XAVIER (word count : 289)

You stir in your sleep and instinctively reach for the other side of the bed, where Xavier is usually asleep beside you. Your fingers meet only empty sheets.

The mattress is still slightly warm beneath your touch.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you sit up.

You check the living room first.

Empty.

The kitchen.

Empty.

You knock on the bathroom door and push it open.

Empty.

Your pulse begins to pound in your ears, each heartbeat louder than the last. You tell yourself not to overreact, that Xavier would never leave without a reason.

But the reassurance doesn’t stick.

A familiar panic starts to claw at your chest, and your breathing turns shallow.

Waking up without him beside you feels colder than it should.

Then you hear it—

The soft click of a key turning in the front door.

You rush toward the sound, and the moment the door opens, your eyes meet Xavier’s.

Relief hits hard.

Without thinking, you throw yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Where were you?” your voice is barely above a whisper. “I woke up, and you weren’t there.”

“I went to the bakery,” he says gently. “You were sleeping so soundly, Starlight. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your grip tightens, and he feels the slight tremor running through your body.

Xavier understands.

He lets the paper bag of still-warm pastries slip from his hand onto the floor and wraps both arms around your waist, drawing you close.

Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, he murmurs against your hair, “I’m sorry, Starlight. Next time, I’ll leave you a note.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, his gaze tender.

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ZAYNE (word count : 250)

Zayne comes home after another long shift at Akso Hospital to find you sitting quietly on the couch, completely absorbed in something resting in your lap.

When he sits down beside you, the cushion dips under his weight. With practiced ease, he loosens his tie in a single motion before leaning closer to see what has captured your attention.

It’s a photo album, its pages filled with memories the two of you have made together over the years.

“Zayne, don’t you think we look older in these newer photos?” you ask, running your fingertips over the page before looking up at him.

Zayne hums quietly as he studies the photographs.

“Aging is only natural,” he replies.

You lower your gaze again, your chest tightening.

“I don’t want you to grow old,” you whisper. “If you get old, it means you’re getting closer to death.”

“Life and death come hand in hand,” Zayne says, the doctor in him answering with calm honesty. “Everyone dies eventually.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

“I don’t want you to die,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “If you do, I’ll be alone.”

Zayne’s expression softens.

He takes your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing across your knuckles.

“Let’s not dwell on things beyond our control,” he says gently.

He lifts your hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against them.

“Right now,” he murmurs, his gaze steady, “I’m here with you.”

“So let’s focus on the present and spend every moment we can together.”

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RAFAYEL (word count : 273)

Living in Whitesand Bay means you and Rafayel can visit the beach whenever you want.

As a Lemurian, Rafayel is happiest in the ocean, where the waves seem to welcome him home.

You sit in a floaty while he paddles behind you, pushing you along at a leisurely pace.

A mischievous grin spreads across his face. Before you can react, he flicks the floaty, tipping you straight into the water.

Rafayel dives after you, laughing at your bewildered, slightly unimpressed expression.

A moment later, the two of you break through the surface of the water at the same time.

Then a larger wave rolls in, pushing you several feet away.

Your eyes widen.

Rafayel has his back turned, watching the horizon, effortlessly balanced on the water as if he has no care in the world.

A sudden worry tightens in your chest.

You swim back to him, feeling as though you’re fighting against the waves until you can wrap your arms tightly around his hips, clinging to his wet skin.

“Using me as a floaty now, Cutie?” Rafayel teases, glancing over his shoulder.

You press your forehead against his back.

“How do I know the waves won’t take you away from me one day?” you murmur, your voice trembling for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold ocean water.

Rafayel gently takes hold of your arms and turns in the water, drawing you around to his front until you’re floating against his chest. He brushes the wet strands of hair from your face.

“Even if they do,” he says, “this fishie will always swim back to you.”

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SYLUS (word count : 263)

You sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing your eyes and yawning as Sylus moves around the room, getting ready.

It’s the middle of the night, a time when most people are already asleep. For Sylus, however, the day is only beginning.

With sleepy, half-lidded eyes, you watch him button his shirt.

A familiar sadness settles in your chest when you remember where he’s going. As the leader of Onychinus, another meeting, another deal, is waiting for him.

Luke, Kieran, and Mephisto are going with him, as they always do. It should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

Fully dressed, Sylus steps in front of you, his broad frame towering between your knees.

You wrap your arms around his waist and press your face against his stomach, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt as you breathe in his familiar scent.

