bambiii!!

You had always been open to him about your past with self harm.

The first time he had asked was after you two had made love. It was only a few months into the relationship, still deep within the honeymoon phase. He can remember it like it was yesterday.

“Not that it’s my place to ask, but…” His voice was low and calm beside you, bodies pressed up against one another. As he speaks, his fingers are tracing the thin lines of scar tissue on your thighs, “I don’t think you picked these up from a BOW, did you?”

“A bad habit.” Your words had been calm and simple, nuzzling your head further into his chest, “Just something I used to do to keep myself grounded.”

He understood all too well. There were so, so many nights where he had turned to a bottle to quiet the ghosts that plagued his mind. The only difference was that you had skipped the bottle and gone right for a blade. He couldn’t blame you for it. Without the booze, he might have ended up doing the same, if not worse.

“It’s been a while, though?”

A nod, “Yeah. Quite a while.”

He had smiled. Soft and serene, thumb tracing circles into the bare skin of your thigh, “Good.”

His heart drops.

He’s against the bathroom door within moments, trying to gauge just how bad it had gotten while he was at work. Had you relapsed? Or were you just trying to calm yourself down? “Y/N?”

A gasp, followed by the sound of something light and metallic dropping to the floor. 

Fuck.

Without even thinking about it, he pivots, planting one firm foot against the floor, the other drawing up into the air. A single kick knocks the door open easily.

His eyes widen.

Blood is never something that’s bothered him, whether it be his own or someone else's. He’s seen enough of it to not think twice. But with the scene before him, for once in his life, the sight of blood makes him feel sick.

You’re sitting on the floor, your legs bare against the cold tile. Beside you is a small kitchen knife, glinting up at him. Your thighs are covered in blood. Crimson is weeping from dozens upon dozens of cuts.

“I’m so sorry, Lee.”

Your voice breaks him out of his shock. It’s small and weak, trembling as you look up at him with tear filled eyes. 

“Oh, darling,” He drops to his knees beside you, arms enveloping you warmly. Now that he’s close, he can smell the metallic scent in the air. He has to push down a wave of nausea. “Hey, hey- You’re okay. I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

There’s sniffles coming from you, arms trembling as they slowly come up to him, holding him back weakly, “I’m sorry-”

“I know.” He shushes you, pulling back to look down at your injuries properly, “Let me get you cleaned up, okay? Then we can talk about it.”

When you nod, head still slow and sluggish, he takes it as permission to stand and grab the first aid kit.

.

.

.

He returns quickly, first aid kit clutched tightly in one hand, a clean towel in the other. For a moment, he just kneels there again, staring at you like he’s trying to piece together something fragile with his bare hands.

“Okay,” he says softly, voice steadier now. Deliberately steadier. “I need you to look at me for a second, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lift reluctantly, still rimmed with red.

His hands hover over your thighs as he speaks again, “I’m going to touch you, okay?”

You swallow hard before you nod again, eyes tracking the movements of his hands. When he sprays some antiseptic onto the wounds, you hiss in pain, lips thinning out.

“Okay. Good.” His hands are careful as he unfolds the towel. “I’m gonna clean you up a little, alright? It might sting.”

“I made a mess,” you whisper instead, unable to look at him anymore.

The words hit him harder than the blood did.

Not I hurt myself.

Not I’m scared.

Just guilt. Shame. Apologizing for existing too loudly.

“Hey.” His tone sharpens just enough to pull your attention back toward him. Not angry. Never angry. “Don’t do that.”

Fresh tears well in your eyes almost instantly. Leon’s expression crumples at the sight of them. He reaches up without thinking, brushing beneath your eye with the side of his thumb before the tears can fall.

“You don’t have to apologize to me for hurting.”

The room goes quiet except for your uneven breathing and the soft clink of supplies being pulled from the kit. He works slowly. Methodically. The same hands that have stitched bullet wounds closed in freezing safehouses now trembling almost imperceptibly while cleaning blood from your skin.

“I tried so hard,” you barely manage to choke out the words, “I was doing so good, Leon.”

“I know.” His voice cracks this time. Tiny. Barely there. “I know you were.”

