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The metallic tang of copper, burnt circuitry, and synthetic Kevlar was a smell Leon S. Kennedy knew far too well. It was the perfume of survival, usually paid for in blood.
He lay motionless on a cold, stainless-steel medical gurney inside a secure Division of Security Operations (DSO) tactical staging unit in Zurich. Overhead, strip-fluorescent lights flickered erratically, throwing harsh, unforgiving shadows across the concrete ceiling. Every ragged breath felt like swallowing shattered glass: three cracked ribs, a severe concussion, deep jagged lacerations across his left shoulder, and a minor chemical burn courtesy of an unstable T-Virus derivative variant released during the breach.
"Agent Kennedy, you're absurdly lucky to be breathing," Dr. Kinderman said, his tone a mix of medical precision and suppressed anger as he adjusted the IV line taped to Leon’s right forearm. "If that structural support column hadn't missed your femoral artery by two inches, you'd have bled out before the extraction team reached the perimeter."
Leon let out a dry, raspy cough, wincing as a white-hot flare of agony shot through his torso. "The mother... and the little boy. Did they get out?"
"They’re fine. Not a single scratch," Dr. Kinderman replied sternly, grabbing his digital clipboard. "Because you threw yourself over them like a human shield instead of waiting ten seconds for the BSAA assault team to clear the structural debris."
"Ten seconds was eight seconds too long," Leon muttered, closing his heavy eyelids against the throbbing light. "The ceiling was collapsing. I did my job."
"You acted recklessly. Again," a calm, authoritative voice chimed in from the sliding glass bay doors.
Ingrid Hunnigan stepped inside, her tablet tucked tightly against her ribs. Her face was a mask of exasperated concern. "Leon, D.C. is on a rampage. You were assigned to Zurich as a tactical observer and liaison, not a sacrificial barrier. You compromised your own extraction vector."
"Civilians were in the kill zone, Hunnigan," Leon growled softly, his voice gravelly. He tried to sit up, but a sharp spike of nausea forced him straight back onto the thin pillow with a muted groan. "End of story."
"It's never just the end of the story with you," Hunnigan sighed, coming to stand at his bedside. "The doctor says you need at least three weeks of absolute bed rest, a full neurological panel, and a designated escort to sign off on your release and take responsibility for your home care. DSO high-risk neuro-trauma directive."
Leon frowned, opening one glassy blue eye. "I can take care of myself. Give me a local anesthetic, a sling, and a flight back to my apartment in D.C."
"Protocol is absolute, Agent Kennedy," Dr. Kinderman insisted, tapping the screen. "We cannot legally release an agent suffering from high-grade concussion symptoms into their own care. You need a verified Emergency Contact; someone who holds Level 4 clearance or a designated legal proxy; to sign the release form and supervise your initial 72-hour recovery window."
Leon went entirely still. A subtle shift went through his posture; a tightening in his shoulders that Dr. Kinderman missed, but Hunnigan spotted instantly.
"Wait," Hunnigan said, glancing at the doctor. "Did you actually pull his secondary directive file?"
"I pulled his classified personal emergency proxy sheet from the DSO vault," Dr. Kinderman explained, flipping through the physical printouts attached to the clipboard. "It was encrypted under an old Raccoon City survivor protocol. It contained a direct satellite frequency and a security clearance key. I dialed the number thirty minutes ago while Agent Kennedy was in surgery."
Hunnigan blinked, her brows knitting together. "Who answered?"
"A man," Dr. Kinderman said, reading the printout with a slightly bewildered expression. "He didn't identify his branch at first. When I told him Agent Kennedy was injured, he cut me off mid-sentence, asked for our exact GPS coordinates, and told me he was departing a BSAA debriefing in Geneva immediately. He said he’d be here in forty minutes."
Hunnigan turned her head slowly, looking down at Leon. "Leon... who is on that proxy sheet?"
Leon pulled the coarse white hospital blanket higher over his bandaged chest, shutting his eyes tight.