“Do you have to go?” you ask, the words sounding dangerously close to a child’s plea.

“I’ll be back before you know it, sweetie,” he says, his fingers combing gently through your hair.

You refuse to let go.

Sylus knows that although you’ve accepted who he is - the ruler of the outlawed N109 Zone and the leader of Onychinus - you still hate the danger that follows him everywhere.

He scoops you into his arms and lays you down on his side of the bed.

Leaning over you, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“By the time you wake up,” he mummers, tucking the blanket around you, “I’ll be right back beside you.”

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CALEB (word count : 256)

You walk into the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but one of Caleb’s T-shirts. It’s far too big for you, hanging loosely against your frame.

You follow the smell of food and find Caleb standing at the stove, his back to you, dressed in sweatpants and an apron tied over his bare torso.

You don’t announce yourself.

Instead, you stay quiet and watch him move around the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

It’s an ordinary sight, but one you treasure.

As the colonel of the Farspace Fleet stationed in Skyhaven, Caleb lives a life where ordinary moments can disappear without warning. Every time he boards a ship bound for the Deepspace tunnels, a part of you fears he might not return.

Caleb turns and sets two plates on the dining table. The moment he notices you, he walks over and smooths his thumb gently over the crease between your brows.

“Keep frowning like that and you’ll get wrinkles,” he teases, flashing the boyish grin that belongs only to you - a stark contrast to the composed colonel the rest of the world sees.

You lift the dog tag that never leaves his neck, holding it in your palms.

“If only our time together could always be this ordinary,” you whisper, your gaze fixed on the tag.

Caleb’s expression softens with understanding.

He slips an arm around your waist and lifts you effortlessly, settling you directly on his robotic arm.

“No matter where my missions take me,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead lightly against yours, “I’ll always fly back to you.”

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VALKO (word count : 250)

You and Valko have escaped the hustle and bustle of Linkon City for a few days in his wooden cabin, tucked deep within the woods.

Out here, your boyfriend can truly be himself.

No prying eyes.

No need to hide his wolf hybrid form - his bushy tail swaying behind him, wolf ears twitching at every sound, and claws extending from his fingertips.

You breathe in the scent of morning dew and pine. A few steps behind him, you watch the muscles shift beneath his broad back as he walks through the forest.

Then, without warning, Valko drops to all fours and sprints ahead. Your heart drops with him. He always seems different here - lighter, calmer, as though he has finally returned home.

And that thought terrifies you.

What if one day he keeps running?

What if he never comes back to you?

Something large crashes into you from the side.

Valko barrels back out of the trees, knocking you both into the damp grass and rolling you through the wildflowers.

He grins down at you, small canines peeking out as he proudly holds out a bouquet of freshly picked daisies.

With one hand, you scratch gently behind his wolf ear.

“I hate imagining a day when you run off and never come back,” you admit, your voice quiet.

Valko’s grin fades into something more serious.

“That will never happen,” he says.

“You’re my mate. Fate itself bound us together, and no forest in the world could make me leave you behind.”

Permanent tag list : @cordidy @thehyperfixationgirly @pjselee

There are far more pressing, productive uses of his time that you’re so carelessly wasting, and yet here he is; the only surviving Chief Medical Officer to the Autobots, idling on the curb, reduced to a mere taxi service for your convenience.

If he lets his chassis droop any further, he’ll hit the asphalt underneath him.

Optimus had made these little ‘excursions’ sound positively pleasant when he’d discuss them with Ratchet. He said it would do the medic some ‘good’ to take his place for a change, to put some wear in his tyres and get out of the base for a while… All a pretence.

Of course, it’s mere coincidence that you just so happen to need a ride from your place of work this evening, and wouldn’t it be a fine idea for Ratchet to take some interest in their charges’ lives every now and again?

Oh? Bulkhead, Arcee and Bumblebee are all busy on their own scouting missions? Not unheard of, but terribly convenient all the same.

Optimus himself has a meeting with Agent Fowler that’s likely to extend well into the evening, leaving him no time to pick you up as he typically would?

Pah!

He doesn’t rightly know which is more insulting; that Optimus thinks he’d fall for such a badly concealed ruse, or that he can read Ratchet well enough to know he’d need an excuse to save-face anyway.

He had to come and get you. Nobody else was available.

It’s only when the seven-minute mark ticks dutifully over to eight that Ratchet is forced to consider the possibility that he might, by some, microscopic sliver of a chance, have missed your departure.

