zelink canon

Leon's hands are shaking like a fucking leaf. That's the first thing you notice when he walks through the door two weeks late, duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he's just returning from basic training instead of whatever classified hellhole they'd sent him to this time. His grip is steady when he pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs protest, his palms dry and warm against the back of your neck. But his eyes, those damn blue eyes, keep flickering to every shadow in your apartment's hallway like something might lunge at him from behind the coat rack.

"Missed you, sweetie," he croons, exhausted, into your hair, and you can feel the way his chest hitches just once before he locks it down. He smells like airplane seats and gun oil, the familiar scent undercut by something acrid you can't place. Sweat, maybe, but not the kind from a gym. The kind that comes from running like your life depends on it.

You make him shower while you order his favorite takeout, extra spicy, the kind that makes his nose go pink and scrunch up like a little bunny, and when he emerges in sweatpants with his hair damp, you pretend not to notice how he checks the locks on the windows twice. The apartment feels smaller with him in it, like the walls are holding their breath.

Dinner is quiet in a way that makes your fork clink too loudly against your plate. Leon eats methodically, nodding when you tell him about your coworker's new puppy, humming when you mention the leaky faucet you finally fixed. But his knee jitters under the table, and when a car backfires outside, his chopsticks freeze halfway to his mouth for three whole seconds before he forces a smile and asks if you've been watering his little succulent on the bedroom’s windowsill. You’d gotten it for him as a gag gift last year for Valentine’s day. 

___

The nightmares start on the third night. You wake to the sound of thrashing sheets and Leon's choked-off gasp, his body coiled tight as a spring in the dark. When you reach for him, his hand snaps out faster than you can blink, your wrist caught in a grip that'll leave bruises tomorrow. For one terrible second, his eyes are wild and unseeing, his other hand already halfway to where his sidearm should be on the nightstand (if you hadn't quietly moved it to the hall closet two days ago). Then he blinks, and his entire body recoils like he's been burned. "Jesus- fuck- " He releases you so fast you hear his shoulder pop. You’re sure his neck has whiplash.

You don't say anything when he spends the rest of the night on the couch. Don't mention the muffled clink of glass against glass at 3 am, or how his coffee smells suspiciously like whiskey the next morning. Instead, you slide the aspirin across the breakfast counter along with his favorite mug, the stupid one with "World's Okayest Husband" in peeling letters, and let your fingers linger against his just a second too long. His knuckles are split. You don't ask.

By the time week two of the bed divorce rolls around, the circles under his eyes could pass for fucking bruises. You catch him staring at your shared bed like it's wired with explosives, his hands flexing at his sides. When you finally snap during a particularly infuriating argument about whether he's "just tired" or "coming down with something," your voice cracks in a way that makes him flinch. "Leon S. Kennedy," you say, gripping his face between your palms, thumbs pressing into those ridiculous cheekbones, "you wrecked our coffee table last night trying to strangle a pillow. This isn't just a fucking cold, you can’t just shake this off."

His breath hitches, a wet, ugly sound, and suddenly he's folding into you like a marionette with its strings cut, forehead pressed to your collarbone. "I keep seeing it," he rasps, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to hurt. "Not just Spain. All of it. Every goddamn…" He cuts himself off with a shudder, and you realize with dawning horror that he's not just talking about missions. The way his shoulders tense tells you he's back there, in Raccoon City, where he was barely more than a kid with a handgun and a dead partner trying to save the world.

You maneuver him onto the couch, his body stiff and uncooperative until you straddle his lap, deliberately pressing your softness against him. "Look at me," you croon, carding your fingers through his hair, the way he likes, just shy of too rough, until his gaze focuses blearily on your face. "What color are my eyes, honey?"

"_____" Leon rasps, his voice scraped raw from too many nights of stifled screams. His fingers twitch against your hips, like he's afraid to hold on but terrified to let go. “What color is the couch?” you ask him. “Uh- it’s- blue, blue like the ocean,” Leon rasps out. “Perfect. What things can you smell right now?” you croon gently, urging him to ground himself. 

 You don't move when his hands finally slide around your waist after going through all the grounding techniques your therapist taught you so long ago, his thumbs pressing into the softness there with a reverence that makes your throat tight. "Leon," you start, but he shakes his head against you, his nose dragging along the curve of your neck.

