Work Text:
Leon was already in the hallway when Claire woke up.
She hadn’t heard an alarm or any loud sound. It was something far subtler — a change in the air, a faint draft brushing against her skin, the almost imperceptible absence of warmth beside her. The space next to her on the bed felt wrong, hollow in a way her body recognized before her mind caught up.
For a brief moment she lay still, one hand resting instinctively on her belly, fingers splayed protectively as if to reassure herself that at least one constant remained. She listened, breathing slowly, trying to piece together the moment. Trying to figure out what time it was without looking. Trying to decide whether she wanted to know.
The darkness in the room was deep, heavy, the kind that pressed in on the edges of thought. Night still held everything in its grip. Only a thin line of light from the hallway traced itself across the floor, pale and sharp against the carpet, like a boundary drawn between rest and vigilance.
Again.
Claire let out a quiet sigh, more resigned than annoyed.
Leon was checking the door.
She knew that rhythm. That specific sequence of sounds that had become painfully familiar over the past few months. Fingers sliding along the frame. A gentle tug at the lock. A pause. Then again. As if checking once was never enough. As if the simple act of knowing something was locked wasn’t sufficient unless it had been confirmed through touch. As if he needed to feel that everything was exactly where it belonged, that nothing had shifted in the seconds since the last check.
Claire slowly pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her belly was large enough now that every movement demanded awareness. She had learned to negotiate with her own body — to move deliberately, to give herself time. She didn’t rush. She listened.
Leon moved away from the door.
Footsteps, careful and light. He crossed the hallway and stopped near the window. Claire could picture it without seeing him: the way he’d stand slightly to the side, minimizing his silhouette out of habit, the way his hand would hover just before touching the curtain.
He pulled it aside just a little.
Claire knew that motion too. The precise distance. Enough to see, not enough to be seen. He looked out into the night as if he expected something to be looking back. As if darkness itself might blink first.
She waited a few seconds longer, letting him finish the ritual in his own time.
“Leon.” she said quietly.
He stiffened.
Not dramatically. Not like someone startled. More like someone caught doing something they had hoped to do unnoticed. Someone who’d been found out.
“I’m sorry.” he said immediately. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I know.” she replied calmly. Her voice was steady, warm. “Come here.”
He turned slowly.
In the half-light she could see his silhouette — tense, alert, shoulders lifted too high, as if he didn’t know how to lower them anymore. As if his body had forgotten what rest was supposed to feel like. He walked over to the bed but stopped a step too far away, hovering at a safe distance, as though afraid that getting too close might disturb something fragile.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“After three.” he said. “Still a while till morning.”
She nodded. The knowledge settled in quietly. Night wasn’t over yet. There was time.
She pushed the blanket aside and held a hand out to him, palm up.
“Sit.”
He hesitated.
“Claire, I just—”
“Leon.” she interrupted gently, not unkindly. “Sit.”
Something in her tone left no room for argument. Not authority. Trust.
He did.
He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, hands resting on his knees. They were clenched too tightly, fingers curled in on themselves like they were holding something invisible. Claire shifted closer and placed her hand on his shoulder. Beneath her touch, his muscles were rigid, knotted.
“How many times did you check the door tonight?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away. His breathing hitched, just barely.
“I don’t know.” he admitted at last. “Enough.”
“And the windows?”
“Those too.”
“And the hospital bag?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. A reflexive attempt at humor that never quite made it to the surface.
“Twice.”
“Three.” she corrected gently.
He let out a heavy breath, the kind that carried more weight than it should have, and bowed his head.
“I’m sorry.” he said. “I just… I can’t sleep.”
“I know.” she repeated.
She moved so she was sitting directly behind him. Carefully, she shifted her weight and rested her forehead against his back. His body was warm, solid, familiar. She could feel the tension running through him like a live wire.
“Leon.” she said softly. “Come on. Lie down.”
“Claire—”
“Please.”
The word wasn’t desperate. It was simple. Honest.
This time, he listened.
He turned and lay down on his side, facing her. For a moment they just looked at each other in silence. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. His eyes were dark, tired, carrying more than they should have had to. Claire reached for his hands and placed them gently on her belly.
He stiffened instantly.
“Claire, I—”
“Shh.” she said softly. “Feel.”
Something moved beneath his palms. Not violently. Just a slow, deliberate shift. A reminder.
Leon drew in a sharp breath.
“She’s… active.” he whispered.
“She always is at night.” Claire replied with a faint smile. “I think she takes after you.”
He let out a short, nervous laugh. It cracked halfway through and faded quickly.
“I’m scared.” he said suddenly.
There was no hesitation in it. No deflection. No attempt at humor. Just the truth, laid bare.
Claire didn’t answer right away. She slid her hand to the back of his neck and began stroking it slowly, soothingly, letting the motion speak before words did.
“Of what?” she asked quietly.
He closed his eyes.
“That this isn’t a mission.” he said. “There’s no plan I can rehearse. No objective I can complete. This is real. And soon…” his voice wavered. “Soon she’ll be here.”
His hands trembled slightly on her belly.
“And I…” he swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I won’t be a good father.”
Claire lifted herself a little so she could look him in the eyes.
“Why?”
He was silent for a long moment. The kind of silence filled with memories he didn’t like to name.
“Because my parents…” he began, then stopped. Shook his head once. “They weren’t good people. And I’m afraid that… that some of that stayed with me. That you can’t really escape it.”
His voice was quiet. Broken in a way he never showed anyone else.
Claire placed her hand on his cheek.
“Leon.” she said firmly, but gently. “Look at me.”
He did.
“You are not them.” she said. “And do you know how I know?”
He shook his head.
“Because you worry about her before she’s even born. Because you check the doors in the middle of the night. Because you’re afraid you won’t be enough. Bad people don’t worry about those things.”
A tear slid down his cheek before he could stop it.
“I don’t want to hurt her.” he whispered. “Not even without meaning to.”
“You won’t.” Claire said without hesitation. “Because you’ll listen. Because you’ll learn. Because you’ll be here.”
She took his hands and placed them back on her belly.
“She already knows you.” she added. “She knows your touch. Your voice. Your calm — even if you don’t believe you have it.”
Leon closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to her shoulder.
“Stay with me.” he asked softly.
“I am.” she replied. “Always.”
They lay like that for a long time. Leon’s breathing slowed, deepened, gradually syncing with hers. His hands stopped trembling. The tension in his body eased, inch by inch, as if sleep finally found a way past his defenses.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
And Claire lay beside him, keeping watch, a faint smile on her lips and her hand in his hair, knowing their daughter would be born into a place where fear did not rule — not because it didn’t exist, but because it would never be faced alone.