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When Leon steps over the threshold that evening, he expects it to be just another Tuesday night. He’ll sit down with her, they’ll have dinner, maybe talk about something that happened today at work, and then he’ll crash on her couch, the way he’s done for dozens of nights. They’ll slip into the sort of rhythm they’ve gradually built up over the months, almost familiar, almost comfortable, at the edge of something neither of them has named quite yet.
His plans are soon derailed when he hears something entirely unexpected. A person crying. Not quiet, dignified crying either: this is helpless, broken sobbing. The sound settles like lead in the pit of his stomach.
Leon’s eyes immediately flick around her bedroom. To the mess within it. His gaze comes to rest on the heap of clothing piled up at the open door of her closet. He sees the shirt that’s crumpled on the floor, right beside her bed. He bends over to pick it up: something smart-casual, buttoned up, perhaps for work or a night out. The scent of laundry detergent rises off the fabric: the shirt is clean and unworn.
He carefully dusts it off and folds it on her nightstand.
Then he turns to her.
She’s facedown on her bed, one hand folded beneath her face, the other flung to the side, loosely curled into a fist. He sees the skin of her back, bare beneath the tangle of her hair.
She’s overwhelmed, he assesses. He looks at the shirt he folded on her nightstand, then considers how she’s currently half-dressed while a clean shirt was tossed on the floor, and the way clothes have piled up in front of her closet. Almost like… she gave up getting dressed.
Leon approaches, steps measured and quiet, treading lightly as if moving towards a wounded animal. Her back heaves, her body shudders and shakes, too small and fragile to contain her grief. Each sob is choked from her throat like it’s being squeezed from her lungs. Every breath sucked in emerges as a strangled cry.
Leon carefully lowers himself beside her, hovering at the edge of the bed. The mattress dips. If she wasn’t aware of his presence before, she would surely be aware of it now, and yet, the crying doesn’t stop. Whatever has broken through her usual defences has seized her in a death grip and isn’t ready to relinquish control.
The lead weight that settled in his stomach earlier is now bubbling into something hot and tight in his chest. He’s always hated witnessing pain and suffering, felt it far too deeply, viscerally, seized by the instinctive revulsion of being confronted with something unbearable and not acting. He wants to do something, anything, to ease the burden of her distress.
But what?
He’s never seen her like this before, and something about that makes him cautious, even hesitant. Leon hates himself for hesitating in a moment when someone—not just anyone, but this specific someone—is in pain. The sight and sound of her uncontained, overwhelming distress is not something she’s shown him before. Leon trusts his instincts, and here, those instincts tell him to be gentle. But how?
What should I say?
What should I do?
Leon leans forward. His hand hovers over her back, still in his fingerless gloves from work. He pauses for longer than he’d like. His fingers flex, closing around thin air just above her skin. Should I…?
The sobbing continues. And Leon knows that if she isn’t hiding her crying from him, that her need for comfort and relief probably outweighs even her need for dignity right now.
Leon pulls his hand back. Takes a deep breath to ground himself. His right hand closes in a fist, then releases again. He reaches for the closure on the right side first, slowly undoing it, trying to reduce the volume of the loud rip that sounds from the velcro. He does the right glove first, then the left. He lays them on the nightstand, beside her abandoned shirt. He reaches forward again, letting his fingertips graze her shoulder first, wordlessly seeking permission.
She’s running hot. Her skin feels overheated, faintly pink from the heat and the intensity of her emotions. Leon gently grips her shoulder, trying to steady her with the softest pressure.
For a brief moment, the crying seems to stop. Leon wonders if he startled her, wonders if he should pull back. She draws in a shaky breath and lets out a soft whimper.
She doesn’t stop.
If anything, Leon thinks the crying has intensified. It wasn’t enough. He feels her back rise and fall rapidly as she fights for another breath, every exhale breaking through as another sob. And although she’s the one crying her eyes out, Leon feels her tears land like a mark of failure: the failure of not being enough, of not being the person she needs in a crisis.
Leon doesn’t know what to do. Clearly, more drastic measures are needed.
Leon pauses to regroup before an idea occurs to him. He casts his gaze around the room, looking for her plush: the one he’s seen in her arms so many times before. The plush she cradles in her lap while she works, the same plush she drapes around her neck as she moves around her home, and the very same plush she falls asleep with every night.
He peers over the other side of the bed, scanning the messy floor. He lets out a huff of relief when he sees a furry tail snaking out from beneath her bag. Leaning over the edge, he grabs the plush and dusts it off. It’s well-loved and rumpled, its fur slightly dull and matted from its long service of companionship. “There you are,” he murmurs, patting dust and lint off the old dragon.
Leon knows the plush has a name, but he doesn’t know it yet.
“Little guy got a name?” He’d asked one time, watching her fuss over the plush, grooming it with a slicker brush.
She’d grinned enigmatically. “He’s shy. He’ll tell you when he likes you.” And then grasped a stubby paw to wave at him.