He scoffs the notion away as soon as it occurs.

Setting aside the fact that he’s perfectly observant - despite what Miko might say - you are not the type of human who’s… easily overlooked.

In all the weeks he’s known you, Ratchet has never once seen you display anything less than the highest degree of exuberance.

Then again, perhaps your behaviour is all the more significant to him because you seem inclined to adhere yourself to his side at any given opportunity. And in truth, for all his ingenuity and extraordinary acumen, Ratchet has yet to fathom why in Primus’s name you seem to light up like a fragging solar flare every time you lay eyes on him.

So no, he decides, glaring heatedly at the glass doors of the building opposite, he can’t have missed your exit.

Which is why it comes as such a shock when he almost does.

Nine minutes after Optimus assured him that you’d be finishing for the day, one last human trickles sluggishly out through the swinging doors, head bent low on a slumping neck, face downcast to the pavement underfoot.

Ratchet’s optics are only drawn to the figure due to the similarities between you, and that’s when it hits him. The human isn’t just similar to you.

That is you.

And yet, you couldn’t look any less like yourself, or at least, less like the human he’s so accustomed to seeing around the base.

Out here in the cold light of day, with your shoulders bowed like the load heaped upon them is getting heavier with each, weary step, Ratchet sees an entirely different human.

His plates start itching at the thought that he’s a witness to something he was never supposed to see, like you’ve dropped your mask and he wasn’t polite enough to look away while you slipped it back on.

It wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone observing that the CMO’s first suspicion is… ‘Are you hurt?’

Sleepily, a line of ancient code rears its head to grumble at some imperceptible threat.

You don’t seem to have spotted him here on the curb, watching you raptly from the other side of the road.

The foremost jarring change that he immediately zeroes in on is the curve of your mouth. On any typical day, it’s always open, letting a torrent of admiration spew forth and sweep him up in its tide like you’ve opened the proverbial floodgates.

And you're always smiling – predominantly at him.  

But here, in the few steps you take from the shadow of the building, Ratchet can’t even catch a glimpse of that familiar, ridiculously cheerful grin that lights up your malleable features.

It occurs to him quite abruptly that this is the first time he hasn’t seen you smile.

It’s all so astounding in fact, that he barely even registers the sudden growl his engine kicks out as he slips seamlessly into his role as the team’s medic, performing a cursory scan of you from his post across the street.

You must have heard him though or felt his optics on you at the very least, because in the next second, your head shoots up and you instantly catch sight him, stopping in your tracks.

For several, terse seconds, you do nothing but stare, your face as blank as an empty data-pad. After a few beats of his spark, he realises why; This is the first time you’ve seen him in his vehicle mode… That, and you were likely expecting Optimus, not the crotchety old ambulance parked in his stead.

Ratchet is on the cusp of telling you he’s sorry to disappoint, when it happens.

You take one last look at him, squinting to make out the Autobot insignia on his grill… and then you simply come alive.

The change is immediate. He pinpoints the second your heartbeat bucks into a higher gear as you straighten your back, raising your head in delighted surprise, and your lips stretch out to their absolute limits, pushing at the apples of your cheeks as you send the old Autobot a blinding grin.

“Ratchet! Hi!” you cheer before bounding heedlessly into the street.

The spark in his chamber gives an almighty lurch as he scrambles to throw out a check for any oncoming vehicles.

By some miracle, the street seems relatively deserted for the time being, thank Primus…

He’d never hear the end of it if anything happened to you on his watch.

The agitated hiss of plating begins to settle down once you reach him, quieted by the return to normalcy.

Nothing’s wrong, you’re as chipper as always, and he would sooner tear out his own glossa than admit he’d come anywhere close to concerned.

His engine grumbles as you skid to a stop at his bumper, your fragile limbs quivering with unrestrained excitement.

“Oh my God! What a lovely surprise,” you laugh, sincerity packed into every word whilst your eyes dart over his vehicle mode, drinking in the side of him you’ve never seen before, until he finds himself shifting under your scrutiny. “What are you doing here? You never leave the base!”

For very good reason, he grouses to himself.

Aloud, he simply huffs, swinging open the passenger door for you and heaving out an aggrieved sigh. “Nobody else was available to pick you up. So, the burden fell to yours truly.” And then, with the exuberance of a dead fly… “Surprise.”

He shouldn’t ask…

He really shouldn’t – oh, Primus forsake him.