"He's going to be absolutely furious," Leon whispered.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Thirty-five minutes later, the heavy reinforced steel doors at the end of the medical corridor were shoved open with enough force to bang against the concrete walls.
Two armed DSO guards posted at the entrance snapped to attention, their hands reflexively dropping to their sidearms before freezing in place.
Walking down the hall was a man built like a fortress, wearing black tactical fatigues, combat boots, and a weathered jacket bearing the silver emblem of the BSAA Alpha Team. Chris Redfield looked like he had driven through a hurricane and knocked down every barrier in his path. His brown hair was damp with rain, his jaw was set like granite, and he carried a heavy military duffel bag casually over one broad shoulder.
Dr. Kinderman stepped out of the bay, holding his clipboard like a shield. "Sir! This is a restricted DSO medical wing; you can't just walk in here..."
"I'm here for Kennedy," Chris stated. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that filled the entire corridor, carrying an effortless, unquestionable authority. He didn't slow down by a single inch, stepping right past the doctor and entering the glass-walled bay.
Hunnigan offered a small, weary nod of respect. "Captain Redfield."
"Ingrid," Chris acknowledged, his harsh expression softening just a fraction for her before his hazel eyes locked directly onto the bruised, battered figure lying on the bed.
Dr. Kinderman scurried back into the room, flustered and visibly sweating. "Wait, Chris Redfield? The BSAA Special Operations Captain? How on earth are you listed as a DSO agent's primary emergency guardian? DSO protocol strictly mandates family or agency handlers..."
"I'm who he wrote down," Chris interrupted coldly, turning his gaze toward the doctor. The sheer intensity in Chris's eyes made Kinderman take a half-step back. "Is he cleared for transport or not?"
"He has three fractured ribs, a severe concussion, deep lacerations, and systemic shock!" Kinderman stammered. "He needs continuous cardiac monitoring! He can barely stand on his own!"
"I have an unmarked BSAA transport plane idling at the Zurich airstrip, and a private medical kit in my rig," Chris said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register he used when dealing with stubborn brass. "He's coming with me. Give me the discharge pad."
Before Kinderman could protest further, the heavy footsteps of DSO Regional Director Miller echoed down the hall. Miller, a sharp-suited bureaucrat with an ego to match, marched into the room.
"What is the meaning of this?" Miller demanded. "Agent Kennedy is DSO property until cleared by our internal review board. Captain Redfield, you have no jurisdiction here."
Chris slowly turned his massive frame to face Miller. He didn't draw a weapon; he didn't need to. He simply stepped into Miller's personal space, towering over the bureaucrat.
"Miller," Chris said softly, every word dripping with ice. "Your agency worked him to the bone, put him in an unstable hot zone without proper structural intelligence, and almost got him killed today. If you want to discuss 'jurisdiction,' I can call BSAA Command and the Secretary of Defense right now to discuss how DSO oversight failed in Zurich. Or, you can let me take my husband home."
Miller went pale, his mouth opening and closing before he looked at Hunnigan.
Hunnigan adjusted her glasses, offering Miller no lifeline. "Sign the release, Director. Captain Redfield holds executive medical proxy under the 2004 Bio-Threat Emergency Accord. It's completely legal."
Defeated, Miller snatched the digital stylus from Kinderman and slapped the pad into Chris's waiting hand. Chris signed his name with sharp, aggressive strokes and tossed the pad back onto the desk.
Chris turned to the bed, setting his heavy duffel bag on the floor. He stepped up to the gurney, his posture instantly shifting from terrifying warrior to remarkably tender protector.
"Hey," Chris said quietly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of dirty-blonde hair away from Leon's cut brow.
Leon looked up at him through heavy eyelids, a faint, tired smirk playing on his pale lips. "Hey yourself. You made good time."
"I broke about four international traffic laws getting out of Geneva," Chris murmured, his thumb resting gently against Leon's cheekbone. "Can you stand, or am I carrying you out of here in front of all these suits?"
