Chapter Text
after the morphine
Dr. Pretty
Chris floated somewhere between consciousness and a thick, cottony haze. The world came in soft edges and muted colors, the fluorescent lights overhead blurred into gentle halos. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else — someone who had taken a hard landing during a training exercise and paid for it with two cracked ribs, a sprained shoulder, and enough bruises to make a mosaic of his torso. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. He didn’t mind. The painkillers had turned everything pleasantly fuzzy.
A figure moved into his field of vision. Dark blonde hair with a few gray strands, sharp eyes, a white coat open over a black shirt. The name tag on the pocket read Dr. Leon S. Kennedy. Chris squinted, then smiled with the unguarded looseness of a man whose filters had been chemically removed.
“Damn, you’re pretty,” he said, voice rough from disuse and medication. “Like really pretty. Did anyone ever tell you that? Your eyes are like the ocean. Or maybe the sky right before a storm. I like storms.”
Dr. Pretty paused in the act of checking the IV line. One corner of his mouth lifted, the expression calm and faintly amused. “I’ll take the compliment, Sergeant Redfield. How’s the pain level right now? Scale of one to ten.”
“Zero,” Chris answered immediately, then reconsidered. “Maybe a two. You’re distracting, Doctor Pretty. Has anyone ever told you that you look like you belong on a magazine cover instead of in a hospital? Those cheekbones alone are criminal.”
Dr. Pretty’s chuckle was quiet. He made a note on the chart without looking up. “Flattery will get you extra ice chips, but not a day off from physical therapy. Try to stay still while I check the bruising.”
Chris watched him with open fascination. The doctor’s hands were steady, fingers pleasantly cool against feverish skin as he gently pressed along the edge of the rib wrapping. Every touch sent a soft, distant echo through Chris’s nerves, but the drugs kept real pain at bay. What remained was an odd, floating warmth.
“You’re so gentle,” Chris murmured. “Most doctors poke like they’re trying to find oil. You’re careful, that’s rare. You’re rare.”
Leon glanced up, blue eyes meeting his. There was no embarrassment in the doctor’s face, only a dry sort of patience, the kind reserved for patients who had temporarily lost their internal censor. “I try. Occupational hazard of not wanting people to scream at me.”
“I’d never scream at you,” Chris declared solemnly. “You’re too gorgeous to yell at. And your voice is so nice. Calm and deep. Makes me want to fall asleep listening to it.”
Leon didn't say anything in response, but the faintest smile played on his lips. “Breathe in and out for me, Sergeant. Carefully.”
Chris obeyed, though the expansion of his chest pulled at the cracked ribs. He didn’t care. He was too busy cataloguing the way Leon’s hair fell across his forehead, the precise line of his jaw, the quiet competence in every movement. The painkillers had stripped away years of military restraint and left behind a man who simply said what he thought.
“You’re really good at this,” Chris continued. “Being a doctor. Saving people. Looking like that while you do it. Unfair advantage. If I had a doctor like you back on base, I’d invent injuries just to come in.”
Leon finished the examination of the ribs and moved to the shoulder, careful not to jostle the joint. “Let’s not invent anything. Your existing injuries are impressive enough. The report said you took a fall from a transport during a night exercise. Lucky the ground was soft.”
“Lucky I get to look at you,” Chris corrected. His head lolled slightly against the pillow. “Seriously. Has anyone ever told you that you have the kinda face that makes people forget they hurt? Because you do. I’m forgetting right now. Completely. And your hair looks so soft. I wanna run my fingers through it.”
Leon’s expression remained mild, though something warmer flickered behind his eyes for a second. He adjusted the sling on Chris’s arm with practiced ease. “I’ll note that the medication is working as intended. Try to rest now. I’ll be back to check on you again.”
Chris watched him leave with the open-mouthed admiration of a man who had temporarily lost the ability to be embarrassed. “Come back soon, please,” he called after him, voice already sliding toward sleep. “I miss seeing your face already.”
•
The second visit came after the heavy dose had begun to wear off. Chris woke to a dull, insistent throb in his side and a clearer head. The world had edges again. He remembered the conversation with his doctor in fragmented pieces — compliments that had tumbled out of him without permission, the calm way the doctor had accepted them. Heat crawled up the back of his neck even before the door opened.
Leon stepped inside carrying a tablet and the same quiet confidence. He set the tablet aside and approached the bed. “Morning, Sergeant Redfield. How are we feeling now that the good drugs are fading?”
Chris cleared his throat. “Morning. More aware, and sorry about earlier. The morphine or whatever it was made me talkative.”
“No need to apologize.” Leon’s tone was easy, professional, but there was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve heard worse. Most of it less complimentary. Let’s take a look at those ribs now that you’re more with us.”
