his shoulders. “No.”

By the time she sits down beside him, Leon can tell that she’s seething. She takes his chin in one hand, turning his face this way and that, appraising the damage. She clicks her tongue while she scans the front of his torso, then nudges him to turn so he can show her his back, equally bruised. An angry, red scrape runs along his ribs, and new lacerations mark his shoulders.

“Can anyone explain how they let you come home in such a state?” She grits out.

Leon, eyes drifting shut as she begins to gingerly apply antiseptic to the scrape, mumbles: “It’s not their fault.” He frowns as he feels her hand pause, idle on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Her silence lingers for just a moment too long. She hums, biting her lower lip. When she speaks, her voice is slow and halting. “You tell me then, why do they let you come home like this?”

It’s Leon’s turn to hesitate. “It… wasn’t a medical emergency.” Shit. “I’ve survived worse,” he tries to be casual, hoping that he doesn’t come across as evasive. “They cleared me and said I was good to go.”

Leon does not want to tell her that he told the medic to leave his bruises and scrapes alone. Oh, and the cuts on his face too. That laceration should’ve been closed; he told them he’d take care of it. He definitely does not want to tell her that he had to block the medic’s hands from access, or about the evasive manoeuvres required to make his hasty escape from HQ.

Because what can he say? What words can possibly do justice to the as-yet nameless, shapeless desire he insistently buries in the very depths of his psyche?

Leon is not ready to admit the truth. Not even to himself.

For a moment, Leon can’t meet her gaze. The moment stretches out, both of them silent, until Leon finally looks up, wondering what’s on her mind. He sucks in a breath to steady himself. He anticipates further condemnation of the DSO. He even expects some mild chiding about how he’s a grown man who knows that he should take better care of himself. She might even reel herself in, all calm containment until the current “crisis” is over.

What he doesn’t expect is the look of pained tenderness on her face. The thoughtfulness as she lifts his chin and brushes the edges of his new cuts and scrapes with the pads of her fingers. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Leon takes in the array of emotions that cross her face, some familiar, some unreadable. But always, always that tenderness like she’s beholding something so precious to her that it hurts even to touch.

“... well.” She clears her throat and brushes the only unmarked area of his cheek with her lips. “Lucky for you, I’m becoming really good with first-aid.” 

She glances at him meaningfully. “And I’m very generous with dispensing it.”

Leon’s shoulders drop, his crooked grin just a tad guilty. “Yeah. You’ve had a lot of practice, huh?” 

“Mm-hm. Practice on a handsome man happens to really improve my motivation.” She says wryly.

“Ah. Do the bruises help improve the handsomeness?” 

“No, but they sure don’t subtract from the shamelessness.” She snorts, then stands up and heads for the kitchen. “Wait here.”

Leon hears her voice and the sound of the fridge opening. “I think we should ice the worst of the bruising first. I’ll put some ointment on them later.”

She returns with an entire basket of ice packs. Leon blinks. “I don’t remember us having so many.”

“I’ve been saving them.” She says promptly. “Keep still. Hold these to your skin.” Leon sucks in a pained breath as she begins to load his arms with ice packs. “Make sure they don’t fall off.”

“That’s a tall order,” Leon mutters, looking down at himself. And because he can’t help it, “Do we really have to do this? It kinda hurts.”

“Leon, are you pouting?” She raises an eyebrow.

“... Maybe?”

“Unbelievable.” She shakes her head. “Just ice the…” She gestures vaguely at the mess of his chest. “... non-purple parts. Clearly, there aren’t very many of them. I’ll do ointment on the rest.”

She gets to work immediately. Leon takes in the serious look on her face: the slight pinching of her brows, the way she bites her lip as she concentrates, applying ointment to his skin with a featherlight touch. She’s meticulous, he thinks. This is nice. When he’s sure she isn’t looking, he allows himself to luxuriate in the satisfaction: a tiny smile, slightly smug.

The truth is, Leon could’ve let the DSO take care of it. He could’ve patched himself up in a pinch, if that’s what he wanted. He’s lost count of the number of injuries he’s treated on the field, or the handful of wretched times where he’s had to stitch himself up without support in an active warzone. The pain was near intolerable and he hated to do it, but Leon was always the man to do his job, no matter the cost.

Hell, the cost never factored into his calculus, not when he was the one paying the price.

With her though? The person he’s come to call home? The only person he’s ever trusted to love and hold him gently?

And yet, old habits die hard. Leon doesn’t think of himself as a proud man, and he isn’t ashamed, not really, but certain things are still… difficult. Nobody ever taught him to ask: for peace, for rest, for a place his vulnerability can rest without being ignored or erased. 

