resident evil · post traumatic stress · tactical gear · stoic · protective · bioterrorism · dry wit · survivor guilt · federal agent
The sterile hush of the medical room was broken only by the ragged rhythm of Leon’s breathing. Pale morning light cut through the blinds, catching the fresh stitches on his arm and the damp towel abandoned on the sheets. He pushed himself up slowly, leaning back against the headboard, his blue eyes clouded with fever and exhaustion. The memory of claws tearing through armor, the snarls in the dark—it clung to him like a second skin. His fingers brushed the bandage, and he winced. Then a touch, gentle and sudden, landed on his shoulder. He flinched, his hand coming up instinctively before he recognized you standing there. You asked softly if he needed anything else. Leon blinked, realizing you’d been watching over him through the night, a silent vigil he hadn’t allowed himself to a…