"If you carry me, Miller will never let me live it down," Leon groaned softly, trying to shift his weight. "Help me up."
"Alright. Easy." Chris slid a broad, muscular arm behind Leon's shoulders, supporting his back, while using his other hand to carefully grip Leon's wrist.
As Leon swung his legs off the bed, a sharp spasm of rib pain made his breath hitch violently, his vision going white for a second. He collapsed forward, his head thumping heavily against Chris's chest. Chris caught him instantly, wrapping both arms around him in a firm, protective embrace, taking ninety percent of Leon's weight without flinching.
"Gotcha," Chris whispered into Leon's hair, rubbing a warm, heavy hand over the nape of his neck. "I've got you, Darlin', Lean on me."
Leon buried his face into the warm crook of Chris's neck, inhaling the familiar, grounding scent of cedarwood, gun oil, and rain. "God, you're warm," Leon muttered weakly.
"That's because you're freezing," Chris replied gently. Without another word to the DSO staff, Chris lifted Leon steadily, keeping him tucked close against his side, and navigated them slowly out of the medical facility into the cool night air.
xXxXxXxXxXx
The interior of the BSAA C-130 transport plane was quiet, filled only with the low, rhythmic hum of the twin turboprop engines.
Chris had set up a makeshift medical cot in the cargo bay, covering it with heavy wool blankets and thick pillows. Leon was resting on his side, wrapped tightly in a thermal blanket, an IV drip hooked up to a portable pole next to him.
Chris sat on a metal crate right beside the cot, holding a wet cloth, methodically cleaning the dried blood, ash, and chemical residue from Leon's arms and hands.
"You're quiet," Leon murmured, his eyes half-closed as he watched Chris work.
"I'm trying not to yell," Chris replied honestly, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion. He dipped the cloth into a bowl of warm water and wrung it out. "Hunnigan sent me the tactical telemetry from the breach while we were taking off."
Leon winced slightly, knowing what was coming. "Chris..."
"You used your own body as a structural brace, Leon," Chris said, stopping his movements. He looked up, his hazel eyes dark and filled with a painful mixture of anger and grief. "You had three seconds to step back into the clear zone. Instead, you covered a civilian mother and child and took twenty tons of reinforced concrete to your upper torso."
"They were going to die," Leon whispered softly. "They were scared, Chris. The kid was tiny. If I didn't step in, they were crushed. You would have done the exact same thing."
"That doesn't make it any easier to watch from five hundred miles away!" Chris snapped softly, his voice cracking. He dropped the cloth into the bowl and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his large, calloused hands. "Every time my phone rings with an unregistered D.C. caller ID, my heart stops. Every single time, Leon. I keep waiting for the day someone tells me Agent Kennedy isn't coming home."
The silence that followed was heavy, weighed down by years of shared trauma, lost comrades, and the relentless horrors of their shared life's work.
Leon reached out slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched Chris's forearm. He slid his hand down until his fingers laced through Chris's, squeezing as hard as his weakened grip allowed.
"Chris. Look at me."
Chris took a deep breath and raised his head.
"I'm not dying in some Zurich basement," Leon said fiercely, his eyes shining with absolute sincerity. "I'm staying alive. Because I have a reason to come back. I have you."
Chris stared at him for a long moment, the tension slowly bleeding out of his broad shoulders. He shifted off his crate, sinking down onto his knees beside the low cot. He reached up, gently cupping Leon's jaw, pressing his forehead against Leon's with profound care.
"You drive me crazy, Kennedy," Chris breathed against his lips.
"Occupational hazard," Leon whispered back, closing his eyes as Chris leaned in and pressed a soft, warm, lingering kiss to his lips. It wasn't rushed or desperate; it was a quiet anchor in the middle of the storm, reminding them both that they were still standing.
xXxXxXxXxXx
The cabin sat nestled deep within the dense pine forests of coastal Maine, perched on a rocky cliff overlooking the dark, churning waters of the Atlantic Ocean. It was Chris and Leon's private refuge; purchased under a shell name, completely disconnected from both BSAA and DSO tracking networks. No satellite uplinks, no tactical arrays, no operational logs.
