Archive of Our Own

The year 2008 found Leon S. Kennedy drowning out the silence of his apartment with a mindless marathon of classic cinema. 

[ “We can’t be together, Evelyn!” Exclaimed the actor, “Look at me, I’m a mercenary. You are a woman of the law. In my line of work, you don’t get to choose how the story ends…You just choose how long you’re willing to run before it finally catches up to you.”]

He scoffed, "Ain't that the truth."

It was his first official day off after a grueling three-week assignment in Western Europe.

Objectively speaking, the mission hadn't been difficult. FAR from it. No biologically engineered horrors, ancient cults, or collapsing islands.

It had been a series of strenuous tasks – spending hours in a stakeout and playing bodyguard to men in suits. From Leon’s perspective, it was infinitely worse than a firefight. A firefight kept the adrenaline moving; boredom just let the ghosts in his head stretch their legs.

Reaching over the side of the couch, his fingers wrapped around a can of beer, a chicken wing in the other.

A Saturday with cold beer, hot food, and a movie was the definition of a perfect day for Leon. It gave him a chance to experience normalcy – a rare occurrence in his career. This day was supposed to be a sanctuary. Keyword: supposed.

…Until the deadbolt on his front door slammed against the doorframe.

"Leon S. Kennedy, you absolute, reckless fucking prick!”

“Ada? What the hell are you—"

"Shut up," she snapped, slamming the door behind her. “Don't say a word. Don't give me that stupid stare like you have no idea what’s happening. You did this."

Leon sprang to his feet.

Had a joint operation gone sideways? Did the agency leak her coordinates? 

"Ada, calm down. I’ve been locked in a car in Utica for weeks. If something broke from the higher-ups—"

"This didn't come from the higher-ups, Leon!" Her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, shoving him back against the kitchen counter. 

"Y-you think you’re so careful and invincible, aren’t you?!”

"Hey," Leon gripped her wrists gently to stop the erratic shoving. "Talk to me. What happened? Who’s tracking you?"

"Nobody is tracking me!" her voice cracked as she wrenched her wrists out of his grip and began pacing the room. 

"Ada, you’re not making sense. Talk to me, please.”

He’d seen her shot, hang from cranes, and face monsters that shouldn't exist, and she had never lost her temper like this. "Tell me what’s wrong. Whatever the fallout is… I-I can clear a path."

"You can't clear this path.”

Eventually, her knees gave out entirely, her body slumping forward. He caught her before her face hit the edge of the counter. 

"Ada? Hey, look at me," setting her down on the table. "Come on. Stay with me. Are you sick? Were you poisoned? Who do I need to kill? Tell me.”

“You want to know what happened?... Look at this.” With trembling fingers, she withdrew a small, plastic stick from her pocket and held it out between them. 

Leon immediately knew what the lines meant. One line for control, two for positive. He was currently face-to-face with the latter.

His brain raced frantically to connect the dots, to count backward through a chaotic haze of dates, safe houses, and covert rendezvous. 

“I-in Vienna?”, the words catching like glass in his throat. “In that hotel?”

She nodded before hiding her face right back into the crook of his neck.

“Jesus Christ,” Leon whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. 

A child—a concept that felt entirely incompatible with the blood-soaked, shadow-drenched lives they led. 

His hands shook, and to counter it, he tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her so close against him that there was no space left between them. He needed to anchor himself, he needed to anchor her.

Leon’s mind immediately began compiling a list of consequences.

Ada Wong was someone with a permanent red notice on her name. Her medical records didn't exist. Her real name was a matter of debate in different intelligence agencies. 

If the U.S. Government found out that the world’s most sought-after mercenary had a child with the President’s lead agent, the response would either be imprisonment or a termination. A child carrying their DNA would become a priceless specimen.

He thought of her dropping from ceilings, the heavy impacts her body took, and the experimental serums she’d been exposed to over the years. Was she even safe? Was her body capable of carrying something without collapsing? 

Her new state of vulnerability hit him harder than any physical blow he’d ever taken. He couldn't protect her if she was running, and she couldn't run if she was carrying his child.

The silence stretched between them. Then… he heard her breath hitched.

Suddenly, his shoulder felt damp and warm; Ada was crying.

For as long as he’d known her, Ada Wong did not weep. Hearing her break, feeling her fingers clawing back into his shirt as if she were drowning and he was the only life raft in the ocean,  sent a sharp ache through his chest. 

He didn't offer any hollow platitudes or tell her it was going to be okay — he didn't know if it would be. He shifted his weight to cradle her fully and pressed soft kisses to the crown of her head, letting her pour out the weight she’d been carrying alone.

As her breathing evened, he slowly let his hands slide down her arms to gently grip her elbows. 

"How long?”

"Two months… Give or take a week.”

“Okay, where were you when you found out?"

She finally raised her head, her eyes bloodshot, "Dubai. I was in Dubai."

[A month ago…]

Forty stories up, Ada was crouching on a parapet of a commercial tower, her gaze fixed on the adjacent roof twenty feet below. 

The extraction was over. It was supposed to have been a routine server sweep—three minutes in the dark, an encrypted flash drive in her pocket, and a clean exit through the basement garage.

Instead, Callaghan’s intelligence had been 48 hours stale. The local militia had restructured their patrol routes on Tuesday, turning a simple extraction into a chaotic, three-way crossfire that forced her up the service shafts and onto the roof.

She had survived. Again. 

Of course, she did. She had to. 

Ada’s eyes measured the distance of her jump. It was a standard drop-and-bound, a calculation her brain had performed a thousand times in a dozen different cities. 

Taking a deep breath, she ran and launched herself into the open air.

Mid-flight, her vision spun, the neon lights fracturing into jagged streaks of white and gold. The overwhelming nausea made her knees lock—a fatal mistake to make–causing her to miss her landing by an inch. In her line of work, an inch was the thin line between a successful contract and a closed-casket funeral. 

Move! 

With a desperate twist, she fired her grappling hook. The steel cable bit into a ventilation housing, halting her fall. 

When she finally hauled herself over the roof, she didn't check her perimeter or look for cameras; those were the least of her worries when she dropped to her knees, and hurled her guts out.

Fuck.

Inside the private lounge, Callaghan sat in a leather armchair, a glass of scotch balanced on his knee. He was a small man who dressed in linen suits that were too large for him, trying to buy the presence that his reputation didn't provide. 

When Ada stepped through the velvet curtain, he greeted her with a smile; one that didn't reach his eyes.

"Ms. Wong," gesturing toward the empty chair across him. "Exceptional work, as always. The server logs are already being cleared by my team in Nicosia. Though… my spotters at the perimeter mentioned you stayed on the roof longer than scheduled. A full ninety seconds behind the curve."

Ada didn't even bother sitting down, tossing the encrypted drive onto the table between them.

"Your spotters should spend less time looking at their watches and more time checking the local radio bands. The security grid at the financial center was restructured two days ago, Callaghan. Your intel was shit. I had to bypass five localized biometric locks that weren't on your schematic."

Callaghan’s smile thinned, setting his glass down. “The price of doing business in the Gulf, my dear. Unexpected variables. But you look… pale. Even for a woman of your complexion. And if the footage from the harbor camera is accurate, your exit into the alley lacked your usual… flair. Is the legendary Ada Wong finally finding the humidity too much for her?"

"The only thing I find too much for me is your operational incompetence," she snapped, her eyes drilling into his until he looked away. The smell of his scotch made her throat tighten. "The contract stated a clean drop. It wasn't. I had to use secondary contingency routes and expose two of my own active local channels to clear your mess. The fee is doubled."

"Doubled? We have a signed agreement, Ms. Wong. The broker network doesn't tolerate arbitrary inflation because an operative had a rough night—“

"The broker network doesn't tolerate clients whose targets are 48 hours ahead of their information", Ada countered, "Wire the remaining balance to the Cayman account before I leave this room, or the decryption key for that drive expires in six minutes. And then you can go back to your principals in London and explain why fifty million dollars of sovereign debt data is currently sitting behind a firewall they can't breach."

“You bitch.”

“I’ve been called worse. Try again.”

He clicked his tongue, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a small encryption tablet. His thumbs moved quickly across the glass. "A pleasure as always, Ms. Wong.”

Ada’s phone buzzed in her pocket, confirming the payment.  “I’d reconsider my sources if I were you, Callaghan,” slipping past the velvet curtain before he could offer a parting pleasantry.

The door to her penthouse suite had barely clicked shut before Ada stumbled inside the bathroom.

Her hands shook as she tore the box open, the instructions fluttering down into the sink unread. 

Five minutes. The box said five minutes for the reagent to bind.

Ada paced like an animal in a cage. She bit down on her thumb, her teeth sinking into the skin until she tasted iron – anything to override the frantic pounding of her heart. Her free hand gripped her waist so hard into her side she could feel the ridge of her hip bone.

Last month, she had lied to herself. Multiple times, actually. 

When the smell of buttered oysters made her gag in her suite? She told herself it was a mild case of food poisoning. When she felt exhausted after a simple five-mile jog when she could easily clear fifteen last month? She blamed the jet lag and the lingering effects of an experimental nerve agent she’d been exposed to six months prior. 

She had built a fortress of excuses to rationalize her situation, but two months of consistent N&V, amenorrhea, and food aversions… could it be?

“No,” she whispered, her voice sounding desperate as it bounced off the tiles. “No, no, no. This is impossible.”

Please let it be negative. Please let it be negative.

When she finally stopped pacing and looked down, there, glaring back at her were two red lines. 

The fortress crumbled. 

She had never hated a color so much in her life. Ada Wong hating the color red? That’s a first.

Her vision went completely dark at the edges; the tinnitus in her ear made everything worse. She slid down the cool tiles of the wall until she was sitting flat on the floor.

How?! sang the chaotic chorus of panic taking over her brain. “How did this happen?!”

