Midnight |Imagines

Leon Kennedy-Between the Stitches

The safehouse was supposed to be a sanctuary of silence, a rare pocket of stillness in a world that had spent the last forty-eight hours trying to tear them apart. But silence was a luxury Leon Kennedy didn't seem to believe in—not when he had an audience.

You stood by the long, scarred wooden table, arms crossed tightly over your chest. The dim overhead light flickered with a rhythmic, mechanical click, casting long, jittery shadows against the peeling wallpaper. Every time the bulb dimmed, the darkness seemed to press closer, but Leon remained entirely unbothered, lounging in a rusted metal chair like it was a throne.
He was leaning back, one arm slung lazily over the backrest while the other manipulated a combat knife.

The blade danced between his knuckles with a terrifying, fluid grace—a silver blur that spoke of years spent in places where a sharp edge was the only thing between him and a shallow grave. To him, it was a fidget toy; to you, it was a reminder of why your medical kit was currently half-empty.
Worst of all was the expression on his face. He wasn't just resting; he was smirking. It was that specific, lop-sided tug of the lips that suggested he knew exactly which of your buttons he was pushing and that he was enjoying the haptics.

You exhaled a sharp, jagged breath, dragging a hand down your face as if you could wipe away the exhaustion. "My God, you're such an asshole," you said, your voice echoing off the damp concrete walls. You pointed a finger at him, punctuating your frustration. "Has anyone ever told you it's rude to flirt with your medic? Especially while they're still cleaning your blood off their sleeves?"

Leon didn't miss a beat. The knife didn't stutter. He didn't even have the decency to look guilty. If anything, the glint in his blue eyes sharpened, dancing with a low-burning amusement that made the air in the cramped room feel suddenly thin.

Tilting his head, he locked his gaze onto yours, pinning you in place. "What can I say," he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always seemed to vibrate right in the center of your chest. "You've been inside me so many times, I figured it was only fair to return the favor."

For a moment, the world simply stopped. Your brain short-circuited, the logic of a trained medical professional collapsing under the sheer, audacity of his words. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the flickering light.

Then, the heat hit your face—a localized wildfire that started at your throat and climbed to your hairline. You scoffed, the sound bordering on a choked laugh, and whipped around to face the wall. You began tidying gauze rolls you had already organized twice, desperate for any distraction.

"Wow," you muttered, shaking your head. "Unbelievable. Picking 9mm slugs out of your shoulder isn't a metaphor for intimacy, Leon. It's surgery. You're actually the worst."

Behind you, the low, rhythmic scrape of the knife stopped. Then came his chuckle—soft, vibrating, and entirely too confident. It wasn't loud or performative; it was an intimate sound that made your stomach flip in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the stale rations you'd eaten earlier.
"You didn't deny it," he added casually, the sound of his voice getting clearer as he shifted in his seat.

You spun back around, your face still flushed. "Because there's nothing to deny! It's gross! It's unprofessional! It's—"

"Mm." He leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees, his chin propped on one hand. He studied you with the focused intensity of a predator, or perhaps a man who had already won a game you were still trying to understand. "Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Why are you like this?" you demanded, throwing your hands up in a gesture of pure exasperation.

Leon shrugged, standing up with a slow, predatory deliberation. The chair legs shrieked against the floor, a jarring sound in the quiet room. "Like what?"

"Insufferable," you snapped.

"Charming," he corrected, taking a step into your personal space.

"Annoying."

"Memorable."

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to back down even as he closed the distance. He moved with a deceptive ease, a soldier's grace that made the cramped safehouse feel even smaller. He stopped just a foot away—close enough that you could smell the gunpowder, the sterile scent of the antiseptic you'd applied to his wounds, and the faint, earthy musk of leather and rain.
"Unbelievable," you finished, though the word came out a little softer than you intended.

That finally made him pause. The smirk didn't vanish, but it shifted. Up close, the bravado faded just enough for you to see the reality of him: the faint, jagged scars along his jaw, the deep-seated exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes, and the way his expression softened when he realized you weren't actually pulling away.

"Yeah," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That one's probably true."

The sudden shift in the atmosphere was dizzying. Leon Kennedy was a man of masks—the hero, the survivor, the smart-ass—but every so often, the mask slipped. In the dim light of the safehouse, he looked less like a government asset and more like a man who was tired of being alone.

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your defensive shell of irritation, but it was dissolving. "You're still an ass," you muttered, the insult landing with the weight of a feather.

"And you still patch me up every time," he replied. The teasing was gone, replaced by a devastatingly sincere truth. He looked down at his bandaged arm, then back to you. "I don't make it easy for you. I know that."
Your gaze dropped to his chest for a second before you let out a defeated huff.

"Someone has to keep you alive, Leon. You're too reckless to be left to your own devices."
His lips curved into a smile—not a smirk, but a genuine, quiet expression of warmth.

"Yeah," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "Good thing it's you. I don't think I'd let anyone else get that close."

The air grew heavy, charged with a tension that was far more dangerous than any bio-weapon they had encountered. Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and for a fleeting, reckless second, you considered closing the remaining gap between you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, inviting you to stop being the medic and just be a person.

But the habit of self-preservation was strong. You blinked, breaking the spell, and stepped back with a practiced roll of your eyes. Brushing past him toward the supply crate, you muttered, "Don't get used to it. Next time, I'm leaving the stitches to you."

Leon turned his head, watching you walk away. The amusement returned to his face, flickering back to life like the lightbulb above, but the softness in his eyes remained, a lingering shadow of the moment they'd just shared.

"Oh, I already am," he called out, his voice laced with a smug, quiet triumph.

You paused at the edge of the room, your hand hovering over the doorframe. You shook your head, a small, involuntary smile finally tugging at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts. You didn't look back, but you didn't have to. You knew he was leaning against that table, arms crossed, looking entirely too satisfied with himself.
And the worst part? He had every right to be.