“If I may,” he grinds out through gritted dentae, rolling on his tyres to bring his open door closer to your side as he shoots a glare at the building behind you, “You didn’t seem… entirely yourself, when you left your work premises…”

You don’t reply for a moment, so he swallows his pride and gruffly adds, “Anything I should know about?”

He isn’t expecting the sudden warmth of a tiny body to drape itself so ardently against his bonnet, nor to feel the press of your cheek squashing into him with a ferocity that might have hurt if he were human. In response, the medic goes rigid on his struts, exhaust sputtering incredulously.

“Just had a bad day,” you assure him with a squeeze, “But not to worry. You’re the perfect cure.”

Ugh. He just knows that was deliberate, likely intended to plant yourself under his plating like a stubborn little parasite who refuses to be detached, no matter how hard he tries to root you out and hold you at arm’s length.

“Seriously. After the day I’ve had, you are the best person who could have turned up to save it,” you gush into the metal beneath you, “Literally, my hero.”

Now, there’s an aspect to your character that he has yet to wrap his processor around.

No matter what he says, however scathing or dismissive he tries to be, somehow, you’re never put off by it, never deterred by his outward aversion to your company and certainly never shy in the face of his cantankerous disposition.

It’s… quite infuriating.

“Look on the bright side,” Arcee had teased him once as she sauntered past his med-bay whilst you sang his praises to a highly amused Optimus from the gantry, “At least you’re someone’s favourite.”

He’d scoffed at her then like he’d scoff at her now.

He was perfectly happy being the humans’ least favourite Autobot. The unfriendly one. The cynical grouch. Gruff and unpalatable and not worth getting to know.

They don’t get attached, and he can pretend he isn’t scared half to death that every trip through the Ground Bridge will be their last.

It was fine. It was working.

But then, you came along, as dogged in your pursuit of his company as he was in avoiding yours.

Unstoppable force, meet Immoveable object.

Ratchet is suddenly wrenched from his stupor when an old truck rattles past along the sun-warmed road, reminding him that not only is he suffering the indignity of a hug, but he’s also suffering it in public.

“Wh-! Will you get inside this instant!” he hisses venomously, only losing the tightness in his vocaliser after you peel yourself off his bonnet and skip to the open door, swinging yourself into his sterile interior with a jaunty little ‘hup!’

The medic has to throw several firewalls around the circuits in his optics to prevent them from rolling up towards the darkening sky overhead. How can one tiny body possibly hold so much bounce?

He stubbornly ignores the warmth still seeping into one particular spot on his metal frame.

Your hands are eager on the seatbelt, too preoccupied with inspecting the rest of his interior to pay much attention to what you’re doing, and you end up missing the socket several times until Ratchet gives a brisk tut and manoeuvres the catch in himself.

Primus… He can feel you buzzing against his frame, every ounce of your alien biology thrumming like a youngling’s unfettered EM field.

… This is sure to be a long and arduous ride…

“So~” you sing-song, clasping your hands between your knees to keep them still as he pulls away from the curb, drifting smoothly onto the road out of Jasper, “How’s my favourite Autobot?”

Ha. Favourite…

It doesn’t matter how many times he hears you say it, the words will always sound incongruous to everything he knows about himself, like an arachnophobe saying spiders are their favourite animal. So, he does what he always does when presented with your incessant onslaught of fondness.

He tries to ignore it.  

“Optimus?” he hedges coolly, “In a meeting with Agent Fowler… He apologises for missing your usual rendezvous.”

A boisterous laugh erupts from your chest, loud and high, thrilled at the banter. It’s something else he realises he’s slowly become accustomed to, no longer inclined to wince at the discordance of it.

“Much as I love the big guy,” you tell him, planting a hand over your chest in a crude rendition of solemnity, “He doesn’t take top spot. That’s a V-I-P position reserved for you alone, I’m afraid.”

Ratchet is immensely glad you can’t see his expression at the moment, so you miss the look of consternation crushing his brow plates together and twisting his dermas into a bewildered scowl.

Why in Primus’s good name would he be your-?

Before the CMO can ponder on it any longer though, you’re shifting forwards in your seat and shooting a sunny grin at his rearview, heedless of the suburbs blurring lazily past outside his window.  

“While I’ve got you… Will you tell me more about Cybertron?” you blurt, though the way your fingers clasp tightly to the edge of the leather under your thighs tells him that you’re ready to beg if he declines, “You never finished that story about how Optimus used to sneak into the Hall of Records.”