How do you speak of that yearning for your pieces to be picked up and carefully put back together until you find yourself again?

He’s a little embarrassed—just a bit—that she seems to know, or at the very least suspect, what he’s up to. That she doesn’t call him out on it and continues to give him exactly the same care she’s always lavished upon him is part of the reason he loves her with such unrestrained intensity. He knows what would happen if he tried to say all of it out loud to her. He wouldn’t be able to find the right words, but she would wait and soothe and encourage until they tumbled from his lips, imperfect and half-formed and mortifying.

Someday, he will. Leon knows how important it is not to leave things unspoken.

But for now, instead of saying something hideously inadequate, Leon closes his eyes. He lets himself savour and memorise the feeling of competent, loving hands against his skin. In this moment together, someone else is pouring into him for a change. The endless scream of demand: to be saved, to get the job done, to survive as the highest imperative, fades into the background.

Here, his weary psyche can rest.

Leon lets her pin back his bangs with navy blue barrettes, biting back a grin when he sees that they seem to be the same colour as his jacket. His amusement is cut short when she barely contains a gasp as she sees even more purple beneath, paired with yet another cut, blood congealed on its surface.

She sighs, her frown deepening as she begins to tend to his cut. “How the hell are they allowed to treat you like this? You’re not just… some government… guy—”

Leon snorts at her unenthusiastic description. “That is the most unimpressed take on my work I’ve ever heard. But I suppose you’re right, huh? You would think that someone with my —”

“—you’re my husband.”

Leon takes in her silence, the tight line of her lips, wondering if she intends to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he feels something build up in his chest. He can’t really explain why, even to himself, but he’s ready to apologise. “I’m—”

“I know what you’re going to say.” She continues to gently clean the cut on his forehead. “You’ll tell me, ‘I’m sorry, I got careless.’” She exhales shakily. “I really don’t want you to apologise. It’s not your fault. That’s not what I’m sad about.”

Leon waits, sensing the confession emerging from a place where it was hidden for too long. He runs his hand up and down her arm, steadying her, letting her speak.

“I’m… sad because every scar—” she traces the faint white line on his cheek, “and every new wound,” she pauses over the cut she’s tending to, “every bruise, reminds me that they won’t let you rest. It’s not that you were careless.”

Leon wipes the tear that’s escaped from the corner of her eye. “I know.”

“I know why you do it,” she huffs, furiously rubbing at her eyes. “I just wish they had the goddamn decency to give you rest. That they would stop trying to use you up every fucking minute.”

Her words graze an old bruise, somewhere that Leon hasn’t wanted to examine for too long. And so, he tries for levity, as he usually does. “You know how it is: no rest for the wicked.”

She shakes her head, firmly pressing a finger to his lips. 

“Why won’t they give my infuriating, overly self-sacrificing husband a break? Let you retire. Do something boring for a change. Go fishing. Do bird watching. Watch grass grow. I don’t even know.”

Leon pauses, chuckles, taking her free hand in his own. “That sounds peaceful. Can’t say I’ve ever gone fishing.”

“Forget fishing, when was the last time you took a nap?”

Leon shrugs, gives her a sheepish smile. “... we could try? After this?”

She narrows her eyes at him. Then sighs and continues to dab at the cut. “Oh, you.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Leon lifts her chin. “Look at me.”

Her eyes meet his, defiant, angry at the powers that be. There is a fury in them that dares him to even try to defend his employers.

“I know how much this costs you, even if you don’t say it.” He strokes her bottom lip with his thumb, trying to coax a smile from her. “I know that you wait by the phone.” Leon nudges the first-aid kit with his other hand. “I know that you picked up first-aid just for me. I want to say that… you shouldn’t have to.”

Leon exhales, smiles ruefully. “I won’t lie though. It feels… good to have someone who cares about what time I make it back. If I make it back. Some days it’s the only thing that keeps me going. Even you calling me last week, while I was at the safehouse? I needed to hear your voice.” He chuckles, like he’s confessing something he isn’t allowed to want. “It was going to be a long day and you made it bearable.”

Her shoulders finally relax. “I missed you, that’s all.” She reaches for the antibiotic ointment and makes Leon hold the dressing in preparation. “I… wanted to hear your voice too,” she admits, dabbing cream around the cut, determined to avoid meeting his gaze. “I needed to know that you were okay.”

Leon closes his eyes and bites back a smile as she takes the dressing from his hand and slowly lays it over the wound. Even after all this time, the fact that somebody misses him and wants him to come home makes him feel something sweet and warm in a heart he wasn’t sure he still had.