They had been careful. They were always careful. She was compliant with the pill, tracking it like she tracked ammunition counts. Even if the contraceptive had failed, she had been in her luteal phase. She knew the chances were never zero; but it was medically improbable. 

“Stupid Ada. Stupid, arrogant Ada!”, she screamed, her fingers tangling in her hair, pulling until her scalp ached. “You’re a spy. You handle bioweapons and global conspiracies, and you let a basic biological failure ruin you? You should have known. You should have checked twice, thrice!” her fists struck the floor beneath her.

What happens now? 

Her career was over if anyone found out. A freelancer didn't get maternity leave; a ghost didn't carry extra pounds of weight through an insertion zone. If the underground realized she had been compromised, her clients—the corporations, the rogue cells, the men who paid her to steal things that shouldn't exist—they wouldn't see a mother. They would see a target.

And Leon. Oh god, Leon.

He was finally clear of the worst of the internal reviews for a while. His position with STRATCOM was secure. If the department found out he had fathered a child with her, they would ruin him. They would take his clearance, put him in a cell in Colorado, or use the child to keep him on a shorter leash for the rest of his life. He would become a dog on a chain, and it would be her fault.

Should I tell him?

"No," she said aloud to the empty tiles. "Absolutely fucking not.”

She looked at her phone sitting on the marble near her boot.

I should just get rid of it. Go to a clinic, take three days to recover – ten if she were being generous to herself, and log back into the network by Friday. Nobody would ever know. 

But as the thought settled into her brain, a strange feeling ached behind her breastbone.

He deserves to know, the voice in her head whispered. It’s his, too. He isn't a client, Ada. He’s Leon.

Her hands were still shaking as she picked up the phone. Her thumb slid through her secure directory, bypassing the active listings until she found a number that didn't go through a routing server.

She pressed the icon before her brain analyzed the risk.

[Ada? It’s noon here. Is there a problem?]

Dr. Miriam’s voice answered. Aside from Leon, she was the only person who held the fragments of Ada’s real identity, the only one who had ever stitched her up without threatening to sell her out.

Ada opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She didn't even notice the silent tears spilling over her eyelashes until they hit her lips, tasting of salt.

[Ada? What’s wrong? Talk to me. Are you in a hot zone? Do I need to clear a bed?]

"It’s… it’s nothing, Miriam," Ada said, her voice cracking so badly on the final syllable it didn't even sound like her own. "I made a mistake with the routing. I’ll call you back soon."

[Ada, wait—if you’re hurt, if there’s anything wrong… please, let me know.]

"I’m fine," Ending the call right away, tossing the phone onto the counter.

She sat there for a long time, the silence of the penthouse settling over her like a heavy blanket. 

Finally finding the strength to stand up, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She hesitantly moved her hand and pressed it flat against her lower stomach. There was still nothing to see or feel yet, but beneath her skin, she knew something was changing.

A child. A piece of her. And a piece of Leon.

She thought about the world they lived in—the things they had seen in the dark, the bioweapons that tore people apart from the inside out, the corrupt, rot-filled departments that traded lives for policy. Everything she had ever touched in her life had turned to either cash or ash. Her entire existence was an exercise in deceit.

But this? This tiny, invisible presence inside her didn't have a contract code or a bounty over their head. 

A strange wave of protectiveness washed over her. She had spent most of her life running and fighting for herself and that changed when she met the rookie. Now? The concept of surviving for someone else grew another root in her soul.

What if he hates me for it? 

What if he sees it as a trap? 

What if he tells me to terminate it because of his work?

The thought of Leon looking at her with resentment made her stomach twist into a fresh knot of agony. She couldn't take that. If he looked at her like she was an inconvenience, she would kill him.

"Fine," she whispered to her reflection, her jaw tightening as she began to pull the pieces of Ada Wong back together, slotting the armor back into place. "If I ever choose to keep you, I’ll raise you on my own if I have to. I don't need his permission to be a mother… even if I don’t know how to.”

Closing her eyes, she took a long, steadying breath. Finally agreeing to her conscience. "But… your father has the right to know, little one.”

The universe, it seemed, wasn't going to make it easy for her. 

She walked back into the bedroom, opening her secure terminal to check the regional division logs. She needed to find out where he was stationed, to find a window where she could corner him without teams of federal agents watching his flank.

The satellite feed decrypted slowly on the screen.

OPERATIVE: KENNEDY, L. S.

STATUS: ACTIVE / BLACKOUT ASSIGNMENT

LOCATION: [REDACTED] REGION (SECTOR 4)

COMMS: DEACTIVATED UNTIL [REDACTED]

Ada stared at the flashing green text. She would have to wait, carrying the secret alone for an entire week, counting the days until she could look him in the eye and risk losing everything they had ever built.

[Present day…]

Leon swallowed hard, keeping his own overwhelming wave of emotions under lock and key. He knew his reaction would carry immense weight; that she was looking for a sign, a rejection, or a demand. 

But more than anything, he needed to know where she stood. He needed to understand her heart before he voiced the sudden protective instinct that was already blooming in his chest.

“How do you feel about it, Ada? And give me the real answer.”

“I…I don’t know,” she whispered, “I’m not happy. I’m not sad. The logical path is obvious, Leon – clear the board before anyone else sees the pieces. But I didn't. I am hesitating and that terrifies me more than anything else. Does that answer your question?”

Leon knew exactly what it cost her to say those words; that it took every single ounce of Ada’s heavily guarded being to lay herself bare like this — to admit to wanting something pure. He cherished every single word, carving them into his memory.

“Yes. It does and–”

"I’m not done. Let me make one thing clear," she hissed as she hopped off the table. "I didn't come here looking for a savior. If I decide to keep… this, I can disappear tomorrow. I can raise a child in a place where your government couldn't find me with a satellite array. I don't need your permission, and I don't need your help."

She was spinning. Her words came faster, her eyes darting around the small kitchen as if looking for the exit.

"Ada."

Leon reached out, his large hands reaching through her guard. "Ada, stop. Breathe."

She froze under his palms.

"Look at me," his thumbs caressing her cheeks, "Thank you for letting me know. If you want to walk away, we walk away. If you don't, we fight for them. Now, do you want to keep them?”

"Yes." 

Leon let out a sound—a broken laugh that caught in the back of his throat, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Okay… okay…" he breathed, his voice thick. "That’s... that’s all I needed to hear..."

"Wait… You're not angry?" 

"Horrified? Yes. Angry? Never.”

Ada’s body remained stiff. "Leon, think for a second. Your career... At least eighteen years, Leon. We don't even plan eighteen days in advance– "

“To hell with the agency and my career. I’ve given half my life to a government that treats me like a weapon on a shelf, Ada. I’ve bled for them, watched friends die, and at the end of the day, they don't give a damn about me. But this? I will protect both of you with everything I have. I’ll burn the agency to the ground myself before I let them touch a single hair on either of your heads.”

He leaned in, his gaze burning into hers. “I know you can handle yourself. You’re the most capable, dangerous woman I’ve ever met. But know that I’m in this completely. Every step of the way.”

“Leon, you’re being idealistic,” she whispered, her voice fractured. “You know they’re going to use him as leverage against us if they ever find out, right? The people we work for… they don't play by the rules.”

His gaze softened, “I told you, Ada. I don’t care. Call it unrealistic, delusional, or whatever synonym you can find in the dictionary. I. Don’t. Care.” He paused, his eyebrows pulling together as the specific pronoun she used finally registered in his brain. “Wait… him?”

Ada blinked, a faint flush rising to her cheeks as she realized what she had let slip.  “I… I have a feeling. Call it a mother’s intuition.”

“A son it is.” Slowly, his hand slid down from her waist, his palm flattening gently against her stomach. “I’ll give him the childhood we never got to have, Ada. I will spend every single day making sure he’s safe and loved.”

“I know…. But I’m horrified, Leon,” she confessed, the admission tearing out of her throat before she could stop it. She gripped his shirt again, her forehead sinking onto his shoulder. “I don't know if we can do this. What if we ruin him?”

“Hey… look at me,” he murmured, kissing the side of her neck. “We’re both terrified. We’d be idiots if we weren't. But we’re going to figure it out together. When you stumble, I’ll catch you. When I lose my mind, you re-anchor me. That’s how we’ve always survived, isn't it?”

Ada stayed quiet for a long moment, letting his heartbeat steady her own, “Okay… IF and only if you change your mind down the road, Leon… I will kill you myself. Then I’ll tell our kid you died because you fell asleep and drowned in a bowl of soup.”

Leon burst out laughing, the sound bright and ringing through the living room. “Okay, Mama. Whatever you say. But we both know that won’t happen.”

“Don’t call me that,” she reached out and playfully pinched his side, right above his hip.

“Ow! Alright, noted,” Leon chuckled, rubbing his side but refusing to let her slide off his lap. “…for now…”

“You’re unbelievable,” she sighed, though she let her head rest back against his chest.

“No secrets,” Leon whispered into her hair, “We do this together, Ada.”

“Together,” she repeated as she pressed her lips to his. "However, I am not going to lose myself in this, Leon. If you think this means you get to put me in a cage, you are severely mistaken. I will take contracts until the physical parameters make it impossible. You will not ground me. Understood?"

"Clear as day, Ma’am." 

"And there’s something else…When this child is born, your focus is going to shift entirely. I won't be forgotten, Leon. I won't be the shadow in the corner of your perfect little life."

Leon reached down and intertwined his fingers with hers. "Ada, you’re the only reason I’m still human. If I didn't have you to look for in the dark, I would have turned into a machine for the state ten years ago. You think my attention is going to shift? You’re my wife, Ada. That doesn't change because—"

"Your what? Don't use that word with me, Kennedy. We… we don't have the luxury of that kind of vocabulary."

"Why not? My twenty-one-year-old self instantly knew I was going to marry you, one way or another. We just skipped over the boring parts—the church, the paperwork, the regular dinners—and went straight to the heavy lifting. But in my head? You’ve always been it. So yeah, you’re my wife."