By the time the heavy four-wheel-drive SUV Chris had rented pulled into the gravel driveway, rain was pouring down in thick, blinding sheets, drumming rhythmically against the wooden roof and fogging up the windshield.
Chris cut the engine, allowing the quiet hum of the wilderness to wash over the cabin. He glanced over at the passenger seat. Leon was leaning against the window, his chest rising and falling in shallow, guarded breaths, his skin washed out in the dim dashboard light.
"We're here," Chris murmured, his voice softening as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
Leon blinked his heavy eyes open, squinting through the rain-streaked glass at the silhouette of the timber-frame cabin.
Chris rounded the front of the vehicle, opening the passenger door before the cold sea wind could hit Leon too harshly. Unceremoniously taking the weight off Leon's damaged torso, Chris wrapped one broad arm tightly around Leon's waist, guiding him over the slick gravel and up the porch steps.
The front door unlocked with a low click, and as soon as Chris pushed it open, the heavy weather outside was replaced by the grounding scents of aged cedar, dried balsam, woodsmoke, and cool sea air. Chris led Leon straight down the quiet hallway into the master bedroom, carefully lowering him onto a massive king-sized bed layered with thick wool quilts and oversized cotton pillows.
"Stay right here," Chris ordered gently, resting a massive hand on Leon's knee for a lingering second. "Don't try to move around. I'm going to light the fireplace, run the generator, and get you some proper medication."
"Not going anywhere," Leon mumbled, letting his head sink deep into the softness of the mattress. The sheer exertion of the journey had drained the last remnants of his energy, leaving his muscles aching and his head throbbing with a dull, persistent beat.
A little while later, the soft, amber crackle of a wood fire filled the room, casting warm, dancing light across the rustic timber walls. Chris returned carrying a tray with a bowl of piping-hot, homemade chicken broth, a fresh glass of water, and a small paper cup containing Leon's prescription pain management pills.
Chris sat on the edge of the mattress, handing Leon the pills first. "Take these. Then try to eat a little bit. Your stomach's empty."
Leon swallowed the pills without protest and took a few quiet, slow sips of the warm broth, feeling the heat spread comfortably through his bruised chest. Chris sat quietly beside him, stripping off his heavy tactical boots and his damp outer jacket, unbuttoning his tactical shirt until he was just in a soft, dark-gray cotton t-shirt. Without the heavy gear and combat boots, Chris looked softer, larger, and undeniably grounded.
Once Leon finished the bowl, Chris set the tray aside on the nightstand. With practiced, incredibly gentle hands, he reached over to carefully unbutton Leon's shirt, peeling the damp fabric back to inspect the clean white bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and left shoulder.
"Any tearing on the sutures?" Chris asked softly, his large thumb lightly tracing the healthy skin just above the bandage line to check for heat or infection.
"No," Leon said, leaning his head back into the pillows and watching Chris's face under the firelight. "Still alright."
"Good." Chris leaned over, pulling the heavy wool quilt up over Leon's shoulders and tucking him in securely. Then, to Leon's quiet delight, Chris swung his large frame onto the bed beside him, stretching out on top of the covers and pulling Leon gently against his right side.
Leon shifted carefully, resting his forehead against the side of Chris's neck, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of Chris's heart beneath his ear. Chris wrapped a long, heavy arm over Leon's hip, anchoring him tightly, pulling him into an embrace that felt completely impervious to the rest of the world.
"This is nice," Leon murmured, his words growing slurred as the heavy painkillers began to take hold, washing over his senses in a warm, weightless wave. "No alarms. No earpieces."
"It's home," Chris corrected softly, resting his chin on top of Leon's messy blonde hair. "For the next three weeks, no bio-weapons, no DSO handlers, no operational reports. Just you, me, and the ocean."