"Don't," he mutters, and you can feel the heat of his blush against your skin. "I know what you're gonna say. That I shouldn't- that you're too much," His grip tightens almost imperceptibly. "Fuck, sweetheart, you gotta know I love this. Love you. All of you." His voice cracks on the last word, and you realize with a jolt that he's not just talking about your body, he's talking about you, about the way you're still here despite the bruises and the broken furniture and the bourbon-breath mornings.

The next morning, you wake to the unfamiliar weight of Leon's arm slung over your waist, his face buried in the mess of your curls. For one disorienting second, you think you're dreaming, then his fingers flex against your stomach, and you feel the dampness where his eyelashes have stuck to the back of your neck. "You cried?" you ask, without thinking, and immediately want to kick yourself.

Leon doesn't tense like you expect. Instead, his exhale ghosts warm across your shoulder blade, his fingers splaying wider against your stomach like he's mapping the terrain. "Yeah," he admits, voice thick with something that isn't shame. "Dreamt you were gone. Woke up and found you all curled up right here, all...warm." His palm slides up to rest over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your sleepshirt. "Felt like a fuckin’ idiot."

You twist carefully in his hold until you're facing him, his arm still hooked low around your back. His eyes are puffy, the blue almost gray in the morning light filtering through your terrible curtains. There's stubble smudged along his jaw, darker than his sleep-mussed hair. Beautiful, even like this, especially like this, when he's too exhausted to hide. "You're not an idiot, you’re my husband," you say, brushing your knuckles along his cheekbone. He leans into the touch like a cat, eyelids fluttering.

The fridge hums in the kitchen. A car honks three stories down. Leon's breathing evens out against your palm.

You wait until he's halfway through his third cup of coffee, properly caffeinated, not the whiskey-laced sludge from last week, before broaching the subject. "So," you start, tracing the rim of your own mug, "Dr. Chen called in my refill yesterday." Leon makes a noncommittal noise around his toast, but his shoulders stiffen just enough that you notice. You press on before you lose your nerve. "She, uh. Asked if you'd thought about maybe...talking to someone. Or trying something."

Leon's chewing slows. He sets the toast down with exaggerated care, like it's made of glass. "Something," he repeats flatly, and you can see the exact moment his brain catches up. his nostrils flare, his fingers twitching toward his coffee like he needs the burn. "You mean pills."

"Not just pills," you say quickly, reaching across the table to curl your fingers around his wrist. His pulse thrums wild under your fingertips. "Therapy. Sleep aids. Whatever helps." You squeeze gently, thumb brushing the jagged scar along his inner arm, a souvenir from Spain he still won't explain. "It helped me, remember?”

"Yeah." He cuts you off with a jerky nod, jaw working. You can practically see the memories flickering behind his eyes, your own bad nights, the panic attacks that used to leave you gasping on the bathroom floor. His thumb strokes your knuckles absently, like he's reassuring himself you're still here. "Just...not yet, okay?" His voice drops to something raw and private, his free hand rubbing at his sternum like it aches. "Need to…I gotta get my head straight first."

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper. The Leon Kennedy Special: later, not now, I'll handle it. But the way his shoulders hunch tells you this isn't macho bullshit, he's genuinely afraid. Of what, you're not sure. Losing control, maybe. Or worse: admitting he needs control in the first place.

So you pivot. "Okay," you murmur, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. "But will you at least let me hold you while you sleep tonight? Properly? No couch, no- " You gesture vaguely toward the hall closet where his gun lives now. His cheeks flush pink.

Leon exhales through his nose, long and slow. His fingers twist to lace through yours, squeezing tight. "Yeah," he mutters, ducking his head so his bangs shadow his face. "Might- might elbow you or some shit, though."

You grin, squeezing back. "I'll survive. Used to sharing a bed with a human tornado." You don't mention the three times you've woken up wedged against the wall because he starfishes in his sleep. Or the morning he had practically smothered you with his biceps curled around you. You wouldn’t trade Leon cuddles for the world.

"You know I'm not just your wife, right?" The words slip out while you're scraping congealed takeout into the trash, Leon's silhouette hunched over the sink as he scrubs at a pan with military precision. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, the way they do when he's caught off guard by tenderness. You bump your hip against his, sending soap suds sloshing over his wrists. "I'm also the idiot who watched you eat an entire jalapeño on a dare and then held your hair back while you puked in a Denny's parking lot. Best friends remember these things, baby."