"Great," she smirked, "He already hears how insufferable his father is."

"Are you hungry?"

"I haven't kept anything down since the transit lounge in Cairo."

Leon picked up the cardboard box of the wings he had earlier, "They're not exactly five-stars, but that’s all I have at the moment."

"They're fine," reaching for a wing. "We can't stay here. My arrival here wasn't logged, but we both know that the government sweeps this block every two weeks. If an internal security team sees my silhouette through that window, your clearance won't survive the night."

"I know," Leon said, chewing slowly. "So, what’s the plan?"

"I have a place…forty-five miles north of your division headquarters. It’s an old cabin I bought through a shell company in Panama six years ago. The grid doesn't reach it. No satellite arrays unless you know the specific encryption frequency to activate the transceiver."

"Is it secure?"

"Of course it is. What kind of a question is that? If we move in next week, we can establish a dead zone before the next internal audit."

"A week… I’ll only bring what I can fit in a duffel. If my city apartment looks empty, the division will notice."

"A few things," Ada agreed. "Keep it minimal. I’ll handle the supplies through the regional hub."

She swayed a bit. The fatigue was finally catching up to her. 

Leon wiped the grease off his thumb before leading them both to the bedroom. 

As they lay down together, Ada allowed him to pull her back against his chest.

"Leon?” 

"Yeah?"

"If you let me turn into a housewife, I will shoot you."

Leon’s arms tightened around her waist, his lips pressing into the back of her neck. "Understood, Agent Wong. Sleep."

(A week after they moved in...)

The cabin sat deep in the timberland.

Leon stood by the small kitchen island, his fingers wrapped around a mug of black coffee that had gone lukewarm ten minutes ago. He was watching Ada adjust her coat in front of the hallway mirror. 

She was leaving for the afternoon. A simple supply run and a medical appointment she refused to give him the coordinates for.

Every instinct in Leon’s chest was screaming at him to grab his keys, block the door, and demand to go with her. Don't hover, he reminded himself. You promised her.

“If you stare any harder at that mug, Leon, it’s going to shatter.”

“I’m not staring.”

“And I’m not pregnant,” she turned to face him, pulling on a pair of lined leather gloves. “I am entirely capable of driving down the ridge without getting into trouble.”

“It’s not the driving I’m worried about,” Leon crossed his arms to keep his hands from fidgeting. “It’s the fact that you’re going into the city alone. No comms, no backup. If a local tracker spots you—”

“They won't. I’ve spent a decade staying invisible in cities that were actively being bombed, Leon. You gave me your word.”

Leon looked down at her. The fierce, stubborn line of her jaw was right there, he sighed. 

“I know… I’m keeping my word. I’m staying here. I’m just… it’s a new kind of weight, Ada. Before this, I’ve always worried about you. But sitting on a porch while you’re out there with our kid? It makes the pill much harder to swallow.”

Ada’s expression softened, her thumb brushing over the faint scar on his cheek. “Then consider it your toughest assignment yet, Agent. Discipline.”

He caught her wrist, holding her hand against his face for a moment before pressing a lingering kiss to her palm and another on her stomach.

“You two be careful,” he whispered, his grip on her waist tightening just enough to convey the sheer terror that was brewing within. “Ada, please.”

“I… No. We will, Leon.” She tried her best to keep her voice steady as she reached for her car keys on the counter. “Fix the leak in the woodstove while I’m gone. It’s smoking.”

Before he could answer, she was out the door, leaving him in the cabin that was entirely too quiet.

The clinic was located beneath a disused textile warehouse on the eastern edge of Baltimore. To the local authorities, the building was an abandoned shell awaiting a commercial zoning permit that would never arrive. To the people who moved in the gray spaces of the eastern seaboard, it was the only place where you could get a bullet extracted from your lung or a synthetic toxin flushed from your bloodstream without an ID or a police report.

Ada bypassed the main freight elevator, taking the staircase down into the basement, until she stopped in front of a steel door. She knocked a specific pattern against the metal.

Not a second later, a pair of eyes appeared behind the small viewing slot before the lock clicked open.

Dr. Miriam stood in the doorway. Her silver hair was pinned back in a messy bun, a pair of thick reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain around her neck. 

“You’re late,” Miriam stepped aside to let Ada pass. “I was about to assume you’d died in a ditch somewhere or finally took that contract in Shanghai.”

“Traffic on the turnpike,” Ada slipped her coat off and draped it over a steel chair. The basement was surprisingly warmer than she remembered.

Miriam locked the door behind them, her gaze instantly tracking Ada’s movements. 

“You didn't call me back last week. You left me hanging with a very ugly tone in your voice. I don't like ugly tones from you, Ada. It usually means I’m going to have to scrub blood out of my tiles later.”

“I was busy, I needed to arrange some things.”

Miriam didn't look convinced. She dragged a stool over, sitting directly in front of Ada. She grabbed Ada’s wrist, her calloused fingers immediately finding the pulse.

“Your heart rate is higher than usual. Your skin is pasty. And you looked like you gained weight since the last time I saw you.” Miriam muttered, dropping the wrist and reaching for a blood pressure cuff. “Roll up your sleeve. What did you expose yourself to this time? Is it another neurotoxin? Because if it’s that European strain again, I told you, the synthetic antibodies are hard to source—”

“I wasn't exposed to anything, Miriam,”

Miriam paused, the velcro of the cuff tearing loudly in the small room. “Then why are you here? You don't come to this basement for a social call, and you certainly don't look like you’re here to buy information.”

Ada looked at the older woman. Miriam was the closest thing to a mother Ada had ever known after her Mama passed away.

“I need a prenatal panel...and an ultrasound… to check the viability.”

The blood pressure cuff slipped from Miriam’s fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud.

The silence that followed was deafening. The clock on the wall ticked. A pipe somewhere in the ceiling groaned. Miriam sat frozen, her gaze dropping to Ada’s flat stomach and then rising back to her face.

“You’re joking. Tell me this is a joke.”

“It’s not, around two months. The pregnancy tests were positive. The morning sickness is persistent.”

Miriam stood up so fast the stool scraped against the floor. She slammed her hands down onto the metal cart, the glass vials rattling against each other.

“Are you completely out of your mind?!” Miriam roared, her face flushing a deep, angry red. “Ada! Look at me! Look at this room! Look at your file! You are a ghost! You have twenty-four separate aliases with Interpol, three active burn notices from the Chinese state security, and a bounty on your head in five different currencies! You don't get to have a family! You don't get to be pregnant!”

“I didn't come here for a lecture on my professional liabilities, Miriam. I came here for a medical evaluation.”

“You came to me because I’m the only one who won't sell your location to the highest bidder the moment you put your feet in the stirrups!” Miriam stepped forward, her voice dropping into a desperate, furious whisper. She reached out, her hands shaking as she grabbed Ada’s shoulders, her fingers digging through her shirt. “Ada… child. Listen to me. I have spent more than a decade pulling lead out of your back. I have seen what happens to women – to your mother – in this line of work when they get soft. They don't retire. They don't go to the countryside to grow roses. They end up in a landfill with their throats cut because they hesitated for a fraction of a second to protect something else.”

“I’m not soft,” Ada hissed, her jaw tightening. “And don’t bring Mama into this. She lived long enough to raise me right.”

“Still, Ada! You are carrying a human being! That is the very definition of a vulnerability! Who did this to you? If this was a forced interaction—”

“It wasn't.”

Miriam let go of her shoulders, stepping back as if she’d been struck. She stared at Ada, her mind working through the global web of contacts, clients, and targets that defined Ada’s life. 

Then, the color drained from Miriam’s face entirely. Her hands dropped to her sides.

“Oh, no,” Miriam’s voice trembled. “No. Not him.”

Ada looked away, staring at a stain on the brick wall.

“Is it the American agent? The boy with the blue eyes and the ridiculous hair?”

Ada’s silence was already an answer.

“Jesus Christ, Ada!” Miriam slammed her fist against the brickwork, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “Leon Kennedy? Out of all people, it had to be him? I warned you about him. Are you trying to start a third world war? If they find out, they will erase both of you from the history books!”

“They won't find out. Trust me on this one, Miriam. We moved into a dead zone a week ago.”

Miriam stopped pacing. “You’re staying with him. You’re actually… you’re playing house with him. In a cabin somewhere. Like two normal citizens.”

“It’s a temporary arrangement.”

“You always were a terrible liar, Ada. You may be an enigma to the government, but to me? I know the look you get when you’ve found something you actually want to keep. You look exactly like your mother did before the purge in Guangzhou.”

Ada’s hand twitched on the table, “Enough, Miriam.”

A sigh escaped the older woman’s lips, “Lie down. Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” She complied, shifting her legs onto the table and lying back against the cold paper lining. 

Miriam squeezed a dollop of cold, clear gel onto the skin causing Ada’s core to tighten instinctively.

“Relax,” Miriam muttered, picking up the ultrasound transducer. “If you keep your abdominal wall that tense, I won't see anything but shadow.”

Ada took a slow breath, forcing her muscles to untangle and her mind back to the cabin.

Miriam pressed the probe into the gel. The black-and-white monitor beside the bed flickered, the static clearing to reveal the dark, fluid-filled pocket of the uterus.

“There,” pointing a gloved finger at a tiny, flickering white pixel in the center of the dark space. “158 bpm. Strong. Healthy.”

Ada turned her head, her eyes locking onto the screen. There he is. 

“Breathe, Ada.” Miriam wiped the gel with a clean towel, “He’s there. He’s holding on.”

Ada sat up, pulling her shirt down quickly to cover the skin, “Is everything… within normal parameters?”

“For now,” Miriam said, walking over to the sink to wash her hands. She kept her back to Ada as she spoke, “But you need to understand something, Ada. This isn't just about nutrition or prenatal vitamins. Your lifestyle – the possible substances you’ll be exposed to – can be abortifacient. The next time your adrenaline spikes to the hundreds because you’re dropping from a helicopter, your body will prioritize your survival over the fetus. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I’ve already scaled back my contracts.”