“I know your work is important. I just hope you remember that...” She swallows. “This isn’t you. Not all of you.” She says, her voice almost inaudible.

The words land hard and unfair. How many times has he wondered about the very same thing? “Yeah? Sometimes…” he exhales into a sigh. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

The weight of existing burdens descend once more. Old wounds and even older memories surface unbidden. Leon thinks back, flashes of unwanted scenes from Racoon City. The surreal blur of standing in the Situation Room as a 21-year-old, hardly an adult, ignorant of the horrors to follow. How the missions all started to blend together: twisted bodies, grotesque monsters, blood, and death. Death, always more death. He almost always said yes to the next mission, but eventually, more and more, the “nos” went unheard. They didn’t matter.

“Hey. I’m here. Come back to me.” Her hand is a warm weight on his chest, rubbing in a soothing rhythm.

Leon sucks in a deep breath. Counts to four. Releases it. Focusses on her face again. He does this a few more times as she gives his shoulder gentle squeezes. “Sorry. I’m back.”

“You’re Leon Scott Kennedy to the rest of the world. Hyper competent, lethal operative, founding member of the DSO. I get that.” She smooths her palms up and down his chest, restoring warmth to skin that went clammy for a moment. “But here, with me, you’re the earnest-to-a-fault, painfully generous man who’s addicted to corny one-liners, hates missing breakfast, and is very good to his wife. And that man doesn’t need to justify his need for peace, rest, or love. Not to me.”

Leon freezes. For a moment, she sees it again, the old uncertainty borne of warring impulses: the reflex to deflect with a joke, or slip into awkwardness, perhaps indulge in a smug smirk. She savours a secret satisfaction when Leon lets her witness his pleasure, to allow his lips to quirk subtly, shy and discreet, his ears very slightly pink at the tips.

Her voice is a mere whisper, helpless and soft for him. “Whenever they let you go, you always choose to come back to me.”

Leon just grasps her hand tightly, their fingers finding their place and intertwining. She sits with him for a minute, letting him breathe, her thumb brushing the back of his bandaged hand. He lets his head fall forward on her shoulder, instinctively tucking himself into the crook of her neck. “Just… give me a minute.”

She says nothing. Pulls him close, strokes his hair, lacing her fingers into the back and playing with the layers there. She lightly scratches his scalp in the way that he likes so much, lets him rest until his breathing evens out.  “You good to let me finish here?”

Leon nods. “Yeah.” 

She pats his cheek. “Let me see your hands, baby.” She takes Leon’s hands in her own, turning them over slowly, noting the pink, raw skin left from a torn callus.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” He lies immediately.

“Hmm.” She glances at him knowingly. “I wouldn’t think less of you for saying that it hurts.”

“... a little.” Leon mumbles under his breath, utterly reluctant.

“Got it.” 

She works with a confidence borne from practice, from a familiarity with his body. She reaches for the nippers in the first-aid kit, already wiped down with alcohol. The edges of torn skin are trimmed precisely, leaving the wound clean and neat. 

“This might sting a bit.” Her concentration doesn’t waver from Leon’s hands for even a second as she removes the lid of the salve and begins to gently rub the waxy ointment into his palms. “Is this alright?”

For a moment, Leon forgets the sting. It’s nice to watch her work, he thinks. It’s nice to be the object of her attention. He thinks back to the sterile environments of the DSO’s medical office and the frosty bedside manner of its doctors.

He doesn’t miss the touch of cold, indifferent hands. He doesn’t miss being looked at the way Leon looks at his own weapons: something to be maintained, to be deemed “good enough”, and sent home stitched up and still hazy on painkillers. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to return to the days of stumbling through the door, falling face-first on his couch, wounds screaming and protesting as he crashes on the couch, unable to make it to bed.

“Leon?”

He clears his throat, voice husky. “Yeah. You’re doing good.”

She’s trying not to smile, he can tell. She checks the wound again, and satisfied with her work, removes a bandage from its wrapping and lays it down on his skin. A frown pinches her brow as she cuts the appropriate length of tape and winds it around his hand. Leon reaches out with his free hand, gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer on the delicate shell. She hums, her head leaning close involuntarily. He caresses the glossy strands between his fingertips, admiring the silky texture, remembering the drag of it against his body when they’re laying in bed.

Everything about her face is beloved to him; he adores the expressiveness of her lips and eyes: the way her eyes widen a little if he flinches, how she bites her lip when she’s concentrating, the wry, crooked grin if she notices him looking at her. He could close his eyes and still remember the shape of her features with perfect clarity.