Leon's snort is muffled by the running water, but you catch the way his knuckles whiten around the sponge. "That was one time," he grumbles, embarrassed, but there's a warmth under the grumble that wasn't there yesterday. You press your advantage, sidling closer until your arm brushes his, your hip nudging his thigh.

"And who else would've put up with your 'experimental phase' where you tried to grow a mustache?" You flick a soap bubble at his nose, grinning when he wrinkles it instinctively. "Face it, babe. You're stuck with me. Elbows, nightmares, questionable facial hair choices, the whole package."

The pan clatters into the drying rack. Leon turns abruptly, water dripping from his wrists onto your socks as he cages you against the counter. His eyes dart over your face like he's searching for something, doubt, maybe, or pity. What he finds makes his breath stutter. "Even when I'm like this?" he asks, voice scraped raw. His thumb brushes the fading bruise on your wrist, feather-light.

You catch his thumb between your fingers before he can pull away, pressing his palm flat against your sternum where your heartbeat thrums wild and steady. "Especially when you're like this," you say, and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. "Remember sophomore year? When I'd make you check my dorm door lock fourteen times before I could sleep?" Leon's mouth twitches at the memory, how you'd curl into his side like a spooked animal, whispering “one more time, please” until he'd sigh dramatically and rattle the handle again just to watch you relax.

His forehead drops to yours with a quiet thunk. "You weren't crazy," he mumbles, breath warm against your lips. "Just scared, sweetie. I knew that."

"And you're not crazy either," you whisper back, digging your nails lightly into his wrist when he tries to turn away. "You're just scared too, Leon. There's a difference." His pulse jumps under your fingertips, rabbit-quick and fragile, and for a dizzying second, you're both twenty again, tangled in twin dorm beds with the lights on because the dark felt like dying.

Leon makes a wounded noise low in his throat, his free hand fisting in the back of your sleepshirt. "Not the same," he grits out, but he's trembling now, his knees bumping yours like he's subconsciously trying to steady himself. "You didn't- " He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, his nose brushing yours.

You kiss him on the nose, just a quick press of your lips to the bridge where his freckles hide, and cradle his face before he can finish that sentence. His stubble rasps against your palms, the warmth of his flush bleeding into your skin. "It is the same," you say, firm enough to make his eyelashes flicker. "Different monsters under the bed, same scared kids trying to outrun them." Leon's breath hitches, his throat working under your thumbs. You can see the protest forming behind his teeth, but I should be stronger, but I was trained for this, so you dig your fingers into his hair and tilt his head back until the kitchen light washes out the shadows under his eyes. "Listen to me, you beautiful disaster. Fear doesn't care about rank or training. It just is."

Leon's grip on your shirt tightens, his knuckles pressing into the small of your back. For a heart-stopping second, you think he's going to shake you off, then his shoulders slump, his forehead thudding against yours again with a wet exhale. "Fuck," he mutters, voice cracking around the edges. "When did you get so smart?" His attempt at levity falls flat when his breath hitches on the last word, his nose bumping yours in a way that's more nuzzle than accident.

You hum, tracing the shell of his ear with your pinky. "Since I married an idiot who thinks PTSD has a fucking badge requirement." The jab lands softer than you intended, your thumb swiping away the dampness at his temple before he can flinch from it. Leon huffs a laugh that's mostly air, his fingers flexing against your spine like he's counting vertebrae to steady himself.

The refrigerator clicks on with a buzz, flooding the kitchen with its arrhythmic hum. Leon's breath evens out by degrees, his chest rising and falling against yours in something almost like sync. You don't mention the way his pulse still rabbits under your fingertips, or how his left knee keeps twitching against yours, tiny tremors he can't control. Instead, you slide your hands down to his shoulders, squeezing the knotted muscle there until he groans. "C'mon, baby," you murmur, nudging him toward the hallway. "Let's get you horizontal before you pass out on my nice, clean floor."

Leon lets you steer him toward the bedroom with the pliant exhaustion of a man who's forgotten how to rest. His gait is all wrong, that trained, precise stride gone loose and uneven, like his knees might buckle if he thinks too hard about walking. You pretend not to notice when he pauses at the threshold, his fingers brushing the doorframe like he's checking for tripwires.

The sheets are cool when you guide him down, smelling faintly of lavender from the detergent you switched to last month, something soft and uncomplicated, nothing like the antiseptic sting of government-issue soap. You’d hoped it would give Leon some sort of comfort. Leon inhales sharply when his back hits the mattress, his spine rigid for three heartbeats before he sinks into the pillows. "S'nice," he mumbles into the fabric, already slurring. You press a palm between his shoulder blades, feeling the knots there unravel under your touch.