“Hmm. Deeply suspicious.” Leon narrowed his eyes.
“Even a plush must retain his sense of mystery.” She’d given him a solemn nod, as if this all made sense somehow.
Now, Leon reaches for the arm that’s thrown carelessly beside her. He lifts it, feeling her muscles tense in response, her breath hitching suddenly. “It’s OK. You’re OK.” Leon soothes, slipping the plush into her grasp. When she recognises the texture of the fur against her skin, she pulls the dragon into her embrace, tucking it close to her hidden face.
Leon thinks that her crying might have quietened down for the moment.
He begins to move his hand up and down the back of her arm in slow, soothing strokes. He should say something, but not yet. Not now. He freezes when he feels the texture change beneath his palm. Lifting his hand, he sees the pink line of a scratch, disappearing beneath her hair.
“I’m just going to…” Leon murmurs, brushing her hair aside to bare the expanse of her back. He sucks in a hushed breath through his teeth. A web of pink and red lines criss-cross and mark her skin: some scabbed over, some clearly still fresh and angry. Not serious wounds, not exactly. But serious enough to him. He notes the spacing between the lines and their uneven edges. His gaze lands on her hand, still fisted in the sheets, and takes in how her nails are longer than he remembers. He exhales. “Wait for me. I’ll be back in a second.”
She burrows further into the covers, not giving any other indication that she heard him.
Leon strides over to her desk and crouches down. He knows exactly where the first-aid kit is: at the bottom of her desk drawers. She relocated it after the third time he came through the door, bruised and bleeding again.
“You get injured too often.” She’d said, lips curved in a wry, exasperated smile as she opened the kit. “I’m going to need to leave it somewhere I can get to immediately. Also, have you considered a line of work that’s less dangerous? I’m sure there are exciting alternatives to mortal peril.”
Now, he retrieves the kit and moves back beside her. He pops the latch, pulling out some dressings, scissors, and tape. He pauses briefly over the antibiotic and antiseptic creams, thinking before he settles on the former. This I can do, he says to himself. Leon knows he can’t make the pain go away, but one thought surfaces loud and clear in his head: she deserves to know that someone cares.
“I’ll take care of these.” He says. Leon reaches for the scrunchie on her nightstand and pulls her hair into a loose ponytail. He tucks it beside her on the pillow.
For the next ten minutes, Leon works methodically. He sanitises his hands, squeezes a dollop of cream on his fingertip, and touches it to the worst of the scratches. When he touches a reddened one, she hisses, the first real break in her crying. “Sorry–” he says, hands stilling immediately. “I’ll be more careful.”
The process takes longer than he expects. Every time her back heaves or her breath shakes, he stops. He waits. Then he continues, his touch featherlight and careful.
He ensures every scratch is covered in a thin layer of medicine. “I’ll dress the deeper ones.” He informs her. “I don’t want them to get infected.”
To his relief, only a handful of them need that sort of treatment. He lingers on three or four, still deep and angry-red, covering the wounds with breathable dressing. He secures every edge with sections of surgical tape, cut to precise lengths. As he finally stops to evaluate his work, he notices something: she’s no longer crying.
But she isn’t saying anything yet.
Leon puts away the first-aid kit, tucking the cream, dressing, tape, and scissors back into their usual compartments. He lays the box beside her on the bed.
Then he waits.
And waits.
The first five minutes pass. Leon reaches out again, his hand more sure now, landing on her shoulder. He resumes the slow, repetitive movements from before, up and down against warm skin, now careful to avoid the patches of gauze and tape on her back. She hasn’t shrugged his hand off. Hasn’t inched away from his touch.
“I’ve got you.” Leon says.
Another ten minutes pass. His hand doesn’t stop.
Leon senses that she’s getting restless. The muscles of her back bunch and then release. Her arm tightens around the plush, pressing him tighter to her side. Leon watches how the sheets are bunched in her left fist, the way her fingers clench and slowly release. There are times where she seems to be holding her breath.
It takes ten more minutes. But Leon doesn’t mind.
Eventually, he feels her move beneath his palm. She pushes herself up, her movements sluggish and heavy.
She opens her mouth. No sound comes out.
Leon waits.
She tries again.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is hoarse.
“What for?”
“Sorry you had to see me like–”
“No.” Leon interrupts, his own voice firm. “Don’t apologise for that.”
“It won’t happen—”
“You shouldn’t have to promise me that.”
Leon notices how her head hangs. The way she can’t look him in the eye, the way she’s turned a little to the side, hiding her face.
“Hey.” Leon scoots closer to her. “Hey. Look at me.”
She draws a shuddering breath, scrunches her face like she’s pushing through pain, seems to steel herself, then looks up at him. Her eyes are almost swollen shut from tears. Her lips are puffy and red; her hair is plastered to her forehead with a fine sheen of sweat. He thinks about how exposed she must feel, having never been this way with him before.