And one of the things he loves most of all is how freely affection flows from her and touches him in its small, mundane ways.

She loves me, Leon thinks, a little dazed when he repeats it in his mind. And she won’t let me forget it.

He lets his eyes flutter shut when she presses kisses to every old scar and every new bruise. He suspects that just as he’s mapped her face in loving detail, she too knows the marks of his body by heart. Time seems to slow; nothing else matters but the sensation of her lips and fingers, the seriousness with which she tends to him, his keeper restoring her beloved treasure. 

“I’m done.”

“Hey.” Leon reaches out, catches her hand. He turns it over and places a kiss on her wrist. “I never make plans that far ahead. You know that. But…” He pauses, already self-conscious. “But what I’m certain about is you being part of my future. I want you to have a say in it.”

She tilts her head at him, alert but still.

“So… vacation, retirement, whatever it is… let’s discuss it. I want to hear what you have to say. Always.”

“Oh, Leon.” She cups his cheek. “I don’t want to force you into anything. That’s never my intention. I just…” she takes a deep breath, exhales steadily. “I want you to be able to make a choice before it’s all decided for you. You know?”

When Emma went to bed that night, her eyes felt hot. Her lips trembled. Sadness sat like a stubborn lump within her throat.

Of course, her lover noticed everything. Chevalier ran a large hand up and down her back in unpractised movements, attempting to soothe her.

“I did not tell you about the past so you could weep about it, simpleton.” Chevalier’s gentle rebuke was soft against her right ear. 

“How could I not—?” Emma asked. She turned to face him, red-rimmed eyes seeking out his icy blue gaze. Her hand moved without thinking, caressing his hairline where the faint outline of a scar could be felt beneath her inquisitive fingers. Emma imagined how the wound must’ve stung, how Chevalier likely treated it on his own—the thought was horrible. Painful. Tears threatened to spill.

Chevalier sighed, pulling her into his arms. Emma held him back, as tight as she could. She was sure that he knew her thoughts, her mind a book that he could peruse at leisure if he wished. “It is all in the past. Fretting about it more would be pointless.”

Emma’s fiance had always been reticent about his past. Emma had gathered enough to know that it surely had been a lonely life of isolation, Chevalier’s impressive intellect and rather lacking people skills leaving him a solitary figure at the pinnacle of the Rhodolitian hierarchy. Emma knew the vicious rumours that swirled around the Brutal Beast, but what remained unspoken were the intimate details of Chevalier’s childhood and his private life growing up in the palace.

And so, learning one of those rare details—finding out that the faint scar on Chevalier’s brow came from his own mother, the queen herself—made Emma’s heart ache with sorrow.

What must’ve it been like to be a child among royalty? Knowing Chevalier, what must’ve it been like to wordlessly yearn for his mother’s affection and acceptance, yet be unable to give voice to the weight of that longing, and ultimately, be unable to receive that love? It just didn’t seem right, and Emma tossed and turned, mourning the childhood that Chevalier himself seemed unwilling to.

It didn’t matter how “pointless” Chevalier insisted her fretting would be. Emma could not help but wonder about the smile that graced his lips as she finally fell asleep… 

🌹

The heady perfume of roses filled her lungs. Emma looked around, taking in her surroundings. It seemed she had stopped short in the middle of the palace’s rose garden. She still felt heavy with the weight of Chevalier’s revelations about his childhood. Of course, Emma was grateful to learn more about Chevalier, but his mother’s treatment of her only child left a persistent ache that lingered like a bruise on her heart.

She aimlessly wandered the perimeter of the garden, thinking about how a young Chevalier had lived for long, lonely years. He bore the pain of isolation with nary a complaint, preferring the company of books and silence. It hurt to think of Chevalier hiding himself, away from the people who seemed to fear and loathe his very existence. Still, how she wished that his early years had been kinder to him, that the former queen had been able to do more for her son—

Emma stopped short. She was certain she’d seen a golden gleam whipping around the corner, disappearing beneath a curtain of ivy. Wait, this is— Her hand came up to shield her eyes from sunlight. This was the private garden that Chevalier had spoken about, his hiding place. The one safe haven in which he sought refuge after yet another confrontation with his mother. Had that been…?

“Chevalier!” She called out, dashing forward. Emma swept away the ivy that she knew concealed a hidden door, her spirits lifting at the thought of seeing her lover. She felt cool metal beneath her hands and pushed forward, entering a dimly-lit, overgrown space that promised privacy and secrets. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, and then she saw a head of blond hair that she’d recognise anywhere… 

Her footsteps came to a halt.

“Chevalier…?” She called, her voice wavering.