"Still with me, Lee?" you coo, working your thumbs along the ridge of his trapezius. Leon grunts something unintelligible, his face half-buried in your oversized duvet. His hair fans out against the pillowcase, golden under the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. You count the freckles along his hairline, one, two, three, faint as pencil marks, until his breathing deepens.

It happens slowly: the tension bleeding from his shoulders, his fingers uncurling from their fists. You watch the moment sleep takes him, his eyelashes fluttering once, twice, before settling against his cheeks. The shadows under his eyes look softer like this, less like bruises and more like smudged charcoal. Beautiful, even in exhaustion.

___

Leon's scream wakes you at 3:17 AM, not the usual choked gasp, but a full-bodied scream that sends your heart jackhammering against your ribs. You're moving before you're fully awake, your body remembering these nocturnal emergencies better than your brain. His thrashing limbs catch you in the sternum as you reach for him, knocking the air from your lungs in a wheeze. "Leon- baby- "

His forearm catches you across the throat as he bucks upright, instinctive, panicked, and for one dizzying second, the room tilts sideways. You claw at his wrist, gasping around the pressure, and the sound snaps him back like a rubber band. Leon recoils so fast he nearly tumbles off the mattress, his back hitting the headboard with a dull thud. "Jesus- fuck- " His hands flutter around your face, trembling now, fingertips ghosting over the tender skin of your neck without touching. "Did I?"

You catch his wrists before he can spiral, pressing his palms flat against your collarbones where he can feel your pulse hammering. "I'm okay," you rasp, swallowing around the ache. His breath hitches wetly, eyes darting between your throat and his own hands like they might morph into weapons. "See? Still breathing." You force a grin, nudging his knee with yours. "Though if you wanted me to stop snoring, there are nicer ways to ask."

Leon makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His whole body shakes, not the controlled tremors from earlier, but full-body quakes that rattle his teeth. "Dreamt you were- " He cuts himself off with a violent shudder, fingers flexing against your skin. "They had you on a fucking table, and I was too late- "

You hitch forward onto your knees, bracketing his thighs with yours, and press your lips to the crown of his head. His hair smells like sweat and lavender, the scent gone sharp with panic. "I'm right here," you coo against his scalp, carding your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. "Not a scratch on me. Well." You tilt his chin up with your thumb, guiding his gaze to the faint red mark blooming across your throat. "Maybe one scratch."

Leon's fingers hover over the mark on your throat, barely touching, just the ghost of his calloused fingertips tracing the edges like he's afraid you'll dissolve under his hands. His breath comes in short, jagged bursts, and you can see the exact moment his brain catches up with his body: pupils dilating, throat working as he swallows hard enough to hurt. "Fuck," he rasps, voice shredded. "Fuck, I’m so sorry- I didn’t-”.

You catch his hand before he can pull away, pressing his palm flat against the side of your neck where your pulse thrums steady and alive. "Count with me, yeah? Like before but a little different," you murmur, matching your breathing to the slow rise and fall of his chest. "One, two- that's it, sweetheart- three..." His fingers twitch against your skin, but he follows your lead, inhaling sharply through his nose on four. By seven, his shoulders start to loosen; by ten, his forehead drops to yours with a shuddering exhale.

The clock on the nightstand ticks loudly in the quiet. Somewhere outside, a dog barks. Leon's knee jostles against yours, unintentional, just another tremor he can't control, but he doesn't flinch away this time. "They used to make us do this in training," he mutters against your lips, breath warm and damp. "Box breathing. For- for panic. Didn't think it actually worked." His thumb brushes your jaw, tentative. "Guess I was wrong."

"You're wrong a lot," you tease lightly, bumping his nose with yours. The joke lands softly, and Leon huffs something that might be a laugh if it weren't so wrecked. His fingers trail down to your collarbone, tracing the dip there like he's memorizing it.

His fingers linger at the hollow of your throat, pressing just enough to feel your pulse jump. "Still alive," you whisper, and Leon makes a noise like he's been gutted, his forehead pressing harder against yours. You can taste the salt of his sweat, feel the uneven stutter of his breathing as it syncs with yours. The room smells like laundry soap and fear, the sheets tangled around your ankles where he'd kicked them off in his thrashing.