“Good. Choose the ones you can do at home so they won’t be suspicious that you’re consistently inactive,” Miriam turned around, “No more jumps. No more extractions. If you want this child to have a heartbeat for the next seven months, you stay in that cabin or ask me first to give you my clearance.” She dried her hands before heading back towards her side, “You let that big, stupid American do the heavy lifting. He’s built like a tank anyway; let him do his job.”

Ada reached for her coat, pulling it around her shoulders like armor. “He’s not stupid.”

“Yes he is, he got you pregnant, didn’t he?” Miriam countered, though there was no malice in her voice now, only weariness. Reaching into a cabinet, she pulled out heavy bottles of prenatal supplements. “Take these. Every morning. If you throw them up, take them again at noon.”

Ada took the bottles, sliding them into the deep pockets of her coat. “Thank you, Miriam.”

She pulled Ada in her embrace, her hand caressing her hair, “Don’t thank me yet. If the agency tracks you here, I will deny I ever saw you. But if you need me… if something goes wrong… you use the emergency frequency. I don't care if the whole world is listening. You call me.”

“I know.”

“Go,” Miriam whispered, releasing her and stepping back into the shadows of the clinic. “Go back to your woods before night falls. And tell your agent that if he lets anything happen to you, I will find a way to contaminate his government’s water supply with something very unpleasant.”

Ada smirked, “I’ll pass along the message.”

It was already dusk when Leon heard Ada’s car pulling into the driveway. Leon was already sitting on the top step, a heavy flannel shirt thrown over his shoulders against the evening chill. He had a piece of sandpaper in one hand and the iron door of the woodstove in the other. He had clearly been working on the leak, his face smudged with a streak of black soot near his temple.

The moment he heard the car door click, he ran towards her, wrapping her in his embrace despite her protests. “Thank the heavens you’re both safe.” 

“I told you we will be.”

He placed her down, “The stove doesn't smoke anymore.”

“Good, because it’s going to be a cold winter, Leon.”

11th Week.

The digital clock on the microwave read 2:44 AM.

Leon shifted in his sleep, his hand instinctively reaching towards his left where Ada usually lay. He felt…nothing.

Oh shit. He immediately jolted awake.

“Ada?!” He called out as he swung his legs out of bed, “Where are you–” 

There, in the kitchen stood Ada.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, dear. Don’t do that again.” He was still catching his breath when his eyes moved from her face down to the countertop. In front of her, sat a half-eaten sleeve of saltine crackers, a bowl of yellow mustard, and a plate containing unpeeled sweet potatoes.

Ada didn't bother looking up as she carefully lowered a dill pickle into the jar of peanut butter.

"Tell me you're not about to put that in your mouth." 

“Shut up, Leon.” Ada paused, the pickle halfway to her lips. "It’s a sodium-to-protein ratio correction." 

“I’m sorry, what?”

"I’m not repeating myself."

"Ada," Leon said, stepping into the kitchen, "You’re putting peanut butter on a pickle. At three in the morning."

"I am aware, Leon." Chomp. "And the flavor profile is actually quite balanced. You should try it,” she offered him a piece.

Leon’s face contorted in disgust. He had seen people do terrible things under the influence of synthetic parasites. He had seen the human body mutate into shapes that defied biological law. 

"Ada, I am saying this out of pure love…You're disgusting," a tired grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"I am pregnant," she corrected, setting the jar down on the counter with a soft thud. She looked down at the remaining half of the pickle with a sudden, dark frown. Her mood shifted like a weather front over the Atlantic. "And this peanut butter is stale. It’s like eating wet sand."

"I bought it last week, Ada. It’s not stale."

"It’s commercialized garbage," she hissed, her fingers tightening around the handle of the spoon. She turned around and looked up at him, "I want chips."

"There’s a bag of tortilla chips in the pantry. Second shelf."

"No. Not those. Those are corn. They taste like cardboard dust. I want the kettle-cooked ones. Jalapeño flavor. But they need to be the brand from the regional distributor in Pennsylvania. The ones with the dark green packaging."

Leon rubbed his hand over his face, his fingers dragging down his eyelids. "Ada, the nearest 24-hour gas station is twelve miles down the ridge. They have standard potato chips and pork rinds. They don't have the ones you’re looking for."

"Then you’d better start driving. Because if I have to look at this jar of pickles for another ten minutes, I am going to throw it through that window."

Leon looked at the clock on the microwave. 3:12 AM. "You’re serious.”

"I am entirely serious, Leon." Ada sighed and pouted, “Please?”

There it is. He was always a goner whenever Ada pulled out that move. If their son ever inherits his mother’s talent, he is done for. Despite his exhaustion, he conceded.

"Alright, Ada. Jalapeño. Dark green bag. Anything else?"

"Dark chocolate. The one with sea salt and whole almonds. If they only have the milk chocolate ones, don't bother bringing it home. It’s an insult to the palate."

"Right. Dark chocolate only. Got it."

“Thank you, hun. Be home safe for us, okay?” She placed a soft kiss on his cheek. 

Hun. A goofy grin plastered on his face as he closed the door behind him. Turns out, he doesn’t mind being her personal delivery guy after all.

The clerk at the gas station was an 18-year-old with greasy hair and a faded metal band shirt; not bothering to look up as Leon walked down the snack aisle.

Alright, let’s see. This won’t be too hard, right? His eyes scanning the bright, crinkly rows of foil bags until he found the kettle-cooked section. 

There was barbecue, sour cream and onion, and salt and vinegar. But no dark green bags. Oh no. 

He moved to the candy display nearby, his fingers moving through the bars until he found a dark chocolate bar with almonds, but it didn't mention sea salt.

Does this store even sell anything???

Leon stood in the middle of the aisle, his hands on his hips, facing a level of anxiety he hadn't felt since… ever. If he went back to that cabin empty-handed, Ada wouldn't yell. She would just look at him with that quiet, devastating disappointment that would absolutely plummet his self-esteem.

He walked up to the counter, placing three different brands of dark chocolate onto the counter.

"Hey. You got any back stock of the kettle chips? The dark green ones?"

The kid blinked at him, his brain processing the request. "Uh. Whatever’s on the shelf is what we got, Sir. The truck doesn't come until Thursday."

Leon leaned over the counter, his eyes locking onto the kid’s face. "Think about it. Is there a box in the back? Maybe something the driver dropped by mistake? I’ll give you fifty bucks for a single bag. Just one, kid."

The kid’s eyes widened at the mention of the monetary compensation and the raw desperation radiating from his face. "Man... you look like you’re about to go to war over some chips."

"You have no idea. My wife is going to kill me if I don't have that specific variant." Leon slapped a crumpled fifty-dollar bill from his pocket onto the counter next to the candy bars. "Please, check the back.

His phone buzzed. [My Wifey <3: Leon? Did you find it?]

To any deity who is listening in, please let there be one. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

Fifteen minutes later, the kid returned from the storeroom holding a slightly dusty, dark green bag of jalapeño kettle chips. "Found it behind the oil filters. It’s got a crinkle in the corner, but the seal’s good."

“FUCK YEAH!” He pumped his fist in the air in pure joy. The kid hid behind the counter, his hand shaking as he placed the chips along with his other purchases. “Y-you’re w-welcome?”

"You, kid, are going to change the world. Keep the change."

“T-thanks?” The kid could still hear him howling as his car pulled out of the parking lot.

Leon checked his watch, 5:37 AM when he pulled over their driveway. 

He hurried up the porch steps, the plastic bag rattling in his hand. He found Ada sitting by the dining table, the jar of pickles had been pushed to the center like a discarded weapon.

"Mission accomplished," he wheezed as he set the goods in front of her. "Jalapeño. Correct brand. And I bought three different dark chocolates because the salt content wasn't specified on the label."

Ada looked down at the items. For a second, Leon thought she was going to smile, or at least give him that slight nod of approval. Instead, her mouth twisted. She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly welling with tears that caught him completely off guard.

"What's wrong?" Leon asked quickly, dropping down onto one knee next to her chair, "Ada? Are you hurt? Is it the stomach again?"

"No," she sniffled, her voice thick as she reached out and touched the crinkled corner of the chip bag. "You actually found them."

"Of course I found them," his hand slid up to her waist. "I told you I would."

"It's stupid," she whispered, wiping a single stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand, looking annoyed with whatever is going on with her. "My hormones are completely all over the place. I am Ada Wong for goodness sake, but here I am currently crying because you brought me a bag of chips and a few sweets."

Leon let out a soft laugh, his forehead resting against her shoulder for a second. "Hey. If the little guy wants it, he will get it. I’ll do what it takes."

“He isn’t born yet but you're already spoiling him, Leon.”

“As he should.”

“Seriously, thank you. You’re way too good to me.” pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“Anything for you too.”

“Mmhmm. Now, let’s see.” She tore the top of the bag open with a sharp, pulled out a chip, and popped one in her mouth. "Excellent! 10/10.”

“Thank god,” he exhaled a sigh of relief, watching her eat three more chips. 

She looked down at him after the fourth one, her fingers dusted with green seasoning, and held the bag out toward him. "The floor is dirty, hun. Take one. You earned it."

Leon reached into the bag and took a bite. What the fuck. It was incredibly spicy, the heat hitting the back of his throat immediately. "Jesus. How are you eating these?", he choked out as he ran towards the fridge to down the box of milk.

She shrugged, already reaching for the chocolate bar. She broke off a square of the dark chocolate, set it directly onto another jalapeño chip, and popped the entire combination into her mouth.

"Okay. That... that is definitely a biohazard."

"Don't judge the process, Agent. The baby likes the contrast."

Leon sat back on his heels, watching her construct another spicy-chocolate hybrid.

This is going to be a long day.

20th Week.

Tap. Tap. Space.