A boy, probably no older than ten, was seated on a bench within, blood drenching half his face and caking in his golden hair. Emma didn’t think; she rushed forward, desperate to help. With a silver flash, the blade of a sword caressed her neck, stopping her approach. In her eagerness, she’d clearly missed the weapon that had been resting beside him.

“State your business.” An icy blue eye assessed her, cold in its appraisal, the other eye closed with the stream of blood running over it. Emma’s stomach twisted with anxiety at the sight of his injuries, but… there was something about that brilliant blue eye, the colour of his hair, and the coldness of his manner that endeared itself to her, comforting in their familiarity.

There was no doubt in her mind that this was Chevalier himself. Her beloved fiance, albeit younger than she’d ever seen him.

“I… I came to check on you.” She said, sinking into a curtsy as she remembered her manners. What’s going on?

“No need,” Chevalier grunted. “Get out.” He seemed to think she was no threat, for he lowered his sword and turned his attention to a few rolls of bandages beside him.

“Please, let me.” Emma stepped forward. “It’ll be much easier for me to clean that up for you.”

Chevalier scoffed. “You are pale, simpleton. Have you ever seen spilled blood?”

“Believe me, I have.” Emma’s voice was grim. She didn’t think she could forget her time treating wounded soldiers even if she tried. Chevalier’s stubborn pride was a lot less endearing when blood was drenching his face.  “Will you let me take care of you already?”

He raised his eyebrows at the impatience in her tone until his lips suddenly twitched in a wry smile. Perhaps the pain was unbearable, or maybe a younger Chevalier hadn’t built up his defences quite so high. He made no move to stop her as she crossed the garden and carefully settled herself beside him. It seemed he’d also brought additional medical supplies: Emma recognised several tinctures that she’d once used to heal the wounded while Chevalier was away at war.

Up close, Emma took in the sight of Chevalier’s features, the familiar rendered new once more. There were those thick, pale eyelashes that she’d seen up close countless times. His eyes were as vividly, vibrantly blue as she remembered, though they were narrowed in icy disapproval. His mouth was downturned in a most surly scowl. Perhaps he hadn’t quite mastered his façade of indifference, Emma thought, slightly amused at the idea. Of course, his face was not quite so threatening yet, either—it was just a tad rounder. Fearsome as he might be to many, youth softened his features, though it couldn’t take away from their regal beauty. 

“Does anyone know you’re here?” She asked, trying to make conversation.

“They won’t notice I’m gone.” He responded curtly. 

Emma uncorked a bottle and soaked up some of its contents with a square of fabric. “This might sting a bit,” she warned, bringing her hand closer. Chevalier flinched, glaring at her approaching fingers. Emma hurried to reassure him. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. It’ll only sting for a little while.”

“It’s not that.” Chevalier bit out, turning away from Emma’s inquisitive gaze. “It’s… nothing.” For a moment, it seemed like indecision had stalled him.

Emma frowned and touched the medicine-soaked fabric to his bleeding brow. Chevalier was still as a stone beneath her, his breathing slow and even though it surely must’ve hurt. As she dabbed at his brow, her mind worked. Meanwhile, Chevalier held his silence, his eyes briefly fluttering shut as she brushed a lock of blond hair out of the way, her fingertips lingering on the silky-smooth strands. She could’ve sworn he leaned forward a little when she pulled away.

“It’s finally stopped bleeding,” Emma sighed in relief. “If we’re careful with the wound, maybe it won’t even leave a scar.”

Chevalier gave an undignified snort. “Scars are the least of my worries.”

“What happened?” Emma asked, making conversation as nimble fingers began to dress the wound. “Was it another assassin?” She fished, winding the bandage around his head. “Perhaps you fell for one of Clavis’ tricks?”

Chevalier’s mouth twisted into a look of pure disgust at the insinuation. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Emma felt the urge to giggle at his childish pride. “Only Yves would fall prey to bags of flour and banana peels.”

There was a long silence that felt almost companionable. Emma tucked in the ends of his bandage and admired her work. The fact that he had a bandage wrapped around his head did little to take away from Chevalier’s austere expression. Emma couldn’t help but marvel at how nothing seemed to subtract from the authoritative aura that positively emanated from the young prince.

“It was the queen.” His voice was short and matter-of-fact, as if reporting an incident that had happened to someone else. “The sight of me drove her into a rage. She flung a vase at me.”

Her throat tightened, a sharp twinge aching in her chest. “She shouldn’t have done that.” It was hard to suppress the surge of anger that rose within her. “It was wrong of her.”