“You-…” Trailing off, Ratchet angles his mirror down to capture you centrally within the glass, his vocaliser turning uncharacteristically soft with surprise before he can smother it. “… You remember that?”

He’d begun that tale weeks ago, long enough for a young human to have absorbed and promptly expunged any information they’d been given. He hadn’t finished it because Miko had grown so disinterested, she flopped back onto the sofa cushions and pretended – in her usual flair – that she was ‘literally dying of boredom!’

Ratchet refused to say another word to any humans all day.

“What’re you kidding me?” you laugh, trying and failing to suppress a grin by biting down on your lower lip before it slips free with your next words, “I remember everything you tell me!”

That’s…

Oh.

Admittedly, at the time, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to tell if you were paying any attention.

More fool him, he supposes.

“Well, I… Mm… Ahem.” Clearing some static out of his voice box, he cautiously ventures, “What exactly would you like to know?”

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As it turns out, ‘everything,’ was not a mere over-exaggeration of your curiosity, intended more for embellishment than to be taken literally.

When you said ‘everything,’ you meant everything. Hardly a quantity he could ever hope to cover in the half-hour’s drive from Jasper to the silo.

Still… he relented, finding that the words come easier when he’s been prompted to talk about his home.

By the time he rolls slowly into the base, your eyes are sparkling with wonder for a world you’ll likely never see, and Ratchet is…

… He’s at a loss.

You weren’t just listening to him indulge in his own grief by blethering on about Cybertron, about the ‘good old days’ before the war. You threw yourself into the conversation right alongside him, hungry for any scrap of information he’d give you.

Loathe as he is to admit it, it… made a refreshing change, having a human speak to him without their eyes glazing over or their jaws splitting apart in an obnoxious yawn.

Chugging to a stop near the gantry stairs, Ratchet opens his door with a heavy clunk, half expecting you to come flying out to tell Jack, Miko and Rafael all about your unexpected lift from the world’s surliest conversationalist.

Such is his lot.

All he can hope is that you don’t tell them about the laugh that leapt off his glossa without warning when you said he reminds you of perseverance personified, or the way his engine nearly stalled on the highway after something else you said whilst your fingers tapped a happy rhythm against his seat.

“I wish I could have seen Cybertron. It sounds incredible!”

He’d only murmured his response. “… It was…”

“Of course it was,” you agreed, aiming a hearty smile up at his rearview, “You were there.”

… Why do you have to be so damnably genuine?

It makes maintaining his cold indifference a lot more complicated.

Bewildered, he watches you, still bursting with life as you slide out through his open door and move yourself to the foot of the stairs, granting him the space to transform to his full, stocky height.

“Wow,” you breathe, gazing up at him awestruck when he rolls his sturdy shoulder panels and blinks down at you, that all-too natural scowl thudding resolutely back into place.

“What?” he snips, bristling out of habit rather than offence at being stared at.

Offering him an innocent shrug, you simply beam up at him, neck craned all the way back to meet his cerulean optics. “Nothing,” you tell him amicably, “Just wanted to say thanks for the lift. You’re the best.”

He only grunts in response at the wrongness of your statement, using a servo to loosely shoo you away. But you don’t leave as he expects you to, not yet.

“Hey, um, can I just…” you start, casting a quick, backwards glance over your shoulder up the stairway. Somewhere high above, you can hear Jack and Miko bickering over the TV remote, interrupted by Raf’s softer voice as the boy attempts to mediate.

Absently picking at the nail on your thumb, you let out a hard breath, trying to expel some of the lingering energy that still burns through your body as you return your attention to Ratchet and stammer, “I-I just-! It means a lot that you came to pick me up.”

“Optimus’s orders,” he reiterates as bluntly as he can, turning on a heel to stalk across the silo towards his screens, seeking an immediate escape from your suffocating friendliness and trying to ignore the ‘trit-trot’ of tiny shoes padding along in his wake.

He’s careful then, treading with lighter pede-falls as he reaches his station.

The softest touch to his ankle guard has him going stiff with alarm before his systems ease coolant through his racing circuitry.

Schooling his expression into something fierce, he whips his helm down to glare at you, though it falters pitifully when he sees you standing by his pede, your diminutive figure almost lost on the vast expanse of the silo’s floor. One of your arms is held aloft, and you have your palm pressed flat to the metal just above his tyre.