Leon sat at his desk, the cursor on his dual-monitor setup blinking mockingly at the end of a half-finished report. He was using exactly two fingers to type — a skill he didn’t bother to master as he was mostly doing field work. 

Tap. Tap. Enter.

Beneath the desk, his right heel was restless against the carpeted floor. 

"Kennedy."

Leon didn't look up from the screen, his mind elsewhere.

[Three nights ago…]

Ada had been standing by the woodstove, a satellite phone resting flat on the palm of her hand. She was back in her tailored dark trousers and thigh high boots combo. 

"It’s a single-stage extraction in Munich," checking her reflection to see if her bump is visible, "Five days. Six at the maximum. The broker network handled the clearing codes personally."

Leon had stood up so fast his chair had scraped a deep groove into the floorboards. "No. Absolutely not. You told me Dr…. Uh, what was her name again, Miriam? Told you to stay put. We talked about this, Ada. Yes, I promised not to cage you here months ago but your center of gravity is shifting—"

"My center of gravity is precisely where I dictate it to be, Leon," she had intercepted, "The target is a high-level corporate defector from WilPharma’s old research branch. He has encrypted drives containing the genetic sequencing of the primary viral strains. If I don't take the contract, the client will give it to someone who won't hesitate to sell those sequences to the highest bidder on the black market."

"Let the division handle it," Leon stepped into her space, his hands coming up to grip her upper arms. "I can pull the file. I can have a strike team in Bavaria by tomorrow morning."

"And when your strike team logs the encryption keys and notices my signature on the source code?" Ada had looked down at his hands on her arms, her jaw tightening. "You’re an excellent field asset, Leon, but you are a terrible politician. If the state department touches this file, the string leads straight back to this cabin. I am going. I have already cleared the transit lane."

She had stopped then, seeing the panic bleeding into his eyes. Her expression had softened and reached up, her fingers pressing against his jawline. "I am not a glass doll, Leon," kissing his jaw, "I know exactly what I am carrying. I will be back before the woodstove burns through the current supply of firewood. This will be my last field mission, I promise. I already had an earful from Miriam.”

(Present Day…)

"Leon."

A sharp knock against the edge of his desk made him jump. His heel instantly froze against the floor. Ingrid Hunnigan was looming over him with a displeased look on her face.

"You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes," her gaze landed on his fingers on the keyboard, “I see that your… typing skills remained unmatched.”

"I told you, Ingrid. If it gets the job done, it gets the job done. Regardless of technique…" 

Hunnigan raised a brow, aware of the fact that Leon deliberately ignored her first query. He cleared his throat. "...the data is messy. Lots of cross-referencing."

“Cross-referencing… right.” 20 minutes ago, at exactly 8:15 AM, Leon had bolted from his chair, sprinted down the hallway to the men's room, and dry-heaved into a stall until his ribs ached. It was his fourth consecutive morning doing so.

"You look awful and you’ve been avoiding the briefing room like it’s a hot zone. If you picked up an undisclosed pathogen during the surveillance detail, Leon, you need to report to the medical wing immediately. I don't need internal affairs locking down the entire floor because you’re hiding a fever."

"It’s not a pathogen, Ingrid," he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his face to hide the tremor in his fingers. "It’s... burnout."

Hunnigan stared at him, unconvinced. She knew him better than anyone else in the department which is precisely why she knew the look he got when he was covering for an unauthorized asset.

"Burnout from sitting in a car… weeks ago… Who are you fooling exactly, Kennedy?”, she leaned closer “The Director wants those data reports finalized by five. If you’re still 'tired' tomorrow, I’m pulling your field status for the next quarter and sending you to the clinic myself. Clear?"

"Clear. Thanks, Ingrid."

“And for fuck’s sake, Leon. Learn how to type like a human and not like a T-rex.”

“Okay, that’s just rude!”

“If I were you, Leon, I’d be careful.”

She gave him one last, lingering look before turning on her heel and walking toward the glass offices at the end of the hall.

Leon waited until her shadow cleared the partition before he let out a long, shaky breath, his hands dropping into his lap. His stomach gave another twist, the sympathetic morning sickness—the absolute absurdity of his own body mimicking hers—leaving him lightheaded and hollow. It doesn’t make sense, this should’ve stopped when she entered her second trimester. 

It’s because you’re worried about them, you idiot! Right. He almost forgot about that part under Hunnigan’s scrutiny. 

She knows, doesn’t she? The realization made acid rise up to the back of his throat. Again.

When he clocked out, Leon immediately plopped himself in the backseat of his truck.

He was completely spent. The stress of the past days had been a different kind of torture than the missions. There was no target to shoot, no perimeter to defend. Just him against his nerves. 

Reaching into his pocket, his fingers curled around the bear keychain Ada gave him in Spain and brought it up to his lips.

"Please be safe," he whispered into the bear’s ear, his voice cracking with a vulnerability he would never show to the world outside this truck. "My angels... please. My heart can't take this."

Six hundred miles away, Ada was crouched behind the stone balustrade of an unlit balcony; her breath rising in tiny, controlled puffs of white mist. 

The extraction was complete. The corporate defector was currently unconscious in his study, the local security grid had been looped for exactly four more minutes, and in her pocket sat the encrypted WilPharma drives.

She stood up, her eyes measuring the drop to the fire escape of the opposite building. It was a standard twelve-foot jump over a narrow alleyway.

"Okay… Please be good to Mama when she makes this jump. Don't crowd the lungs."

She took two steps back, her eyes locking onto the iron railing and leaped.

When her boots landed, the impact was louder than usual, the additional mass jarring through her shins. But her knees bent perfectly, her hands catching the railing to absorb the kinetic force before her center could fail.

“Good boy,” a tiny smirk touching the corner of her lips in the darkness. 

Another branch of Miriam’s “office” was a small, private veterinary clinic on the northern outskirts of Strasbourg, just across the French border. She didn't even look up from her charts when Ada let herself in.

"You're 36 hours behind schedule, Ada. The local brokers said the Munich house went dark on Wednesday. I was about to look up the local morgue listings under your current German alias."

"The transit through the Black Forest took longer than expected. The border checks were tighter."

Miriam finally dropped the files, turning around on her stool. She had a lecture prepared again—Ada could see it in the hard line of the old woman's mouth, the way her silver eyebrows were drawn together. 

But she stopped. The anger seemed to drain from her shoulders all at once as she walked over to Ada.

Under the lamps, the change was undeniable. The flat, iron-hard silhouette Ada had carried for a decade had softened; a prominent, little bump looked entirely foreign on her slender frame.

"Look at you," Miriam reached out, her gloved hand hovering over Ada's stomach. "You're actually showing. You look... like a mother, Ada. God help us."

Ada looked away, her eyes fixing on a poster of canine anatomy on the wall. "I… I know. The jump in Munich was heavy. I had to recalibrate for the landing."

"Sit down on the table," Miriam commanded softly, her hand sliding away to reach for the portable diagnostic scanner she had brought from her main supply. "Let’s see what this Munich trip did to my patient."

The digital screen on the portable unit flickered, the static clearing to show the grey, detailed image of the womb. "Well… Your agent doesn't miss his targets, does he?"

"What is it?"

"See that small projection between the thigh bones?" Miriam pointed a finger at the monitor. "Clear as day. The morphological markers are complete. It’s a boy, Ada. You’re having a son."

A son. She was right.

A sudden, tight pressure bloomed behind Ada’s chest, a warmth so intense it made her eyes sting.  

"He's going to look like you, you know." Miriam whispered, her own eyes welling up as she wiped a single tear from Ada’s cheek. "But, he will have his father’s eyes. You’re going to have an ocean of those eyes in your home, my dear. The best kind of drowning."

Ada let out a broken breath that was half-laugh, half-sob for Miriam’s attempt in being poetic. 

"He's a mess — Leon. He’s probably throwing up at his desk right now."

"Good. Let him share the labor. He’s built for it. Now get out of my clinic, Ada. Your weeks are counting down, and that cabin is a long way from Strasbourg."

It was around past midnight when a pair of headlights cut through the pine needles. Leon was on his feet before the tires stopped crunching the gravel and cleared the distance between them, pulling her flush against his chest.

"You're shaking, Leon."

"I-I’m fine… I’m fine…" his voice shook as he cupped her face, "Welcome home, you two. Don’t leave like that again…” 

He guided her up the steps. “How did it go, hun?”

"The extraction was clean, Leon. I told you it would be.”

Inside, the warmth of the cabin hit them instantly. 

"Sit down, Kennedy," she said softly, gesturing to the chair across from her. "You look like you’re about to pass out, and I’m the one who is supposed to be jet lagged."

Leon walked over, his legs feeling heavy, and pulled the chair close to hers; his hand immediately reaching out to squeeze her knee.

"Miriam checked the baseline in Strasbourg. The structural development is exactly where it should be for twenty weeks."

"And?" Leon asked, his voice barely a whisper. His heart was hammering against his ribs.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she slid a box towards him. 

"Ada, what’s this?”

“Open it.”

Leon’s fingers slowly untied the ribbon. Inside was a navy blue onesie with the print, “Daddy’s Little Agent.” Almost immediately, his world blurred. His grip tightened around the soft fabric as a sob escaped his lips.

"A boy," his voice shook. The word felt massive, expanding in his chest until he couldn't pull enough air into his lungs. He pulled Ada towards his lap, locking her in his embrace. "We’re... it’s a son. You were right, Ada. Goodness."

"A son,” her composure also cracking as she tucked her head in the crook of his neck, 

"I pray that he has your eyes, Ada. He will look so perfect."

"Miriam also said the same… but with your blues" She pulled away just enough for her to wipe away his tears, "She also said I’m going to have a house full of people who think they can save the world with nothing but a handgun and a never-ending stock of stubbornness."

Leon’s chuckle brought music to her ears, "My stubbornness with your wits? He’s going to be a handful before he learns how to walk, Ada."