Chevalier said nothing. Whether he was disbelieving or resigned, Emma didn’t know, but she hated the possibility of his hopelessness. 

“You are loved,” Emma whispered, taking Chevalier’s smaller hand in her own. “Perhaps it isn’t apparent to you now, but you are loved, I promise you that.”

Emma couldn’t really explain why those words had burst from her, only that they were desperate to be freed. Foolish and clichéd as they were, all she knew was that it was important for her to say something—anything—to him, to reassure him of a truth that he, just as almost everyone around him, seemed to deny. She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear the thought that a child could spend their life facing such isolation and neglect alone.

Chevalier’s fingers, which had tightened into a fist, slowly relaxed. It took a moment before he scoffed. “Only a simpleton would be foolish enough to reassure a monster.”

“Are we really going to have a debate about this?” Emma huffed, lifting one hand to tweak Chevalier’s nose. “Because you’re not a monster, and I’m prepared to argue until you give up.”

Chevalier snorted a haughty laugh. “You may have the time for that, but a royal’s duties do not wait.” Still, he made no move to stand. The silence of the garden was a cosy cocoon around them, a safe haven for them both. Here, the duties that Chevalier often spoke off seemed to retreat just for a little while. The disdain of the queen, the burden of responsibility, the unavoidable loneliness… all far away, for the briefest moment.

Chevalier’s hand remained loosely gripped in her own. She turned it over, studying the rough texture of his palms, even the calluses at the base of his fingers. Young Chevalier trained relentlessly with the sword, and the responsibility for his kingdom showed clearly on his hands. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze then impulsively pressed a kiss to his forehead that startled the young prince.

Neither of them acknowledged the kiss. Then, Emma’s curious eyes drifted to the books carefully placed beside Chevalier on the bench. Thick tomes of history, politics, and warfare were to be expected, but she thought she also spied a title that sounded suspiciously romantic. She bit back a smile.

“Can I stay with you a little longer?” She asked. “I’d love to read with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Do what you please,” he said a little too quickly, retrieving the romance novel from the pile and immediately burying his nose in the book.

And so there they sat, on the same bench. Emma sneaked glances at Chevalier, taking pleasure in the expressions that showed ever so slightly on his face. Whatever he was reading, it seemed to fascinate him. Sometimes he frowned. His head would tilt a little to the right at a passage that perhaps baffled him. Often, he would give a familiar derisive snort. She thought it was a shame that the adult Chevalier’s face was such a practised mask that these expressions were rare, even to her. 

“Do you always stare at a person’s face?” Chevalier asked, his eyes not shifting from his book.

Emma squeaked in embarrassment and returned to her own book. The shadows around them grew long as they both enjoyed their novels, the rhythm of rustling pages the only sound to disrupt the quiet. The scent of roses bloomed further in the late afternoon sun, the heat growing thicker around them. She felt her eyelids growing heavier and heavier… 

🌹

Emma’s eyes opened to golden rays of sunlight. Consciousness surfaced slowly from the depths of her dream as she turned to the other side of the bed. Chevalier slept close, one arm draped around her middle and one hand gripping hers. In sleep, his face wore a peaceful look that Emma had grown increasingly familiar with. Despite the memory of her dream, she smiled, leaning in close and lifting blond bangs from his high forehead.

You’re nice and relaxed on the couch when you feel a soft kiss pressed against your cheek. A familiar, deep voice rumbles into your ear. “Welcome home, darling. Did you have a good day at work?” 

You turn to look into your Zhongli’s warm, amber eyes. “I did, actually. How was your day?” You return his kiss with a quick peck to his nose.

“Would’ve been better with you,” Zhongli chuckles, smooth-tongued as always. “Director Hu was a… handful, as always, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, dear. Maybe we should go on a date? Lift your spirits a bit?” You ask, taking Zhongli’s gloved hand in your own and giving it a firm squeeze. When you lift his knuckles to your lips, your heart flutters as your husband’s eyes crinkle into a smile.

“A walk would be nice,” he concedes. “Would you like to take me on a walk, darling?”

“Of course, my love. Give me five minutes to get changed, okay? Where do you want to go?”

“The stars over the harbour were exceptionally beautiful on my way home. We should see them together.” 

“Alright! Sounds like a plan. Be right back!” You make a beeline for your shared bedroom, excited for your date with Zhongli. Having been bogged down by countless commissions over the past weeks, it seems as if you’ve barely spent any time with him recently. And although your husband is an infinitely patient and gracious man, distance has only sharpened the pangs of yearning in your heart. You know that Zhongli feels the same.