Outside, a car alarm starts wailing three floors down. Leon's shoulders tense automatically, his head snapping toward the window before he catches himself. You see the exact moment he forces his muscles to unlock, the way his jaw works, the deliberate exhale through his nose. His fingers flex against your collarbone, grounding himself in your warmth. "Sorry," he mutters, thumb brushing the spot where his forearm had caught your throat. "Didn't mean to- "

"You didn't," you interrupt, catching his wrist before he can retreat. His skin is clammy under your fingers, the scars along his knuckles stark in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. You press his palm back to your chest, over your heart. "See? Still beating. Still all yours."

Leon's breath hitches. His fingers curl slightly, not quite gripping, just resting there like he's afraid you'll vanish if he holds on too tight. The dog outside barks again, and this time he doesn't flinch. Progress.

The morning light paints Leon's bruises in shades of honey when you wake, his eyelashes casting shadows down his cheeks, his split knuckles glowing pink where they rest against your hip. He's curled around you like a question mark, his knees tucked behind yours, his breath warm and even against the nape of your neck. You count the freckles on his forearm where it's slung over your waist, each one a tiny victory.

The first thing you notice is the light, real morning light, not the pale predawn gray that usually accompanies Leon's gasping wake-ups. It slants across the rumpled sheets in warm stripes, catching the dust motes drifting lazily above Leon's sleeping form. His face is slack for once, the perpetual tension between his brows smoothed away. You count his breaths, slow, even, against your collarbone where his nose is tucked.

Six hours and twenty-three minutes. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks the proof at you in smug red numbers.

Leon stirs when you shift to face him, his nose wrinkling adorably as he gropes blindly for your waist. "Mmph, baby?" His voice is thick with sleep, the arm slung over your hips tightening possessively. "S'early."

"It's nine-thirty," you whisper, barely containing your grin. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, no dark circles today, and you can't help yourself. You press your lips to the delicate skin beneath his left eye, then the right, then the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. Leon makes a noise halfway between a groan and a purr, his hand flexing against the softness of your hip.

"Sweetheart," he grumbles, but there's no heat in it, just sleepy bewilderment as you kiss the bridge of his nose, the apple of each cheek, the stubborn set of his jaw. His stubble rasps against your lips, warm with sleep and sunlight. "What're you- "

"Six hours," you interrupt, cupping his face between your palms. His eyes blink open, clearer than you've seen them in weeks, the blue almost vibrant against the white sheets. "You slept for six whole hours, Leon. No nightmares. No waking up screaming." Your thumbs brush the hollows beneath his eyes, marveling at the lack of shadows. "I'm so fucking proud of you."

Leon's breath catches. His fingers dig into your waist, flexing like he's checking you're real. "That's- " His voice cracks. He clears his throat, but when he speaks again, it's still rough. "That's not...it's just sleep."

You kiss his forehead, lingering there until you feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. "It's everything," you murmur against his skin. His pulse jumps under your lips. "You're healing, baby. Let me be proud of you."

His hands slide up your back, pressing you closer until there's no space left between you. The morning light catches in his hair, turning the strands gold where they fan across the pillow. You kiss each eyelid, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Leon exhales shakily when you reach his scarred knuckles, pressing your lips to each ridge of damaged skin.

"Stop," he mutters, but his fingers curl around yours instead of pushing you away. His cheeks are pink. "It's not- I didn't do anything."

"You survived," you say simply, resting your forehead against his. His breath fans across your lips, warm and familiar. "That's always worth celebrating."

Leon's fingers trace idle patterns on your bare shoulder, following the curve of your collarbone like he's mapping new territory. The morning light turns his eyelashes to gold filaments when he blinks, his expression unreadable. "Been thinking," he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. His thumb brushes the dip above your clavicle. "About Dr. Chen, about what you said."

Your breath catches mid-exhale. Not because it's unexpected, but because Leon said it first, without prompting, without that defensive set to his jaw. You school your face carefully neutral, resisting the urge to squeeze him in triumph. "Yeah?" you prompt softly, threading your fingers through the hair at his nape. His pulse jumps under your fingertips.

Leon's exhale ghosts across your lips. "Not- not right this second," he clarifies, brows knitting together. His fingers flex against your skin, warm and slightly damp. "But maybe. Eventually." The admission comes out halting, each word measured like he's testing their weight. "If you think it'd help, like it helped you."