And your face - unfathomably open, and bright like a carbon star - grins up at him so starkly he forgets that it was less than one Earth hour ago when he saw you without a smile.

His sensors pick up the astonishingly tenacious beat of your pulse against his frame, fragile but persistent. Just like you. It’s the proof of your fondness for him. You can’t hide it any more than he can ignore it. The human pulse is an intrinsic part of your biology – the part that he checks over and over again to make sure it’s still beating away below your epidermis – the part that always, always gathers momentum and runs at a gallop when you’re near him.

Scientifically, it’s a response to the release of dopamine, and while he’s no expert on humans, he’s absorbed enough to know that the chemical is usually associated with feeling happy.

So, therein lies his irrefutable evidence.

Ratchet, the most curmudgeonly mech to ever set foot on planet Earth, makes you happy. And there isn’t a Pit-forsaken thing he can do to refute the fact because the proof is staring him in the face every day.

Checkmate.

… If this is the Universe’s idea of a joke, there’d better be a damn good punchline.

“Seriously,” you beam, ignorant of his inner-turmoil, “Thank you, Ratchet.”

And a sharp crack lances down the wall of his unassailable resolve.

Don’t do that… Don’t make his spark rumble appreciatively from something so trite as a simple ‘thank you.’

frank didn’t take it personally, no, but he did make sure to never make you yell at him over an issue twice. it was difficult being an… ‘antihero’ (or whatever Matt had told him), but Frank sometimes didn’t realize how little time he was spending in his own life with the woman he intended to marry. but hot damn did he like seeing you yell. yelling at him, though? even better!

the first time you full on finger-pointed, red faced, steely-eyed yelled at him was a boner more painful than frank had ever experienced. when you had come back after cooling off for an hour or two, you were going to apologize to frank, actually consider going to therapy like you’d been meaning to, and see how upset he was about your outburst. imagine your shock when Frank’s large hands grabbed your hips and pulled you right smack dab onto the bulge in his jeans with a shade of urgency you weren’t used to. “Frank?” You asked into his mouth as he kissed you like he would genuinely die without your touch. He only grunted in response, lifting you up. “Frank, I’m sorry,” you murmured, engaging with his kisses now. “Fer what?” He asked, opening the bedroom door. “Screaming. At you,” you said, pulling away from his lips to see him.

And boy was Frank a sight to see. Pupils blown wider than the goddamn rings of Saturn: wide, alert, aroused, following you. His mouth was parted slightly, your mixed saliva making his lips glossy and kissable. Frank’s chest heaved lightly— no doubt ragged from the intensity in which he was moulding his mouth to yours— under his tight black shirt. “‘S fine, baby, I’m not mad,” he said lowly.

You leaned back just before his lips met yours again. “Frankie I want to do therapy.”

After he calmed you down, he showered quickly and then came to bed, not caring about eating or looking through the reports the DSO sent him. The only thing he wanted was to hold you close, kiss you and talk to you. So after talking for hours on end, telling you about the mission and you telling him about your work drama, he finally managed to fall asleep.

You knew your husband had trouble sleeping. He has been like that since you first met him, 22 years ago. But you were always there for him, ready to listen to his traumas, ready to calm him down and comfort him. He wasn't the type of man that liked being seen as vulnerable, but with you, he felt safe, seen.

For a few years now, you noticed with relief that he stopped having nightmares. Some nights, of course, he still would thrash in his sleep or wake abruptly, but it was never as bad as it was before. Not until tonight.

The sound of raindrops falling on the window and Leon's calm breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room. Your eyes were closed and your breath evened out, your mind being in that state between being awake and asleep. Just as you were about to drift into Dreamland, your husband's heartbeat quickened, thumping loudly, almost erratically, against your ear. You thought it was a dream at first, until Leon's breathing quickened, coming out in gasps.

You lifted your head and looked down at him, only to notice he was covered in sweat, his naked chest glistening in the moonlight. His hair stuck to his damp forehead, his brows pulled in a frown, mouth moving without any sound coming out. His hands trembled, his abs constricting as his breathing turned more erratic.

You immediately acted, your hand coming to remove the damp hairs stuck to his forehead, caressing his cheek softly. "Leon, wake up." You whispered, yet it didn't seem to help. He begun to move now, his head thrashing from side to side, his hands gripping the duvet tightly, almost ripping it. "Love, please, wake up. Whatever it is, it's just a dream. Come back to me, please." You said softly, your hands caressing his shoulders comfortingly.