You pick out an outfit that Zhongli bought for you on your third anniversary. His taste was flawless as always, the blouse and skirt ensemble effortlessly chic. He’d made sure that the outfit was made with lightweight silk in your favourite colour. But because this was Zhongli you were speaking of, the clothing was also delicately embroidered with intricate patterns, the hand-stitched threads imitating the geometric designs favoured by the former Lord of Geo. You twirl in your outfit, feeling exceptionally beautiful in your finery, giddy with excitement as you anticipate Zhongli’s approval and appreciation.

“Honey I’m ready!” You burst out of your bedroom and give another twirl. “Shall we—” You scan the room, seeking out your husband. “Zhongli…?”

A small head crowned with a magnificent mane and vivid yellow horns peeks out. You watch in stunned silence as a perfectly lap-sized dragon drapes itself along the back of the couch. “You look gorgeous, darling. Lovelier than usual, were that even possible.”

Your eyes follow the dragon’s tail as it lazily sways back and forth. “Zhongli, I thought we were going for a walk,” You manage. Finally coming to your senses, you primly seat yourself and see Zhongli’s usual robes neatly folded beside you.

Your husband’s deep voice sounds strange coming from a tiny dragon’s body. “To be precise, darling, I did ask you to take me for a walk.”

“I’m not putting you on a leash,” you interject hastily. Unhelpful memories suddenly surface in your mind and your face feels exceptionally warm. “Uh… Not today, anyway. And certainly not in public.”

“We can save the leash for another time,” Zhongli moves from his perch, curling up in your lap. “I was thinking you could carry me around the Harbour. What say you, hm?”

“What’s gotten into you today?” You huff, although you watch your own hand start to stroke his sinuous body, his scales cool to the touch. It feels… nice, you think. 

“Well,” Zhongli chuckles, pushing his head into your hand, eagerly seeking out your touch. His tail coils around your arm, the fluffy end reaching up to affectionately tickle your cheek. “When a husband misses his wife, he is allowed to make… ah, bolder requests of her, is he not?” 

“Not this bold,” you mutter. Your hand doesn’t stop its path up and down his back, carefully avoiding the amber scutes in its path. Inwardly, you curse your husband’s intimate knowledge of your weaknesses. Zhongli knows all too well that you find his miniature dragon form absolutely adorable. He knows that there is nothing you would deny him when he turns himself into a chubby noodle. The God of Contracts knows how to press his advantage, and he was never above playing a little dirty.

Zhongli rests one paw on top of your other hand, the slightly rough texture of his paw pad causing pleasant friction against your skin as he strokes you. “Nothing would make me happier than to spend time with you like this.”

“Alright… fine. Fine.” You narrow your eyes at Zhongli as he stands on his hind legs, paws reaching out for you as you move to pick him up. You sway his body from side to side, teasing him. “You are one extremely spoiled dragon, you know that?”

“My only defence is that my wife takes wonderful care of me.”

Ugh. How smug. You cradle him against your chest and depart for the harbour.

☆☆☆☆☆

Zhongli is right: the stars are marvellously bright this evening. Pinpricks of light adorn the deep blue blanket of the night sky, sparkling like the priceless gems sold at Mingxing Jewellery. You chuckle as you recall Zhongli’s fondness for all manner of precious treasures.

You take a familiar path along Feiyun Slope, your ears picking up the gentle sloshing of the water down at the harbour below. Around you, the city slowly comes alive with chatter as the heat of the late afternoon sun cools and people begin to pursue hard-earned leisure after a long day’s work. You take the steps between Xinyue Kiosk and Liuli Pavillion, peeking over Zhongli in your arms as your feet carefully find their way down.

Every so often, Zhongli snuggles further into your chest, or nuzzles your neck. “You’re very distracting, my love.” You chide, using the palm of your hand to gently push him away from your face. “I thought you were supposed to be pretending to be a dragon plushie. You’re going to give the game away.”

Zhongli just makes a sound of contentment against you. “The city is too busy at this time of day to pay close attention to us, darling.” Then his long tongue playfully flicks your ear.

“Zhongli!” You whisper urgently, jostling him in retaliation.

Hmph! You think. You flick your dragon husband’s forehead, but all that brings you is the deep rumble of laughter. “Do that again,” he teases. “I could barely feel it through my scales.”

You’re almost at the water’s edge when you hear someone call your name. Turning, you see Hu Tao waving at you from the distance, grinning widely. Feeling just a bit disappointed at the disruption of your date, you nevertheless plaster a matching grin on your face and make your way to Hu Tao.

You don’t know the director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlour too well, but she’s made your acquaintance thanks to Zhongli. He’d warned you about how… nosy his employer could be, and anticipating her prying into his private life, had introduced you early on as his wife.