You press your forehead to his, swallowing the lump in your throat. His lashes flutter against your cheeks, his breath uneven. "I think you're already helping yourself, but when you’re ready, maybe some meds will help you too," you murmur. The truth of it blooms in your chest, the way he let you hold him last night without tensing, how he counted breaths with you instead of locking himself in the shower.

Leon's fingers twitch against your waistband, his thumb tracing the stretch marks there with a reverence that still makes your stomach flip. "You’re the best wife, y’know that, right?" he croons into the space between your shoulder blades, the words slurred with sleep but weighted with something deeper. You feel his lips press against the knob of your spine, lingering like he's trying to imprint the shape of you into his skin. The morning light catches on the silvered scar along his bicep as he tightens his hold, pulling you flush against him with a quiet sigh.

You turn in his arms, slow, giving him time to adjust, and find his eyes already fixed on you. There's a rawness there you haven't seen since college, when he'd show up at your dorm at 3 am still smelling of cordite and sweat, shaking too hard to light his own cigarette. His throat works as he swallows, his gaze darting between your eyes and mouth like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he blinks. "Hey," you whisper, brushing his bangs back where they've stuck to his forehead. His hair is damp at the temples, the scent of lavender and salt clinging to him.

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against the small of your back. "Hey yourself," he rasps, voice scraped raw from disuse. His thumb finds the dimple above your hip, rubbing circles there like he's soothing himself as much as you. The sunlight catches the stubble along his jaw, turning the blond strands amber where they press into your palm. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he struggles with the next words, his pulse jumping under your fingertips.

"Remember our vows?" you murmur when the silence stretches too long. Leon blinks, his eyelashes casting spidery shadows across his cheekbones. You trace the shell of his ear with your pinky, feeling him shiver. "The 'for better or worse' part? This is exactly what that meant, Leon."

His breath stutters against your collarbone. "Thought that was about- I dunno. Dirty dishes. Mortgage payments. Watering plants." His attempt at humor falls flat when his voice cracks on the last word. His fingers tighten convulsively around your waistband, knuckles pressing into soft flesh like he's reassuring himself you're solid.

You press your palm over his racing heart. "Nope. This right here? The midnight wake-up calls, the bad days when you can't look at yourself in the mirror- " Leon flinches, but you barrel on, digging your nails lightly into his chest-  "That's the 'worse' we signed up for, sweetheart. And I'd do it again. Every damn time."

Leon makes a wounded noise low in his throat, his forehead dropping to your sternum. His hair tickles your chin, smelling faintly of sweat and the cheap shampoo he insists is "just as good" as your fancy stuff. You feel his lips move against your skin before the sound comes: "You deserve better."

"Bullshit," you say, and the word cracks through the quiet bedroom like a gunshot. Leon flinches, actually flinches, but you grab his face before he can pull away, forcing him to look at you. His eyelashes are damp, clumped together in spikes that make your chest ache. "There is no better, Leon. There's just you, the same idiot who proposed to me in a diner bathroom because he couldn't wait one more second." His breath hitches when you swipe your thumbs under his eyes, catching the moisture there. "The same man who practically cried when I first told you I loved you, sweetheart.'"

Leon makes a wounded noise, his fingers flexing against your waist. "That's- that's different," he mutters, but there's no conviction in it. His pulse jumps under your fingertips, rapid and fragile.

You press your forehead to his, close enough that your bangs tangle together. "It's not," you insist, voice dropping to a whisper. "That's the whole point, baby. You don't get to cherry-pick which parts of you I love. It's all you, the nightmares and the dumb diner proposals, the panic attacks and the way you sing off-key in the shower."

His laugh is wet and broken, puffing against your lips. "Fuckin' hypocrite," he rasps. "You hate when I sing."

Leon's laugh dissolves into something ragged against your collarbone, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your sleep shirt. You feel the exact moment his breathing hitches, not from panic this time, but something quieter, more vulnerable. His nose presses into the hollow of your throat, damp and warm. "You're a terrible liar though," he murmurs, voice thick. "I know deep down you love my singing."

You snort, threading your fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. The morning light catches the silver strands at his temples, the ones he pretends not to notice. "I love you, Leon," you correct, squeezing the nape of his neck. "There's a difference."

His breath ghosts across your skin in a shaky exhale. For a long moment, he doesn't speak, just holds onto you like you're the only solid thing in a world that's spent years trying to shake him apart. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed but clear, the blue nearly translucent in the sunlight. "Six hours," he repeats, like he's testing the shape of the words. His thumb brushes the curve of your hip, tentative. "That's... something, right?"