The confession spills out of you in fragments after that. Stress. The thoughts getting louder again. Feeling trapped inside your own head for weeks. How you told yourself you’d only think about it for a minute before it turned into standing in the kitchen staring at the knife drawer like you were outside your own body.

Leon listens to all of it without interrupting. Not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because he knows what it’s like when the pressure finally bursts out of someone.

When he finally speaks again, it’s quiet.

“You don’t have to say that you’re sorry. Not with me. But,” he winces when he applies pressure to your legs, as if he’s feeling the pain himself too, “I need to know if I can trust you to be alone with knives in the house. I don’t want to go to work tomorrow and come back to…”

He trails off, but you seem to understand what he means.

“I…” The word hangs in the air for a moment before you finish your sentence, “I think I can. Today was just… Too much.”

He finishes wrapping the worst of the cuts before resting his forehead briefly against your knee, eyes shut tight like he’s exhausted down to the bone. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispers.

That lands differently than anger would have. Because underneath the fear, underneath the panic and the training and the careful hands, is something unbearably simple:

He loves you.

And it destroys him to see you in pain like this.

When he holds you again, it’s softer. Like if he squeezes you too tightly, you’ll shatter apart.  For a while, neither of you speaks. The bathroom light hums softly overhead, too bright against tired eyes. Leon keeps one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other gathers discarded gauze and bloodied towels with mechanical precision. Years of cleaning up horrors far worse than this have made the motions automatic.

That almost makes it worse. 

“I need to get you into bed,” he murmurs eventually. “Think you can stand for me?”

You hesitate before nodding weakly. The second he helps you upright, your knees threaten to buckle. Leon catches you instantly, both hands firm on your waist.

“Easy,” he murmurs quietly.

There’s no frustration in his voice. Only fear carefully disguised as patience. You lean heavily against his chest while he walks you out of the bathroom. The apartment feels strangely silent now, the earlier panic replaced with something fragile and exhausted.

Halfway to the bedroom, you whisper, “You should be mad at me.”

He stops immediately. His hands tighten slightly where they’re holding you before he exhales a slow breath through his nose.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, almost painfully, “I watched you bleed on the bathroom floor and the first thing you’re worried about is upsetting me.”

The shame seems to twist sharply in your chest again. “I relapsed.”

“You got hurt.”

“They’re not the same thing.”

His jaw flexes. “No,” he agrees quietly. “But I think you’ve punished yourself enough already.”

With that, he helps you down into bed, following you as you get comfortable. Your body molds against his easily, your head pressing against his shoulder.

Later, long after the tears stop and the apartment falls silent again, Leon lies awake beside you in the dark. One arm is wrapped securely around your waist, your back pressed tightly against his chest like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go for even a second.

Every so often, his thumb brushes absentmindedly against your skin. A quiet reminder.

I’m here.

You drift in and out of exhausted sleep beneath the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and for the first time all day, the noise in your head finally begins to soften.

Not gone.

Maybe it never will be.

But softer.

And when Leon presses a tired kiss against the back of your shoulder sometime past midnight, holding you just a little closer afterward, you realize something equally terrifying and comforting all at once:

You are still here.

And so is he.

You were fuming, your hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles had gone pale as you drove to Leon’s workplace.

Usually, your mornings started perfectly. Your husband always made sure to give you a kiss before leaving, promising to be home early. And before he walked out the door, he always fed Turkey.

Yes, Turkey - your baby German Shepherd, who was incredibly well-behaved and loved the both of you more than anything.

No matter how stressful life got or how urgent an emergency meeting was, the two of you always made time to feed Turkey.

The rule was simple: whoever woke up first fed Turkey.

And it had worked flawlessly… until today.

You were suddenly woken by a soft, pitiful whimper beside the bed.

Groaning, you turned over and looked down. There he was - Turkey, the adorable dog Leon had gotten you for your birthday. But this time, he looked devastated. Betrayed, even.

You immediately sat up and pulled him into your lap. “What happened?” you asked, rubbing his head.

Turkey gave you one tragic look, then launched himself off the bed and sprinted out of the room.

Since he wasn’t the type to cry unless something was genuinely wrong, you followed him downstairs in alarm.