He wonders about how badly she’s hurting.
Leon feels another surge of emotion within him. Not alarm. Not pity. Just a… wave of protective tenderness, if he really had to label it. He blinks, caught off-guard by the feeling, not remembering the last time he felt it. What he knows is that he’s never felt it here with her before.
He shakes his head to clear it and refocusses on her.
“You’re gonna be OK. Yeah?” He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder again.
She gives a dry chuckle, followed by a deep sigh. “God, I sure hope so.”
She tries to stand. Leon freezes, his eyes fixed on her face. “You…” He coughs awkwardly. “You should probably… get dressed first.” He gestures vaguely in her direction, resolutely looking past her shoulder.
She looks down at herself. Slowly looks back up. Her eyes widen. “Fuck,” she whispers.
“Hang on. I’ve got you.” Leon hurries to her closet, rummaging through her folded shirts. He pulls out an oversized one, worn soft and thin from multiple washes, something that he remembers wearing before.
She snatches the shirt, rather pink in the face. “Thanks.” She squeaks, turning her back and hurriedly pulling it on over her head. “Sorry.” She mumbles.
“It’s fine. You’re good.” He coughs again.
Neither of them are looking at the other.
“You… uh.” She clears her throat, still looking at the floor. “Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.” Leon says, privately relieved when the tension breaks.
“I’ll go make something.” She says, pulling the door to her room open. “I didn’t have time to make dinner.”
“Hey, it’s fine. I’ll help.” Leon holds the door and gestures for her to move ahead of him.
“Thanks.” She gives him the first genuine smile he’s seen today. “How about spaghetti? I’ve got some smoked duck in the fridge.”
Leon smiles back, pulling the door shut behind him as he follows her to the kitchen. “That sounds delicious, actually.”
They assume their usual positions at her kitchen island. She pulls open the fridge and reaches for the smoked duck; Leon retrieves the chopping board and knife from the drawer where she’s always kept them.
“I’ve got it.” Leon gets to work, skillfully slicing the smoked duck, shallots, and garlic into fine pieces.
She’s bringing water to a boil, salting it, and putting the pasta into the pot.
Leon brings the chopped ingredients and works beside her on the stove, searing the duck, frying up the garlic and shallots. He watches her from the corner of his eye, musing at the sheer normalcy of their movements. A stranger standing in her house wouldn’t have thought that just an hour ago, she was sobbing facedown on her bed. And now, they’re making dinner like it’s just one more day among the dozens they’ve spent together. Her eyes are still puffy, he thinks. I’ll get her some ice later.
"You're staring at me." She quirks an eyebrow.
"I'm not—" Leon begins. "Hey. About what happened just now. Do you wanna—"
He pauses, jaw tightening. "Never mind. It's fine." He nudges her with his hip instead. “You doing OK?”
“I feel like a million bucks.” She mutters, giving him a crooked smile.
Leon just shakes his head and smiles. “You’ve got a lot of pride.”
“I assure you, it’s extremely bruised right now.” She huffs.
Working in tandem, dinner is put together in a flash. Leon brings their food to the coffee table, his plate piled high with a heaping mound of duck because she insisted.
“You sure you have enough to eat?” She says, frowning dubiously at his portion. “I’ve got more duck in the fridge actually.”
“I’ll be fine. Wasn’t a training day.”
“Got it.” She sits at the coffee table beside him, twirling spaghetti with her fork. Leon watches her, not touching his food yet.
“Hey.” He calls, her name gentle on his lips. “Listen.”
“Hmm?” She turns to him, busy chewing.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Not if you don’t feel like it. But I’m here. And…” Leon looks into her eyes, feeling more serious than he’s ever been with her. “As long as that door still opens, as long as I can walk through it… You’re not alone. OK?”
She blinks, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. There’s a beat of silence that drags on.
Because Leon has never said anything like this before.
“Oh. Um.” Her cheeks flush pale pink. “Uh… thank you. Leon.”
They turn their attention back to dinner. And although they usually slip into easy chatter, today they eat beside each other in companionable silence. It’s different. Leon puts down his fork, thinking. But I don’t mind it. He thinks about how quiet used to be a luxury.
When she reaches for his plate to bring it to the sink, he pushes her back down by the shoulder. “Sit. I’ll take care of that.”
“You can leave them in the sink, I’ll wash up later.”
“I’ll handle it. And I’ll fetch you some ice. For your eyes.”
She mouths a thank you, and for the moment, it seems like she doesn’t have anything more to say. But when Leon stands, about to head into the kitchen, she stops him by calling his name. “Leon–”
She touches him on the arm. “Thank you. For everything. It really means a lot.”
Leon lays his hand on hers. “It’s fine. We’re…” His mind searches for the right word. “... friends, right?”
The word is strange on his tongue, though he can’t explain why.
Something flickers behind her eyes.
“Yeah,” She nods, a sort of wistful smile on her face. “Of course we are.”