Over the years, you learned there wasn't much you could do to get him out of his nightmares. He always snapped out of them by himself, but you noticed that talking to him gently and caressing his face often helped. Not by much, but it was better than doing nothing.

His hands left the duvet and begun to claw at his neck, his nails leaving red scratches on his skin."Leon, wake up!" You said, this time a bit louder, although it wasn't harsh or cruel, but worried. He never did that before. Trying to hurt himself in his sleep...

Leon stood up abruptly, almost bumping heads with you in the process, looking around with wide eyes, a desperate look in them. When he spotted you sitting next to him, alive and well, his tense shoulders relaxed, his rapid breathing calmed down. He looked at you with so much fear, so much pain in his eyes, it made you want to cry. A tear fell down on his cheek as your arms wrapped around him, bringing him back into present.

"You're here." He whispered relieved into your hair, kissing your forehead, his arms hugging you hard, afraid if he didn't hold you hard enough, you would disappear. Your hands moved up and down his back, your lips kissing his shoulder.

"Of course I am, love. I would never leave you, you know that." You said and felt him trembled slightly. "You are not getting rid of me any time soon, Mr Kennedy." You added jokingly, trying to help him calm down.

You glanced up at him and he forced a smile, his lip quivering slightly. You knew he was trying to hold back, as he always did, trying to look unaffected and strong in front of you. He bit his bottom lip slightly, and your heart broke.

"Oh, Leon." You brought his head to your chest, caressing his head, hands brushing his hair softly as he held you tighter, breathing in your scent to ground himself. You gave him time, letting him bury his head into your shirt, letting his arms wrap tightly around your figure, no matter the fact that he almost crushed your ribs in the process.

"I thought I lost you." He said hoarsely, shuddering at the thought. "God, I thought I had you killed." He backed away from the hug and looked at you, carefully checking for any visible injuries. "You're ok. You're fine." He assured himself and met your eyes. So many emotions were hiding in them: fear, horror, despair, grief. You don't ever remember his dreams being this bad.

"Of course I am fine, darling. The greatest DSO agent, Leon Scott Kennedy, is my husband. How could I ever be not ok?" You asked softly. He cupped your cheeks, cradling them in your hands as if you were the most fragile treasure this world has seen.

"I thought I had you killed." He repeated one more time, still not believing that you were alive and well. "I came from the mission and the front door was opened. When I entered, you sang your usual songs from the kitchen, but when I got there to greet you, you were..." He paused and swallowed, the image of your mutilated body still fresh in his mind. "Transformed. Infected. You were so unrecognizable. It looked so real, love. So real." His voice cracked in the last part and you took his hand in yours, pressing it to your lips.

"I'm here, Leon. Alive and uninjured and as beautiful as ever." You said jokingly, hoping to enlighten the gloomy atmosphere. You kissed the other hand that rested on your cheek, then his forehead, his nose, cheek and finally his lips. He opened his mouth, letting you in, and you straddled his lap, your hands holding the back of his neck, playing with his hair, while his went to your back, pressing you against his chest. His fingers moved along your spine weightlessly while your lips devoured his. At some point, the two of you even forgot how to breathe. Neither of you wanted to stop, too engulfed in each other's lips and touches, yet the need for air fired you to pause.

"I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, my love." He confessed, his forehead pressing to yours, your noses touching.

"And neither will I, Leon. But I want you to know that I love you. So much so that I'm never going to leave your side, no matter the hardships you face." You took his chin into your hand, making him look into your eyes. "You won't have to face anything alone, as long as I am here, you hear me?* He nodded. "Any worries you have, I'm here to listen and calm you down. As for your nightmare, I wont let any virus infect me." He chuckled and you pecked his lips again. "Dreams are the reflection of our fears. Just know that you don't have why to worry about me. I haven't caught a cold in years." You boasted proudly, holding your arm out and showing off your muscles.

Leon kissed your bicep, moving with soft pecks up your shoulder blade, neck and lips. In doing so, his hands went to your back, turning you around and laying you on bed, supporting himself with one arm while the other squeezed your boob, never breaking your lips apart. When he finally backed away, he lay his head on your chest, hips between your legs, arms on your torso. You played with his hair, as you always did, as you knew he loved it. He kissed you in between your breasts, then looked up at you, the moonlight catching the tiredness in his blue eyes. You smiled and touched his nose with your finger, chuckling when he bit it softly.