He helped Chris sit up carefully, supporting the injured shoulder. The movement pulled a low hiss from Chris’s throat. Leon’s hands were steady as he unwrapped the bandages, warm fingers mapping the dark bloom of bruises across Chris’s torso. The touch was clinical, thorough; and somehow more intimate now that Chris could feel every point of contact without the chemical buffer.
“Still tender here,” Leon murmured, pressing lightly along the ribs. “But the swelling’s down. Good sign.” His gaze flicked up, catching Chris’s. “You’re built like someone who doesn’t know how to sit still. Explains the training accident.”
Chris felt heat rise in his face. The observation was neutral, but the way Leon said it — low, almost thoughtful — landed differently.
Leon’s fingers moved higher, checking the shoulder joint with careful rotations. “Hold still for me. I need to see the range.” He leaned in closer, close enough that Chris caught the faint scent of aftershave and something sharper, like antiseptic… and cheap hospital coffee. “You’re doing better than expected. Tough guy, aren’t you?”
The words were light, almost teasing. Chris’s ears burned. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall, jaw tight. “I try.”
Leon’s mouth curved. He finished the shoulder check and let Chris settle back against the pillows, then reached for the stethoscope around his neck. “Breathe in only as deeply as your ribs will allow, yeah?”
The cold disc pressed against Chris’s bare chest, while Leon’s head tilted, listening with focused intensity. When he moved the stethoscope lower, his free hand rested lightly against Chris’s side to steady him. The contact was professional. It still felt like a brand.
“Lungs are clear,” Leon said after a moment. He didn’t pull back right away; instead he looked up through dark lashes, blue eyes bright with something that was no longer purely medical. “Heart rate’s a little elevated, though. Is everything okay, Sergeant?”
Chris’s face went hot. He could feel the flush spreading down his neck. “Just… the examination.”
Leon’s smile turned openly mischievous. “Is that all? Because from where I’m standing, you look like a man who’s trying very hard not to notice that his doctor is flirting with him.”
The directness of it stole the air from Chris’s lungs more effectively than any cracked rib. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Leon watched the struggle with quiet amusement, one eyebrow arched.
“There it is,” Leon said softly. “The blush. I was wondering when it would show up now that you’re coherent. Earlier you were all compliments and no filter. I have to say, I preferred the version of you that called my eyes ocean-colored. Very poetic for a military man.”
Chris groaned under his breath and covered his face with his good hand. “I’m never living that down, am I?”
“Not a chance.” Leon’s voice was warm now, the professional edge softened into something personal. He gently tugged Chris’s hand away so he could see his expression. “It’s endearing, actually. Most patients just complain about the food. You gave me a monologue about my cheekbones. I’m flattered.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Chris muttered.
“Yeah, way too much.” Leon straightened, but he didn’t step back. He stood at the side of the bed, arms loosely crossed, studying Chris with open interest. “You’re interesting when you’re not high on painkillers. The way you go red when someone like me looks at you? That’s way too cute.”
Chris forced himself to meet those blue eyes. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
“Subtlety is overrated.” Leon’s grin was quick and sharp. “Besides, I already know you think I’m pretty. You said it a few times. I figured it was only fair to return the interest now that you’re sober enough to process it.”
The silence that followed was thick but not uncomfortable. Chris’s pulse thudded against his aching ribs. He was used to being in control — over missions, over his team, over his body, over the things he allowed himself to want. This doctor with the calm hands and the wicked sense of timing had cut straight through all of it.
Leon’s expression gentled slightly. He reached out and adjusted the edge of the bandage near Chris’s collarbone, the touch lingering a second longer than necessary. “I’m not in the habit of asking patients out. But once you’re cleared for full duty — ribs healed, shoulder stable, no more hospital visits — I wouldn’t mind taking you to dinner. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like disinfectant. If you’re interested.”
Chris stared at him. The invitation hung in the air between them, casual and deliberate at the same time. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Leon’s fingers on his skin, the way the doctor had looked at him like he was something worth studying beyond the medical chart.
“You’re serious,” Chris said finally.
“Of course.” Leon’s smile returned. “But no pressure. You can think about it while you heal. I’ll still be the one checking your progress either way. But if the answer is yes, I know a place that does an excellent steak. And I’d like to hear what you sound like when you’re not under the influence of industrial-strength painkillers.”
Chris felt the flush return, but this time it came with a low thrum of anticipation that had nothing to do with medication. He nodded twice, slow. “I’ll… think about it.”
“Okay.” Leon stepped back at last, gathering his tablet. At the door he paused, glancing over his shoulder with glinting amusement. “Oh, and for the record, Mr. Redfield: your eyes aren’t so bad either.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Chris let his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. His ribs ached. His shoulder throbbed. And somewhere beneath the residual fog of the morning’s drugs, a different kind of heat had taken root — one that had everything to do with a doctor named Leon Kennedy and the quiet promise of a dinner that suddenly felt very far away and entirely too close at the same time.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself a small, private smile.