"Hunnigan's going to track us down eventually," Leon giggled weakly, his cheek pressing closer into Chris's shirt. "She knows how you think."
"Let her try," Chris said, a small, confident smile gracing his lips in the dark. "I'll turn off the satellite receiver. If she wants us, she can send a carrier pigeon."
Leon let out a soft, trailing chuckle, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him. Chris lay awake for an hour longer in the flickering firelight, holding Leon tightly, listening to the rain beat harmlessly against the glass, enjoying the rare, precious peace of keeping the man he loved safe from the world.
xXxXxXxXxXx
Three days later, the storm had finally broken, leaving behind a cold, sharp morning and the distant, rhythmic roar of the surf.
Leon woke to the smell of black coffee and woodsmoke. The blinding ache in his head had settled into a dull, manageable pressure, and his ribs no longer caught with every breath. It wasn't full recovery; not even close; but it was solid ground.
Wearing an oversized gray BSAA hoodie that smelled like Chris and a pair of worn sweatpants, Leon made his way down the hallway, keeping one hand against the wall to steady his balance.
Chris was standing on the back porch, a thick mug of coffee held in his hand, looking out over the gray pine canopy toward the Atlantic. He was dressed in a faded flannel shirt, his posture relaxed in a way it never was on base, though his broad shoulders still carried the immovable heft of a man who didn't know how to step down.
Leon slid the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch. The morning air was biting, cutting through the heavy cloth of the hoodie instantly.
Chris didn't turn around, but he shifted slightly, making space for Leon against the wooden railing. "You're supposed to be in bed."
"Got tired of staring at the ceiling," Leon said, leaning his hip against the rail next to Chris. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Chris's arm until Chris transferred the warm mug into Leon's hands.
Leon took a slow sip. Black, strong, and scalding; just how he needed it.
They stood in silence for a long time, watching the whitecaps crash against the dark rocks below. The quiet between them wasn't soft; it was heavy with everything they didn't talk about; the casualty lists, the files waiting on their desks in Geneva and D.C., the lingering sense that their time was always running down.
"Hunnigan called my secure line an hour ago," Chris said finally, his voice low against the wind. "She didn't ask for coordinates. Just wanted to know if you were still breathing."
"What'd you tell her?"
"Told her you were out of commission for another two weeks minimum, and if Miller tried to route any tactical files through your network, I'd personally drop his server stack into the Lake of Geneva."
Leon let out a dry, breathy laugh, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "He's going to hate you forever."
"He can line up," Chris said.
Chris turned his head, his hazel eyes scanning Leon's pale face, taking in the faint bruising beneath his eyes and the line of stitches along his temple. He reached out, his heavy hand coming to rest on the nape of Leon's neck, his broad thumb pressing gently into the tense muscle there.
"You really almost didn't make it out of that collapse, Leon," Chris said quietly. There was no anger left in his voice now; just the stark, exhausted reality of two men who had spent half their lives dodging grave plots.
Leon didn't look away. He leaned his head slightly into the warm palm at his neck. "I know."
"I can't pull you out of the fire every time," Chris said softly. "One of these days, the math isn't going to line up."
"Then we make it count while it does," Leon replied, his tone devoid of bravado.
Chris looked at him for a long moment, the hardness in his face giving way to something quiet and deeply affectionate. Slowly, deliberately, Chris turned toward him, cupping Leon’s jaw with his hand. He tilted Leon's head up slightly and leaned down, pressing a firm, quiet kiss to Leon's cold lips.
It was slow and unhurried; less about passion and more about reassurance, a grounding touch against the morning breeze. Leon closed his eyes, his free hand reaching up to grip the fabric of Chris's flannel shirt, deepening the kiss for a fleeting second before resting his forehead against Chris's chest.
Chris wrapped his arm around Leon's shoulders, pulling him in close to shield him from the coastal wind.
They didn't make grand promises they couldn't keep, about a future neither could guarantee. They just stood on the porch in the crisp Maine air, holding onto each other while the quiet lasted.