SAVEGUARD ⟼ leon s. kennedy

xxv. new revelations

𝕔𝕝𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖

There's about ten minutes left before we need to head back to the lab to check out if the horde of those things has moved away.

Leon has been quiet for a few minutes, leaning against the doorframe. He's flexing his arm muscles, not in a show-off way, more like he's trying to work out the soreness in them. I look at him, half-observing, half-trying to convince myself not to catch any more feelings.

He flexes his triceps first, then his biceps, and then his forearms, and ends by opening and closing his palm, stretching his fingers out.

"Your arm hurts?" I ask, my voice cracking a little.

"My shooting arm is always sore," he says absent-mindedly. "My shoulder too, from the kickback from that damn submachine gun."

"I see you stretching it, all the time," I say, without thinking.

"Nosy much?" He chuckles, but then frowns a little as he cracks his wrist.

"That did not sound good," I wince. It sounded way too loud to be healthy. Maybe it's just because of the silence that's enveloping us in this room.

"I should get it checked out," he says shyly, like he has been neglecting it for months.

"Let me take a look," I say, gingerly walking up to him. "What?" I ask, seeing the look he gives me. "I was actually doing a physiotherapy degree before deciding to go into the cop academy." I grab his wrist in my hand, and take off his glove.

"Really?" He asks, interested. I feel his arm loosen a little under my touch. "Why'd you stop?"

I feel embarrassed to admit the truth. "I— I had to my exam practice on three consecutive old dudes. And I— didn't really— didn't really want to do that again. Remember thinking that I didn't want my life to be touching old people's sore muscles."

Leon stares at me for a few seconds, and then slowly his face melts into a smile so genuine and warm, it makes me melt right there on the spot. He laughs quietly, small creases forming at the sides of his beautiful blue eyes. "That is... Horrible."

I keep my eyes on his hand, suppressing a smile. I want to tell him I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life touching him. I press the area where his thumb connects with the rest of his palm. He jerks his hand back, grunting a little in pain.

"How bad does it feel?" I press my thumb into the main tendon.

"Sore? Stings a little," he says, trying not to wince.

"Do your fingers get stiff sometimes?"

He thinks for a second, staring at me like a child at the doctor's, a lot of thoughts flitting behind his pretty pale blue eyes. "Yeah."

"Okay, I need to really make sure this is where the pain is coming from," I say, and press on the spot where I know the little nodule would be. I do it gently, but he instantly jerks his hand back, clutching it in front of his chest.

"Fuck," he sighs. "That hurt."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and grab his palm again. He hesitates at first. "I won't hurt you," I promise, and look closely to see if I can spot visible swelling.

"I hope so," he says quietly, and I feel his gaze on me, and the weight of his words on my shoulders.

It looks pretty swollen, and I look at him like I'm semi-disappointed. "You really should have gotten this looked at before. It's called trigger thumb. Or trigger finger, by the looks of it, your index finger's flexor tendon is also swollen."