I've had a post like this in my drafts for over a week now, ever since I saw the scene for the first time, but I've had to rewrite this post numerous times to try to reign in a lot of my feelings. And I want to make it clear before I get into all of this that this post is not intended to shame or scold anyone, rather it's intended to be an analysis of the scene.

Admittedly, I was taken by surprise by a lot of the reactions to this scene. From the moment the scene leaked, it made me immediately uncomfortable, because that is what the scene was intended to do. RE is a survival horror series, so seeing Leon get taken out so quickly and then assaulted by the villain had my skin crawling. That said, it seems this did not have the same effect for a number of people and I've seen a variety of reactions to this scene ranging from people saying they wish they were Viktor to people arguing Leon "must've liked it" because he "didn't immediately fight back," which was a bit unsettling to me, because although I think anyone with eyes can agree Leon's a very attractive character, I don't find pleasure in watching him be assaulted. I don't wish I was the one doing that assault.

But I also don't think that people are saying this with malicious intent, rather I think a lot of people's understanding of what sexual assault is is limited to rape and other more "obvious," forms. Sexual assault is an umbrella term for a variety of non-consensual encounters, but all of it hinges on the non-consensual sexualized contact or behavior meant to assert power through bodily violation, which is what happened in this scene. But I think a lot of the confusion here is because it isn't as blatantly obvious as it's often portrayed in media-- Viktor wasn't groping Leon's ass, he wasn't talking about wanting to have sex with Leon, he didn't fully undress Leon, but the way he touches Leon communicates a possesive and somewhat sexual intent.

You have to understand some background info about Viktor to fully understand why this scene was as creepy as it is. Viktor's a doctor who's been working with Umbrella, and he's been essentially trafficking people at that Care Center and doing illegal and unethical experiments on them. He is, for lack of a better term, a very sick and twisted individual. But he's also a stalker, and he has an obsession with watching people. Right off the bat we're made aware of this in the game, as he decides to toy with Grace in the Wrenwood Hotel by luring her to a room where pictures of her-- including her as a minor-- are spread out on the bed. Viktor had been stalking Grace (and Alyssa), taking pictures of her and as we later learn, collecting her DNA for years.

And similarly, he seems to have some sort of vested interest in Leon even outside of Leon potentially interfering with his plan for Grace. Viktor's still a freak with the cameras, and he's been watching Leon through the camera from the moment Leon arrived. And as soon as he's able to, he immediately separates Leon from Grace and moves in on Leon. He corners Leon in the hall and tells him it's "so nice to finally meet him," before he grabs Leon by the throat and proceeds to choke Leon unconscious while whispering in Leon's ear, before mockingly telling Leon to shush.

While Leon is unconscious (for several hours, mind you) Viktor searches Leon for weapons and takes off Leon's coat. And we don't know the exact details of what happened since it obviously isn't shown, but a stalker who already has some fucked up fascination with Leon knocking him out and then taking some of his clothes off to strip him of his weapons is creepy as hell. He also goes through the effort of setting up a nice neat little torture center for Leon-- note the staged light, the plastic tarp in the background, all the tools set up on the cart, etc.

When Leon first comes too, he's a little snarky. He's staring Viktor down and makes a smart-ass comment about hoping it's the silent treatment, and Viktor seems to revel in that because Leon isn't outwardly displaying any sort of fear towards him, and that's what Viktor wants, he wants to "put Leon in his place," and make him afraid. But I also find it quite telling the way he asks if Leon came here for him or for Grace-- the voice actor did an amazing job here because the way the line is deliveried implies that Viktor feels a little... jealous at the prospect that Leon wasn't here for him and him specifically-- so again, its highlighting his weird fascination and fixation on Leon. He also continues that theme of the faux-concern or faux-care, talking gently to Leon like they're lovers having a conversation rather than him being about to assault Leon.

But I also want to highlight the change in Leon's demeanor throughout their interactions. Even when Viktor corners Leon in the hallway, Leon's quite confident. And once Leon comes to and Viktor starts on his creepy ass speech, Leon's glaring Viktor down-- he's not afraid (at least not outwardly expressing that) and he's staring Viktor down with confidence. And Viktor's "...right..." indicates he's frusterated by Leon's lack of fear and the fact that Leon isn't talking to him. He wants to provoke Leon, he wants to make Leon scared, he wants to get a reaction out of Leon and rial him up. But he also knows Leon's a trained agent, so he turns up the creepy factor to get under Leon's skin-- both literally and figuratively.

