Work Text:
Not many people prefer the night shift, to work far into the early morning and then return home before sunrise. However, you’re just thankful you’re not required to wake any earlier than two in the afternoon. Because if there’s one thing you’re not, it’s a morning person.
So, by the time your vehicle pulls into the driveway, the sky is pitch black and moonless, and the rest of the world is dead asleep. Well, that can be said for almost everyone. From the window at the front of your house, you catch a glimpse of blue light flickering in the otherwise darkness. Where the glow of a late-night news forecast flashes in the glare. Leon’s still up. At this point, you expect him to be. He never seems to sleep anymore.
When you slip your key into the door lock, the hopeless romantic side of you wonders whether his insomnia’s worsened because he’s having difficulties adjusting to your new schedule. Or if his nightmares have just become more consistent. Yet, the sweet, naive part of you asininely hopes it’s the former.
Once inside the split-level house (the cheapest you and Leon could afford), you kick off your shoes before padding into the living room.
Where the low electric buzz of TV static greets your ears, a female reporter stands on screen, discussing the strange and sudden death of the US President. Leon is slumped against the antique sofa, blue light limning his features, a warm can of Hamm’s in hand.
Your footsteps fill the momentary pauses in the news dispatch, but your boyfriend hasn’t so much as shifted; his half-lidded stare focused on the miserable announcement. Yet, you’re not surprised. Despite Leon’s duty to protect and serve, he was the one to shoot the President.
But that had been several weeks ago, and the news continues not to mention any details about zombification. And, instead, reports that the President had passed of a rare, sudden disease.
Rounding the back of the sofa now, you lower yourself beside him, where Leon’s attention finally crosses to you. Even with the beginnings of tan stubble lining his face, he’s as pretty as ever, with his hair tousled and unwashed. But deep-set exhaustion drags his every feature, the flesh beneath his eyes puffy and bruised.
“Some secret agent you are. You barely noticed me come in,” you said, cracking a tired smile. “I think you’re losing your touch in your old age.”
Leon rolls his eyes, but your words draw a deep, raspy chuckle from his throat. “I’m only a year older than you,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your tongue pokes out, spreading your smile. “I’m still in my early twenties. Are you sure you’re not going senile?”
“Jesus, would you just come here already?”
When he opens his arms for you, you crawl forward and slot yourself against his chest. Leon’s always run like a heater, and his warmth seeps through the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He smells like fresh linen and Irish Spring Soap. And it vaguely registers in your brain that nothing has ever felt more like home than him.
Then he buries his face in your hair, mumbling, “I’ve missed you."
You twist your fingers into the thin fabric of his top and jest, "being off duty really must be getting to you.”
“That or you’re poisoning my beer with something.”
Tilting your head up to look at him, you search his face to find something small toying his lips. “What would I be poisoning you with? An aphrodisiac?” You snort, shaking your head.
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea.”
“Oh, my god.” Your shoulders shake underneath the small force of your laughter.
But the combination of yours and his exhaustion soon stifles the conversation. When silence falls around you, it’s not uncomfortable but soft and open, your quiet breaths and the beat of Leon’s heart filling the in-between.
Following the sudden weight dragging your eyelids, the toll of a long shift hits your body, and your feet prickle and ache. But when you feel your head bob forward, you shake back awake, blinking bleary spots from your vision.
“Hey, you should head to bed,” Leon said before sipping from his beer can.
You nod against him, your voice slurring, “you’ll come with?”
His focus trains onto the whispering television then, his brows lowering together. While the reports continue to discuss the grizzly aftermath of the President’s sudden passing, a glimpse of Leon’s face tells you all you need to know. There’s nothing he could have done to prevent the outcome that’s taken place. Leon did everything he needed to return home to you at the end of his mission. But just because you know that doesn’t mean he recognizes it, too.
“Come on,” you said, delicately extracting yourself from his arms. Then, leaning over the glass coffee table, you snatch up the remote and silence the TV. “Let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
“You go on ahead. I should do some paperwork."
There it is, another excuse. If Leon’s not researching current events for anything suspicious, he’s reviewing work files or going for an evening jog. And doing everything in his capability to avoid sleeping. You know why. You know what awaits him in his dreams— decayed corpses, mutilated flesh, and pools of blood. Bloated creatures slick with slime and puss. Dead, milky white eyes. Just the thought of what Leon has witnessed is enough for your stomach to churn with nausea.
It’s not fair how much he’s had to suffer.
You haven’t stood to go to the bedroom yet, so he turns to you with tired, earnest eyes. "It’s okay, promise,” he said, setting his finished beer on the coffee table. But then he’s dragging a rough palm down his cheek, and you know he’s far from alright. That he’s two seconds away from collapsing face-first onto the coffee table.
So, you shake your head, a sudden determination funneling through your brain. When he moves to stand, your hand shoots out to grab his shoulder, and Leon’s face twists in confusion. But you don’t offer an explanation. Not yet, as your fingers shift to the back of his neck, gently guiding his head down onto the dip of your lap.
“(Y/n)— ”
“I don’t want to sleep without you,” you squeeze the words past your lips, a strange, icky tightness cinching your chest. “Please stay here.”
His body immediately goes limp, and his cheek presses against your thigh. He sighs before adjusting himself into a more comfortable position, now on his back with his legs spread across the length of the couch. And then your hand is in his hair, delicate touches brushing back the strands in his eyes.
Leon studies your face, that crease in his forehead easing. “I’m okay, I just…” He groans when the scratch of your fingers along his scalp feels close to godliness.
Mumbling then, you tell him to close his eyes, and he listens, ever compliant to your wishes. “I know,” you whispered. “But I’ll be here if anything happens. I promise.”
You know he’s a grown man, in his middle age, yet that’s never stopped you from coddling him. Leon never asks you to or expresses that he wants it, but he doesn’t protest either. And it’s left unsaid between you that he needs it— that sometimes all he needs is someone else to slip under the boulder of his responsibilities and ease the weight.
He can’t burden himself with the world on his shoulders as much as he thinks he does. Even the indestructible Leon Kennedy needs help, and you’ve always wanted to be the one to provide it.
“Okay,” he pushed out, the word more of a breath than anything else.
With a slouch of your shoulders, you relax into the sofa cushions, your eyes blinking back the insistent urge to fade from consciousness. But watching the steady rise and fall of his chest is hypnotic. You wait in a dizzy haze till you’re sure he’s asleep, as his breathing evens out, before letting your eyes slip shut, too.
All you hope he knows is that nothing can hurt him now.