"He’d better… because his father is entirely too reckless."

“Hey, I’m not reckless.”

“We both are. Why do you think we’re in this state right now?”

“Fair point.”

They stayed like that for a long time, the quiet ticking of the clock and the low crackle of the fire the only sounds in the cabin. 

"Leon?" 

"Yeah?"

"I'm hungry."

Leon smiled into her hair, his lips pressing against the crown of her head. "I bought your food cravings when I went grocery shopping yesterday. They're in the pantry."

"Did you get the dark green bags?"

"Only the dark green ones.," Leon stood up, carrying them both towards the kitchen. "Target descriptions were strictly followed."

"Good… Then you may live to see tomorrow's briefing."

The commercial center was crowded for a Saturday morning, filled with suburban couples and ambient pop music filtering through outdoor speakers.

Leon adjusted the brim of his faded baseball cap, the frames of his non-prescription glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he checked the perimeter of the department store. He was wearing a hoodie and a pair of worn jeans—the ultimate camouflage for a federal agent trying to look like a civilian.

Just a few feet ahead of him, Ada was inspecting a row of high-end baby strollers. Her disguise was similarly low-profile: a knit sweater that fell loosely over the distinct curve of her belly, a flowy skirt, and hair tucked beneath a woolen bucket hat. 

To anyone passing by, they were just another young couple preparing for a life change. To those who knew the global intelligence wire? They were two of the most dangerous people arguing about wheel bearings.

"The suspension on this one is too loose," Leon stepped up beside her and shook the handle of a sleek, charcoal-grey stroller. "If you hit an uneven patch of dirt on the ridge road, the front caster is going to lock up. We need the one with the solid rubber tires. The all-terrain variant."

"We are going to be walking down a smooth dirt path, Leon, not navigating a crater. The all-terrain model weighs thirty-four pounds. It doesn't fit into the trunk of my sedan without removing the rear parcel shelf. And I’m certainly not letting you place it at the back of your truck.”

"I can modify the shelf," he muttered, leaning his hands on the handlebar. But he digressed. 

“I heard that. And no, you can’t.”

Leon groaned and decided to change course; his voice dropping into a low whisper. "Come on, Ada. Just give me a hint. The first letter. Is it something unique?"

"We’ve been over this three times in the truck, Kennedy. You don't get the name until the birth certificate is printed."

"Why thougghhh? I'm the father, Ada. I have a legal right to a negotiation period."

"You have a right to carry the boxes to the car," she countered, her lips pulling into a faint, teasing line as she pushed the stroller frame back into its display slot. "The name is settled. Rest assured, it doesn't sound like a Midwestern high school football captain,” her eyes landing on him.

“Hey!”

The argument didn't end there though. Leon wanted a solid oak crib with reinforced iron brackets while Ada selected a minimalist, light birch design that could be disassembled with a single hex wrench in under five minutes.

"Mobility is security," Ada noted, tapping the side of the birch frame. "If we have to clear the sector, I am not leaving a three-hundred-pound piece of lumber behind for an audit team to trace."

Leon, for the umpteenth time that day, let out a frustrated sigh. 

“Oh don’t you be sighing like that on me, Leon. I’m paying. Now call that man over there so we can have this packed in your truck.”

Up next, baby clothes.

Ada stopped by the long rows of miniature hangers, her eyes scanning the tiny garments with an intensity she usually reserved for satellite schematics.

She didn't hesitate. Within minutes, she had collected mountains of soft cotton onesies, tiny denim overalls, and woolen socks. She dropped them into the shopping basket Leon was carrying, the pile growing until the plastic handles creaked.

Leon checked the price tag on a miniature corduroy jacket. He blinked, doing the mental math against his monthly stipend.

"Hey, Ada?" he whispered, leaning down near her ear. "Slow down a second, dear. This tiny jacket costs more than my winter coat. I’m on a government salary here, and internal affairs watches my bank transfers."

Ada didn't even pause her search through a rack of striped sleep-suits. She tossed another pair of booties into the basket, her tone completely dismissive. "Who told you that you were paying? I told you earlier, I am paying for all of this."

"Ada—"

"My offshore accounts are entirely untouched by your department's audit loops," she moved to the next display. "If my son wants to wear French cotton, he is going to wear French cotton. Keep up, Leon."

Leon’s thumb rubbed over the tiny sleeve of the jacket. "Right. Forgot who I was shopping with."

The maternity boutique on the second floor was quieter. 

Ada had bypassed the standard racks, heading straight for the maternity section. She selected an assortment of dresses made of cotton and smocked bodices.

Leon sat on a bench outside the changing rooms. He was prepared to wait, he knew better than to rush Ada when she’s shopping for clothes.

“Ada? I really think you should’ve gotten that red one, you would’ve looked absolutely beautiful in it–”

The words died in his throat, when the curtain finally slid back.

Ada stepped out onto the small carpeted platform dressed in powder blue. The fabric fell in long, gentle folds around her legs, the light material accentuating the round shape of her stomach. 

Without her usual sharp edges, the harsh light of the retail store seemed to soften around her, highlighting the line of her collarbone and the gentle curve of her jaw. She looked soft – angelic even.

Leon stood up from the bench slowly. His emotions flooded his chest up to his throat until he had to swallow twice just to clear it. He had seen her in elegant gowns with intricate beadings in European cities, but none has come close to what he is currently witnessing.

Ada looked at her reflection, her fingers smoothing down the skirt. She looked slightly uncomfortable with the lack of structure. "The material is comfortable…” She met his gaze through the mirror, “How do I look, Leon? I… I wanted to stray away from the red. You know, for a change…"

"It's perfect," He stepped up behind her, his hands coming around her waist from behind, his palms resting flat against her stomach. He leaned down, his chin resting against the top of her shoulder. "Ada... you look beautiful. So, so beautiful."

Ada leaned back against his chest, her hands coming up to rest over his knuckles. In the mirror, the contrast was stark: the scarred hands of a soldier resting over the gentle curve of a mother.

Two older sales ladies stopped folding sweaters as they watched the pair with soft, watery smiles, one of them holding a hand to her chest. 

To them, it was just a young, handsome husband completely enamored with his beautiful wife. They had no idea about the warrants, the biological samples, or the dead zones. They only saw the truth in the room – a child will grow up being loved. 

Ada caught the women's expressions in the glass and immediately cleared her throat, her posture straightening as the armor tried to slide back into place. "It's practical for summer and spring. I'll take it in lavender as well."

"Take all the available colors," Leon whispered into her hair, his lips lingering against her temple before he let her go so she could change. “I’ll pay. Don’t even argue. You’ve spent a fortune already.”

They stopped by a corner bookstore on the way back. Ada moved through the children's section, her fingers flipping through illustrated hardbacks. She selected a collection of standard ABCs, nursery rhymes, and a heavy book on star constellations.

"He's five months along, Ada," Leon said, leaning against a display of stuffed animals. "I don't think he’s going to be navigating by the Little Dipper anytime soon."

"It’s about vocabulary development, Leon," she said, adding the astronomy book to her stack. "I am not reading him stories about talking animals who make poor financial decisions with their crops."

"Come on, honey. Every kid needs their fables," Leon argued, pulling a brightly colored book about a runaway rabbit from the shelf. "Look at this one. Classic."

"The rabbit displays an aggregate lack of operational security," Ada noted, not even looking at the cover. "He leaves his primary burrows without a secondary extraction plan. It sets a bad precedent."

Leon let out a loud, genuine laugh that caused a toddler a few feet away to stare at him. "You are going to be a scary Mama if you keep that up, you know that?"

"I am going to be an effective one,” she corrected. “But fine. Only one book for fables,” adding said book to her cart before walking toward the checkout counter where a short queue had formed.

“Thanks, honey. You’re the best,” planting a kiss on her cheek. She responded with that signature roll of her eyes, but he can see that smile despite her best efforts to hide it.

"Go find something to distract yourself, I’ll handle the register. Don’t stray too far, Leon."

Leon watched her take her place in line, her bucket hat tilted down as she checked her phone. He stood there for a second before his eyes drifted toward the back corner of the shop, where a small sign read: Arts & Crafts.

He walked down the aisle. His eyes scanned the shelves that were filled with sketchbooks, watercolors, and rows of thick, woolen yarn in various shades of the rainbow. He stopped in front of a display of steel crocheting hooks and instructional booklets.

“When the time comes that I can't run an insertion zone anymore,” she had said one random night back when she was still in her first trimester, “I want to pick up crocheting again… Let’s just hope I find the time to actually commit to it.”

He reached out, selecting a handful of skeins of heavy, royal blue merino wool and a set of polished steel hooks. He added a small, simple guidebook on baby garments to the pile and walked to the secondary register.

When he walked back out into the main mall corridor, Ada was standing by a pillar, two heavy paper bags resting against her hip. 

"Where were you, hun? Thought I would’ve needed the customer service to announce your name through the speakers" she asked as he approached, her eyes dropping to the small brown paper bag tucked under his arm. 

“No need for that,” Leon let out a hearty laugh, his head thrown back.

He took the bags from her hand, shifting them to his left side, and then extended the small brown bag toward her. "For the winter," he said softly.

Ada's brows furrowed, her gloved fingers reaching into the bag. She pulled out a skein. Her fingers found the steel crocheting hooks beneath the paper, her thumb tracing the smooth, cold metal of the sizing gauge.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, just as moisture gathered beneath her lashes.

"Leon… You remembered… Y-you shouldn’t have…”

"I remember everything, Ada," Leon stepped closer, shielding her from the flow of shoppers with his broad shoulders. He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray tear. "You can finally make him those socks you wanted."

Ada stayed silent as she carefully tucked the yarn back into the bag, her fingers lingering against the paper as if she were trying to ground herself. Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around him, “Thank you… this… this means so much to me.” 

Before he could say a word, she pulled him into a kiss. "You're an incredibly sentimental fool, Kennedy," she murmured against his lips.