But as soon as Viktor picks up that scalpel and starts walking where Leon can't see him, shit gets serious, and Leon seems to know at that point that he's in trouble. Its not the first time Leon's been knocked out, tied up, and woken up without his jacket or his weapons (4R), but this isn't just a standard torture and interrogation scene either. Leon grimaces and then lets out a breath, straightening his posture and trying to keep himself still. As a trained agnet, Leon's undoubtely been through "what to do if the enemy tries to torture you for information" training so it's clear he's trying not to give Viktor the reaction he wants, but as we see, Leon's only human.

And that brings us to the most talked about part of this whole sequence: when Viktor brushes Leon’s bangs back and caresses his cheek. That gesture is intimate. It is slow, deliberate, and entirely unnecessary for torture. The combination of a blade in hand, Leon being tied up, and tender mimicry creates a dynamic that mirrors coercive sexual aggression-- he's letting Leon know that he can do whatever he wants to Leon. It's clear that even though Leon's not outwardly freaking out, the gesture still unsettles him. He holds very still, his jaw tightens and he stares off into the distance, refuses to even look at Viktor like he did before.

But I think the most striking part about all this touching is just how unecessary it is and the way Viktor does it. If he wanted to kill Leon, he had more than enough oppertunities to do so, but he doesn't because he wants to fuck with Leon on a psychological level-- the same reason he plants the 'Welcome Leon' sign and the 'you can't save anyone' card later on. He clearly knows Leon and is playing on Leon's percieved weakness or insecurities. So he's not touching Leon rough, he's not just messing with Leon's hair or touching him, he's petting Leon and whispering too him "sweetly" and every gesture is slow and intimate because it makes it that much more unsettling-- especially the way he moves his fingers when he's touching Leon's neck.

And Leon managed to sit through all of this and stay outwardly calm until the creepy ass neck fondle and the way Viktor bent down and put his face near Leon's to whisper in his ear again, because that is when Leon snaps and comments on Viktor's breathe... which pisses Viktor off so he slices the part of Leon's neck he was just fondling.

And once Leon frees himself, he gets to kick Viktor in the balls and in the face, but interestingly enough, Leon seems to kinda flounder here, and I think he was a bit more worked up than he portrayed himself to be. In other words, I think he was scared, but he was hiding it well. Because Leon didn't take Viktor down-- even with the strong kicks, it stunned Viktor, but if Viktor wanted to, he could've easily grabbed Leon again because Leon stumbles backward with his hand over his neck and crashes into the card, leaning over it trying to grab the gun. And at first I just thought this was because of the cut since he did cut Leon's neck, but upon closer examination, that cut was pretty shallow.

Viktor didn't hit a vein or an artery or cause any sort of major damage where Leon would be stumbling around woozy from blood loss. And we know its not 'cause of the infection since we see Leon stumble around delirious because of that later in the game when it progresses to stage 3. So that leaves either Leon still being a little out of it because he'd been recently choked out or it was more psychological, and I'm leaning toward a bit of both. Having only been conscious for a few moments probably impacted his movements, but blindly turning away from the guy who was just torturing you while he's still conscious and in the room with you is leaving yourself wide open for an attack-- that's a mistake. And I think part of the freak-out was because Leon didn't have any weapons, and he knew he couldn't physically beat Viktor because Viktor is signficiantly taller and stronger than him, so when Leon spots that gun, he desperately lunges for it and crashes into the cart clumsily in the process with his back turned on Viktor. It takes Leon a hot second to turn around again, in which Viktor would've had amble oppertunities to grab him and do whatever.

But it also begs the question, had Leon not gotten away when he did, what else was Viktor planning on doing? He goes from choking Leon out while whispering in his ear to playing with Leon's hair to rubbing Leon's neck and his shoulder, getting more and more bold as he went. So had Leon not freed himself and very pointedly kicked Viktor in the balls, it's quite possible things could've escalated further because the previous details suggest that was probably the direction this was going. If he's willing to play with Leon's hair and touch his cheek and pet his neck and rub Leon's shoulder while smiling and whispering in Leon's ear, I don't think he'd have any qualms about groping Leon or raping him either. It seems like Leon suspected as much too, or at least that feels implied based on his comment about how he's glad Grace got away.