He led you straight into the kitchen.

And there, the horrifying truth became clear.

Not only had Leon forgotten to kiss you…

He had forgotten to feed Turkey.

You hadn’t been this angry in a long time.

Still, you took the time to feed your poor, starving German Shepherd, who acted as though he hadn’t eaten in years. Then you grabbed your car keys and stormed out of the house.

“Unbelievable…” you muttered under your breath. “He forgot to feed Turkey.”

The entire drive, you stayed furious, honking at anyone who so much as breathed incorrectly near your car.

When you finally parked, you marched into the building like a woman on a mission.

Your footsteps practically shook the lobby floor as you stomped toward the elevator, tapping your foot impatiently until the doors opened.

Around you, DSO agents whispered nervously.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Doesn’t Mrs. Kennedy have the day off?”

“She looks mad. I’m scared for whoever caused that.”

The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped inside, immediately pressing the button for the floor where Leon’s meeting was being held.

You were so focused on your rage that you barely noticed the four people already inside with you.

Since everyone was headed to the floors above, the ride took a while. You stood there in complete silence, staring straight ahead like vengeance itself.

“Is she okay?” Chris whispered, leaning down so only the three others could hear him.

It had been a while since he’d seen you this angry, and frankly, he valued his safety.

“I don’t think she’s okay,” Rebecca whispered back, subtly scooting farther away from you.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen her this mad,” Jill murmured, sneaking glances in your direction while pretending not to.

“I’m betting this is because of Leon,” Sheva said, leaning casually against the wall as she studied your expression.

“How are you so sure?” Chris asked.

“And how much?” Jill added immediately.

“A hundred dollars,” Sheva replied. “She’s too quiet. Usually when she’s mad, she's quite vocal. If she’s silent, it’s serious. That means it's Leon.”

Jill shook her hand. “I say it’s something else.”

“Shouldn’t we have gotten off at floor twenty-eight?” Chris asked suddenly, staring at the panel.

They were already at thirty-four.

Getting closer, Rebecca pointed at the two women, now deeply invested in their wager.

“We should follow them,” she whispered. “In case something goes wrong. Also… I want to know why she’s mad.”

Without a word, Chris nodded and slowly pulled out his phone to text Leon. 'Hey, did you do something wrong this morning?'

The second he sent the text, the elevator doors opened. You marched out and stomped straight toward the meeting room.

The four agents followed silently behind you like nosy backup dancers.

They watched as you reached the door - and kicked it open so hard it nearly made them all wince.

Everyone inside the meeting room jumped and turned toward the entrance.

There you stood.

In your pajamas.

With house slippers on.

“Mrs. Kennedy,” one of the higher-ups said carefully, “I thought we gave you the day off?”

You ignored him completely and marched forward until you stood directly in front of your husband.

“Leon Scott Kennedy!”

The sheer fury in your voice silenced the entire room.

Leon’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“Forgetting my morning kiss was your first mistake,” you said, pointing at him while placing your other hand on your hip. “But I could’ve overlooked that.”

The room remained deathly still.

“But forgetting to feed our child?” you continued. “That is unforgivable!”

Everyone gasped.

Except Leon, who leaned back in his chair like a man accepting his fate.

“They have a child?” Rebecca whispered.

Sheva silently held out her hand toward Jill.

With a sigh, Jill slapped the money into it.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Sheva smirked.

“B-baby, I really didn’t mean to,” Leon stammered.

You cut him off immediately.

“You forgot to give Turkey his food! How heartless can you be?”

Now the room looked deeply confused.

Besides you and Leon.

“Their child is called Turkey?” Chris asked, horrified.

No one answered him.

“You and I made a rule,” you continued. “Whoever gets up first feeds Turkey! Our little German Shepherd was practically crying!”

A chorus of relieved “Ohhhhhh” filled the room.

Everything made sense now.

“Maybe we should leave,” a higher-up muttered, already backing toward the door.

The rest quickly followed.

As the four agents turned to leave, Leon looked at them with the most desperate expression imaginable.

“Your fault,” Sheva said flatly before walking out.

The others followed.

“Traitors,” Leon muttered.

“Are you even listening?!” you snapped.