"Yeah, I know," Leon smiled, adjusting his cap before wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "But only to you and the little guy. Now, let's go home."

24th Week.

Ada sat on the edge of the sofa, her laptop resting on a wooden tray across her knees. The screen illuminating with rows of blue and green terminal script cascading down the display.

She was currently deep inside a third-tier server partition belonging to a maritime logistics firm based out of Rotterdam. It wasn't a world-ending assignment—just a corporate espionage contract to trace a hidden manifest of industrial chemicals—but the security architecture was surprisingly robust. They were using a triple-layer token handshake that renewed every ninety seconds.

Ada’s fingers moved across the keys, already seeding an internal proxy a few hours ago; now, she was just waiting for the system administrator to log in for his shift and ride his access tokens through the final firewall.

With a final tap of the enter key, the terminal window cleared. A directory list began to download into her encrypted drive.

Done. 

“Now that wasn’t so hard. Are you proud of Mama? I hope you are.” Ada leaned back into the cushions, letting out a slow breath. She reached up, removed her glasses, and pinched the bridge of her nose, appreciating the flexibility of freelance work. She could sit in a quiet cabin, pick the highest-paying data-retrieval contracts of the month, and ignore the rest of the world.

Of course, her definition of "lounging" still included her daily mobility routine. She had spent her morning on a yoga mat, executing controlled, low-impact core sets and single-leg balance holds.

When Leon had caught her doing a modified plank variation the previous weekend, his pulse had visibly spiked. He had stood in the doorway with a dish towel in his hand, looking as though he were watching a bomb tech cut the wrong wire. “Ada, Miriam said light exercises. Not tactical drills.”

She smiled faintly at the memory, as she leaned over by the sink to wash her face, her movements halted the moment she saw her reflection.

Her eyes scanned her now softened features, making her look hauntingly similar to the woman from an old photograph she hid in her travel safe – her mother. 

If only you could see me now, Mama. You would’ve loved them both as much as you’ve loved me.

Leaving the bathroom, she headed to her son’s room. Leon had finished painting it a few weeks ago. The birch crib sat against the far wall, flanked by a small dresser they had spent an entire day assembling; on top of it sat the books they bought in town.

Ada’s fingers brushed the smooth wood of the crib’s railing. Even now, surrounded by the evidence of their preparation, a cold thread of uncertainty remained tucked deep within her chest. 

A life this quiet felt fragile, like a glass vase balanced on a ledge. She knew how the world worked; she knew that corporate remnants, bio-weapons brokers, and old intelligence agencies had long memories. If a single string pulled loose, if an old alias flagged an automated border system, the peace of this ridge could disappear before the woodstove went cold.

She looked out the window, watching the wind move through the pine needles. 

Will the past stay dead until he is born? Or are we just waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Suddenly, she froze; feeling a sharp kick against the inside of her abdomen.

Ada held her breath, her hand instantly dropping to the curve of her stomach. She stood perfectly still in the empty room, her heart skipping a beat.

A second later, it happened again… as if he was saying that they will be alright.

“Hey, little guy. It’s Mama,” The corners of her eyes stung. The uncertainty, the lingering fear of the dark world outside she felt earlier, seemed to evaporate. 

Another kick. He was now making his presence known to the world.

"You're loud today," A genuine, radiant smile broke across her face as she rubbed her hand over the spot. “Let’s show this to Dada when he gets home, okay?”

Ada was back on the sofa when the front door opened, the cool evening air rushing into the living room. Leon kicked his boots off by the mat. In his arms, he carried a large brown grocery bag on the right and a smaller, white one on the left.

"Smells like rain out there," Leon said, setting the bags on the counter.

He walked into the living room. He leaned down, pressing a quick, firm kiss against her forehead. "How was work today?"

"The Rotterdam brokers have their data," Ada said, her fingers moving rhythmically as she worked a steel hook through the wool. She was halfway through a small blanket meant to match the tiny socks she had finished the night before. "And the cabin is still secure. What’s in the bag?"

"Italian from that place near the highway," Leon said, nodding toward the kitchen. "The garlic bread is still warm. And I bought the vitamins Miriam prescribed."

He walked back into the kitchen, unpacking the plastic containers. "What are you making there? Looks larger than the last one."

"A blanket," Ada said, not looking up from her stitch count. "Unless you plan on letting him sleep under one of your old jackets."

"Hey, those jackets have good thermal insulation," Leon called back with a grin. He walked back into the living room, carrying the smaller white paper bag. He sat down on the coffee table directly opposite her, his knees nearly touching her shins. "But the wool is going to be way softer."

He reached into the white bag, pulling out a digital camera. Ada’s brows rose, "A camera, Leon? If the department checks your personal expenses—"

"I bought it in cash at a pawn shop two towns over. I gave the lady a few bucks to have this purchased without a paper trail.” Leon interrupted smoothly, adjusting the settings on the small LCD screen. 

“I realized... we don't have anything, Ada. No photos of the cabin, the trip to town, nothing. I want to document this. From today until... well, until he's old enough to tell me to turn it off."

He lifted the device to his eye, pointing the lens toward her face. Through the screen, he could see her expression dropping into that guarded, professional neutrality she used whenever a camera was present.

"Don't do the spy face, Ada," Leon laughed softly as he started recording "Just wave. Say something to him."

Ada sighed, but the corners of her mouth twitched. She lifted a hand, her fingers giving a brief, elegant wave toward the lens. "Hello, little guy. It’s Mama again. Your father is being ridiculous."

"Perfect.”

Ada watched him through the lens for a second, then set her crochet hook down on the tray. "Leon. Set the camera on the table.”

"What's wrong?" he complied, but his eyes moved over her face with sudden concern. "Are you feeling sick again?"

"Come here," she said softly.

Leon slid off the coffee table, shifting until he was kneeling on the floorboards right beside her. He reached out, his hand going to her knee. Ada took his hand in hers and pressed it flat against the center of her belly.

For a full minute, there was nothing but the sound of Leon’s steady breathing. Then, it happened. A kick.

Leon’s entire body went rigid. His eyes widened, mouth parting slightly as his gaze dropped to his own hand. 

"Ada..." he whispered, his voice cracking completely. "Was that—"

Before he could finish, the baby kicked again, stronger this time, right against the base of Leon's thumb.

A sob tore out of Leon's chest as he dropped his forehead against her knee. His broad shoulders shook, the raw reality of his son’s strength breaking through every defense he had built over a lifetime of violence.

Ada’s fingers slid into his hair, holding him close, her own eyes bright with tears as she looked down at him. "He's been doing that since this afternoon. I think he inherited your lack of patience."

Leon let out a shaky chuckle as he wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Oh my god, we caught that on camera.”

He picked up the camera and turned the screen around so the lens was facing both of them.

“Hey, buddy. It’s your Dada. I just... I just felt you kick for the first time. You've got one hell of a strength already." He paused, swallowing hard, his hand tightening gently against Ada's waist. "We're here. We're waiting for you. And you are so incredibly loved. Don't ever doubt that."

He shifted the angle slightly, looking up at Ada.

Ada looked into the small lens. "Be good to your Mama while you're in here and to your Dada too. He worries a bit too much. We can't wait to meet you. Love you to bits, pumpkin."

Leon reached over, pressing the button to stop the recording. He leaned into her space, his arms coming around her shoulders as he showered her face with short, warm kisses—on her cheek, her nose, her forehead, and finally her lips, holding the kiss until the tension left her shoulders entirely.

"I'm going to set the table," Leon whispered against her mouth, his breath warm. "Before the garlic bread turns to stone."

"Go, I’ll finish this row."

30th Week.

The third trimester had hit the cabin like a train running off its rails. The easy, shared domesticity of the fifth and sixth months had quietly evaporated, replaced by an unpredictable tension that seemed to radiate from Ada’s presence.

To Ada, the pregnancy was rapidly becoming a cage. Her body—once an instrument of flawless precision, trained to clear window frames and slip through tactical perimeters—was no longer entirely her own. She was heavy, her center of gravity was broken, and she was exhausted. Because she couldn't strike out at the biology rewriting her skin from the inside out, her defensive instincts turned outward; targeting the only other presence in her space: Leon.

It began with the small things. 

A few days prior, he had been sitting at the kitchen island, quietly peeling an orange after a morning spent hauling lumber.

"Stop it," she had snapped from her chair, her fingers tightening around her crochet hook until the steel needle gave a faint creak. 

Leon had paused, a curl of orange peel hanging halfway off the fruit. "Stop what?"

"The rind," she said, her amber eyes flashing with genuine aversion. "The sound of you tearing the skin off that fruit is completely unnecessary. If you need a snack, go peel it on the porch."

The next day, it had been his soap. He had walked into the living room after a shower, his hair still damp from the mountain mist, and she had looked up from her book with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.

"You smell like skin," she had said, It's suffocating. Go stand by the stove until you dry out, or use something else. I can't breathe with you in the room."

He hadn't argued. He simply drove miles into town through a sleet storm to buy unscented, hypoallergenic soap, and ate his fruits outside. 

The most recent one was him being kicked out of their bedroom. The feather pillow hit Leon squarely in the chest, followed immediately by a folded wool blanket.

"Out.

Leon caught the blanket against his ribs, "Ada, it’s freezing outside and the draft from the front door comes straight across the sofa. What did I do?"

"You exist. You occupy space. The heat radiating from your body is making the entire eastern quadrant of the mattress feel like a furnace. And your jaw clicks when you sleep.”

He frowned, "My jaw doesn’t click, Ada."

"It clicked at 2:15. It clicked again at 2:38. If I have to listen to your respiratory system struggle

through another sleep cycle, Leon, I am going to find where you hid the rifle.” Her eyes flashed with that unpredictable hostility. "Five meters. If I see your shadow inside that perimeter, we are going to have a very different conversation."