“How are you doing, Director Hu?” You ask, a polite smile stiff on your face.

Hu Tao waves off your greeting. “Don’t be so formal with me! I’m not your boss, am I?” Her eyes move to rest on the fat brown lizard in your arm. “Oh my, that’s an adorable plushie isn’t it?”

You panic and take a hasty step back, clutching Zhongli even closer. “Don’t mind me, Director Hu. Zhongli just won this for me from the arcade. I’m… uh… I’m very attached to it, you see.”

Bringing up Zhongli’s name successfully diverts Hu Tao’s attention. She looks behind you, as if expecting to see your husband hiding in your shadow. “You’re here with Mr Zhongli, are you? Where is he?”

You feel Zhongli squirm in your arms, and you tighten your grip around him in warning. “Ah, he’s… gone to get us some tea. I told him I was feeling rather parched.”

Hu Tao chuckles, clearly amused at the mental image of Zhongli spoiling you. “I never knew our good consultant to be such a doting husband. He’s always so reserved and formal at work, you know? Stiff, almost.”

At Hu Tao’s words, you feel something soft brushing against your knee. You tense as you realise Zhongli’s tail is creeping up your skirt. You step closer to Hu Tao, trying to prevent her from glimpsing Zhongli’s wayward tail. She quirks an eyebrow at your proximity while you babble to distract her.

“I do apologise for my husband’s behaviour, Director Hu. He’s rather set in his ways, bless him. I hope he hasn’t caused you any trouble at—” You grit your teeth when you feel his tail lift a corner of your skirt, the thick fur at the end tickling and caressing your thigh. “—at work recently.”

“Are you alright? You’ve got such a severe frown on your face.”

“Oh, I’m alright, I just—” You bite your lip as you feel Zhongli’s tail slowly slide between your thighs, the thick fur at its end tickling and teasing you. “I just can’t believe he’s taking so long. He’s not a neglectful man. Usually. Anyway! It was nice meeting you, Director Hu! I’ll catch up with you again sometime. Please tell me if Zhongli causes you any trouble!”

You hurriedly stride away, heading for a quiet corner of the harbour and as far away from prying eyes as possible.

“Zhongli!” You hiss, holding him under his arms and lifting him away from you. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Giving my beloved wife some much-needed attention,” he responds smoothly, his tail reaching for you once again. “I must make up for my past neglect,” he adds, in a tone that feigns regret. You snort, but your hands are occupied with holding him up and can’t stop his tail from causing further mischief.

“Not in public, Zhongli!”

“Hold me closer, darling,” Zhongli purrs. “It is a cold night out… and I’ve left my garments at home.”

You grudgingly hold him close again, rolling your eyes when you feel his tail slip under your skirt again. “For the love of Celestia, Zhongli, you’re not going to make me flash the entire harbour, are you?”

“I would never,” Zhongli responds, bringing his snout close to your face. His voice is a dangerous purr: “All dragons are protective of their treasure, and I am especially protective of mine.”

Damn it, you sigh, exasperated. This is what happens when your husband has had six thousand years to practise his lines. “I wish you’d just told me you wanted to stay home.” You grumble, gripping him tightly with one hand while you try to grasp his tail with the other. A childish game ensues, with Zhongli delightedly flicking his tail out of reach as your arm flails in a futile attempt to catch him.

“I didn’t want to stay home,” Zhongli says. You can’t see his face, but you wonder if he’s pouting. “I wanted my wife to see the stars.”

“Your tail is working harder than your eyes!” You retort. You let out a sigh of relief when Zhongli finally places his tail in the palm of your hand. “Have you had enough of teasing me yet, you incorrigible beast?”

“I’ve barely teased you,” Zhongli laughs. “Were you looking forward to more? Hm?”

“I…”

“Won’t you answer me, my wife?”

This is what I get for marrying the God of Contracts, you complain to yourself. Ruthless negotiator, driver of hard bargains, all around merciless god…

But when your grip on his tail loosens, and when you allow his tail to slip under your skirt again with not a single word of complaint, Zhongli hears your answer loud and clear.

“If you’ve had enough of the stars tonight, darling…” Zhongli’s voice trails off as his tail brushes the front of your undergarments, raising goosebumps on sensitive skin. It seems your dear husband is just as distracted as you are. “You should take me home. It is so bitterly cold out, and I know just how to warm you up.”

“It’s… it’s not cold out tonight at all…” You mutter, though your mind is far, far away from boring discussions of the weather.

“Indulge me,” Zhongli whispers, snuggling even closer to you.