Chapter Text
You’re running like hell. Your lungs burn, sweat clinging between your skin and the rough fabric of your black tactical gear, chafing with every step. The MG strapped across your lower back bounces slightly with each stride, its weight a familiar comfort. Every corner you turn reveals new threats or rather, the undead. Today, they’re different. More frenzied. But you don’t have time to think about it. A few of them lurch into your path, and you have no choice but to fight. The axe in your hand grows slicker with each swing, the blood making the grip uncomfortable. You’re getting tired of it.
Before rounding the next corner, you pause, just for a second, to catch your breath. You sheathe the axe, then reach to your left hip, fingers brushing the throwing knives in their pouch before drawing your combat knife from its sheath on your right shoulder. The blade feels solid in your stronger hand. Other hand still hovering above the smaller throwing blades, just in case. You peer around the uneven wall. No zombies in sight yet. Normally, they’d be everywhere, not in hordes, but scattered, like they don’t even know what they’re doing. But today, they’re all clustered around something.
Fifteen, maybe more, huddled together. Perfect. A rare chance to slip past without wasting energy on another fight. You press yourself against the wall, moving on light feet. You’re almost halfway past them when you hear it, a low, strained voice, barely audible beneath the groans of the undead. "Damn it… fuck, fuck, fuck…" A grunt. Then a whimper: "I can’t—" For a split second, you think you recognize the voice. But there’s no time to hesitate and think longer about thad. Someone’s in trouble right in front of you, and there have been too many times already when you couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Not this time. No plan. No tactics. Just instinct. You charge into the crowd, knife flashing. One. Two. Three. But then they swarm you, and you lose your grip your knife buried in a zombie’s chest as you’re dragged under. Hands claw at your face. "Duck! Shoot their knees!" a voice shouts.
It’s loud. It’ll hurt your ears. But you don’t hesitate pulling your gun out of the holster. your You fire at the ones within reach, feeling someone rise behind you, joining the fight. The horde thins. A few left. You wrench free, finally getting a look at the man you just saved. It hits you like a jolt. “Leon? Leon S. Kennedy?” He’s coughing, eyes locking onto yours as he finishes off two more zombies. "Well, look who it is…" he mutters, a hint of confusion and maybe relief in his voice. Still a little dazed, you take out the last three with clean headshots. They drop like wet sacks.
You exhale, swapping your half-empty mag for a fresh one on autopilot. Then you turn, scanning Leon from head to toe, checking for injuries. "You hurt?" you ask, voice low but still breathless. "No," he says, but you notice the way he’s favoring his left side. You don’t wait for his answer. "Sit down." He doesn’t argue anymore, simply sliding down the small wall beside you.
He even looks a bit relieved by the break. "Embarrassing, isn’t it? Almost getting killed by the most common threat out there the ones we fight every damn day." You just shake your head, bending down to set your backpack on the ground before pulling out the small red emergency bag. "Bullshit. You should see me half the time, making my own life harder with stupid mistakes like tripping over a rock. But I think it’s pretty common in this line of work. Out here day after day, no proper food, no real sleep… anyone would get weaker. Besides what are you even doing here?"
He clears his throat as you lay out bandages for later and scissors to cut open his sleeve. "I was sent to scout an underground lab. Nothing special, just more of that paperwork bullshit. From the outside, it was supposed to be an very easy mission, no major threats or anything. Nothing big or complicated just easy stuff but I am still able to fuck this up.” he grunts not seeming happy about himself “And you?" You walk over to him, handing him a water bottle, which he takes with a nod of thanks, before kneeling down beside him, shaking your head in disbelief. "Damn it, Leon. Stop talking down about the work you do. You’re a good agent, the best in the DSO. But it’s okay to make mistakes sometimes. And it’s okay to need help, even for you. Got it?"
You lock eyes with him before continuing, scissors in hand. "I’m going to cut your sleeve to get to the wound. Okay?" This time, you see something crack in his crystal-clear blue eyes. He quickly turns his face away, clearing his throat. But you don’t let it slide. Gently, you take his stubbly jaw and turn his face back toward you. His eyes are watery, but not from crying or weakness more from exhaustion. Without hesitating, you pull him into a hug, slowly stroking his back. For a second, he tenses, then he leans into it. You feel some of the tension leave his body. After a moment, you slowly pull away, looking into his eyes again. "You’re okay, Leon. You’re fine. You’re safe. Let’s take care of the wound, and then we’ll go home. Okay?"
You bend down to grab the emergency bag again, carefully cutting open the sleeve of his tactical shirt. The fabric parts, revealing the deep gash on his upper arm, the skin around it already bruising. His muscles are defined, veins visible beneath the skin, and you work with extra care, cleaning the wound gently before applying the bandage. Your fingers brush against his skin, and for a moment, your eyes meet again a silent understanding passing between you. Leon watches you, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his gaze. "Thanks," he mutters, almost under his breath.
After the medic care from you, you both started making your way back to the DSO headquarters, where you’d both spend the night in one of their small, hotel-like rooms for agents to unwind. Before cleaning your gear and tackling the paperwork the next day, you’d get some rest. In the helicopter that picked you up once you were out of the crisis zone, you even made plans to cook dinner together that evening.
Now, washed up and changed into sweats and a big hoodie, you’re waiting in the small kitchen attached to the DSO’s temporary lodging, ready to start cooking. But Leon is still nowhere in sight. You decide to start without him your hunger is enormous. First, you put on some music. The beat of "Dancing With Myself" by Generation X immediately catches your hips, and you dance your way through the kitchen to the refrigerator.
Opening the door, you quickly decide to make a risotto with mushrooms. You pull out the ingredients: Fresh mushrooms White wine Chicken stock Butter Parmesan cheese You set everything on the counter, then make your way dancing over to the cabinet, pulling out a large silver pan. Turning back to the middle countertop, you freeze when you catch sight of someone leaning in the doorway, watching you.
Someone with familiar big, muscled arms and ash-blond, still slightly damp hair. You stop immediately, mid-motion. "How long have you been standing there?"