He knew the medical manuals by heart; he understood the hormonal surges, the physical discomfort, and the psychological toll of a high-risk operative losing her autonomy. 

He should always understand…right? He told himself that her anger wasn't real and to just let it in one ear, and out on the other.

The hundredth cut came on a bleak Monday afternoon.

Leon was in the corner of the bedroom, methodically assembling the changing table he had spent a week sanding. 

He was checking the sturdiness of the legs for the third time, his hyper-vigilance manifesting as a need to ensure every screw was countersunk and perfectly flush so nothing could catch the boy’s skin.

Ada stood in the doorway, a hand pressed flat against the small of her aching back. She watched him shake the frame, his shoulders tense with an obsessive sort of worry that had been hovering over him for weeks.

"He isn't going to break the wood, Leon," she said, her voice dry, carrying a cold, dismissive edge. "You don't need to anchor it to the foundation. You're hovering over every square inch of this house like we're waiting for a siege."

Leon didn't look up, his wrench tightening a bolt until the iron groaned. "I'm just making sure it's stable, Ada. The floorboards in this corner have a slight dip."

"The table is fine," she countered, stepping into the room. Her breathing was slightly shallow now, her face pale and ears rang from a long sleepless night. "Just stop, Leon. You’re making the air here thick; stop treating this room like a containment zone."

"I'm just adjusting his changing table, Ada," Leon said, his voice lower now, the rhythm of his hands slowing down.

"You know what? This is too much," Ada snapped, her frustration finally bubbling before she could filter her mouth “You’re suffocating me. Stop acting like you're the one carrying him."

The wrench stopped completely.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the low whistle of the wind against the windowpane. Leon stayed on his knees for three long seconds, staring down at the grain of the pine wood.

For the first time in months, it wasn't noble patience that rose in his chest. It wasn't saintly understanding or the quiet resilience of a man used to taking the hits. It was irritation. 

He had been waking up every two hours to check her breathing. His own stomach had been twisting weeks ago with a sympathetic anxiety he couldn't shake. He had scrubbed the kitchen floor until his knuckles bled, driven through freezing mud for her specific groceries, and spent his nights lying awake on a narrow couch when she kicks him out their bedroom, wondering if she regretted choosing this life with him. 

He was trying so hard to be the perfect father, to be the perfect shield, that he was running on nothing but fumes and discipline.

An impulse to snap back rose in his throat—to tell her exactly how much he was carrying, to tell her that he was allowed to worry about his son. But as quickly as the anger flared, a wave of intense self-loathing followed it. She’s carrying the weight, his brain reminded him. She’s the one out of breath. She’s the one who endured the most change.

But his own exhaustion made the comment burn. If he stayed in this room for another ten seconds, the armor was going to crack. He wouldn't yell, but he might say something he could never take back.

So, he stood up slowly, not looking at her face, he walked past her into the hallway; grabbing his heavy jacket, and slipped his boots on without tying the laces.

"Leon—", the ringing in her ears stopped. 

"I'm going to get some wood," he said. His tone wasn't angry. It was perfectly level, entirely devoid of the warmth that usually colored his cadence when he spoke to her.

The screen door slid shut behind him with a soft, hollow click.

Oh no, what have I done?

From the kitchen window, Ada watched him walk toward the old oak stump behind the shed. He picked up the maul, set a massive chunk of wood on the block, and brought the iron down.

Thuck.

The log split cleanly in two, the halves flying into the snow. Leon didn't pause. He set up another, his shoulders bunching beneath his jacket as he swung again.

Thuck.

He wasn't using the fluid, measured rhythm he typically used to preserve his lower back. He was swinging with the brutal, concentrated force of a man trying to destroy the wood beneath him. He hit the block so hard the vibrations rattled the iron head of the axe.

Ada stood by the glass, her nails digging into her palm. Leon only swung like that when he was washed over by overwhelming emotions. He didn't look back at the cabin once.

When Leon finally returned, the woodstove was full, his boots neatly aligned by the mat. Ada was waiting by the sofa, but he didn't mention the crib or asked her how her back felt before heading to the kitchen.

"Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes," he said politely, his eyes tracking the stovetop as he set a pot of water to boil. "I brought in enough kindling for the night so you won't have to reach into the bin."

"Leon—"

"Do you want the low-sodium broth or the tea?" his voice completely guarded. He was wearing the shield again, but this time, he had turned the hard side toward her.

"The broth," she said quietly.

“Okay.”

Throughout the evening, the change can be felt throughout the cabin. 

He was still entirely attentive. He moved the footstool closer to her chair, he set her slippers by the hearth, and he made sure the fire was stoked. But the ease was gone. The unthinking touches—the palm resting against the crown of her head as he walked past her chair, the fingers lingering on her wrist when he handed her a mug, the small, teasing grins—vanished.

He did exactly as told. He stopped hovering, but still made sure she was safe.

At 10:00 PM, without prompting, Leon took a large folded wool blanket and a feather pillow from the linen closet.

"The wind's coming from the east tonight," he said, adjusting the cloth on the sofa. "The master bedroom will be quieter. I'll take the couch so you can stretch out."

Ada stood by the hallway, her arms crossed tight over her chest. "The sofa is too short for your legs, Leon. Your knees will be against the frame."

"It's fine," he said, giving her a polite nod "Sleep well, Ada." He lay down, turning his back to her before she could even answer.

Ada walked into the bedroom alone, the large mattress feeling massive and remarkably cold. She lay awake for hours. Usually, she could hear the faint, steady sound of his breathing from the other side of the bed. Now, there was only the dead silence of the night.

The guarded distance she had spent her entire life using as a weapon was suddenly being turned back on her, and for the first time, she realized how cold it felt to be on the outside of it.

The shift occurred at 2:14 AM.

Ada woke up to a sharp, localized heat in her lower abdomen that quickly radiated down into her right thigh. Her bladder was pressing against her spine, and her hip joint felt like it had been packed with crushed glass.

She rolled onto her side, her breath catching in her throat as a dull ache throbbed through her pelvis. She sat up slowly, her teeth gritting as she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress.

I can do it myself,  she thought, the old, stubborn mantra rising automatically. Six feet to the door. Five feet to the hallway. I don’t need him to clear a path.

She stood, her weight shifting onto her right foot.

A sudden, blinding white pain shot straight from her lower vertebrae down to her ankle. The nerve had pinched completely, locking the muscles of her calf into a violent, rock-hard spasm. Her knee buckled instantly.

Ada gasped, her hands flying out blindly to catch the molding of the doorframe. Her fingernails dug into the wood as her body listed to the side, her left foot sliding out from under her. She was stuck—half-suspended between the wall and the floorboards, her muscles screaming, completely unable to force her leg to straighten or her hip to reset.

The vulnerability was humiliating. It was the exact scenario she had spent months fearing: her body failing her so utterly that she couldn't even cross a threshold.

She looked toward the dark hallway. She could try to crawl. She could try to force the bone back into alignment herself. Or she could drop the last piece of armor she owned.

She swallowed the taste of panic in her throat.

"Leon," she called out. It wasn't a command. It was a small, fractured sound that barely carried past the door.

She didn't even hear the sofa cushions move or the floorboards creak. Leon materialized out of the dark hallway, his eyes instantly scanning her position with tactical speed. There was no score-keeping in his expression, no smug satisfaction, no I told you so.

"Ada? What happened?" His voice laced with worry.

“C-cramps.” Almost immediately, his hands slipped under her arms. He lifted her off the doorframe easily, taking her entire weight against his chest before her hip could strike the floor.

On pure instinct, her defenses completely shattered, Ada buried her face straight into the hollow of his neck. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of his sweatshirt, her shoulders shaking as a few silent, frustrated tears finally spilled onto his skin.

"I hate this," she choked out against his collarbone, "I hate every single part of this, Leon. I can't even walk six feet."

"I know," he murmured. He didn't make a speech about her stubbornness. He simply turned, carrying her carefully across the threshold, and eased her down into the armchair they had placed near the hallway a week ago. He kept his hands flat against her waist until he was certain her balance had returned, then dropped onto both knees right in front of her.

"You don't know," Ada whispered, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, looking thoroughly furious with her own tears. "You’re perfectly intact. Your spine isn't being crushed. You don't have to wonder if you can clear a window if the perimeter is compromised."

Leon reached down, his warm, heavy palms gently taking hold of her swollen right ankle. "No, I don't," he said, his blue eyes rising to lock onto hers. "But I can carry you to the window. Every single time you need to get there."

He began to rub the tendon with slow, firm circles of his thumbs, using the deep, steady pressure he’d used for field injuries.

Ada let out a long, trembling breath, her hips finally relaxing against the cushions as the heat from his hands began to dissolve the knot in her calf. She looked down at his bent head. 

He had every right to stay on the couch and let her manage her own pride. She had been irrational and yet, he hadn't hesitated for a fraction the second she needed him.

His care wasn't conditional on her behavior nor was it an insult to her strength, it was just who Leon is. 

"The nerve is in the hip," she said quietly, her voice dropping its guard entirely. "It’s been tracking down the thigh since yesterday afternoon."

Leon stood up slowly, shifting her slightly on the seat so he could reach her lower back. He pressed his thumbs into the deep muscle tissue on either side of her spine, leaning his weight into the pressure.

"Better?"

"Don't stop," she murmured, her head dropping back against the chair.

The cold wall that had stood between them earlier slowly dissolved. Ada reached down, her fingers sliding over his wrist to gently halt his hands. 

"The sofa is too small for you," she said softly, her brown eyes completely steady on his.

Leon rubbed the back of his neck, a small, sheepish grin finally breaking through his tired features, the familiar warmth returning to his eyes. "Yeah… the armrest cuts into my shoulder a bit. I should’ve listened when you told me to order the guest bed during the holiday rush. But at least the blanket’s warm?”

A faint, amused smirk touched Ada's lips, “Come to bed with me?”, her fingers sliding down his arm until her hand was tucked securely into his palm. "Just... don't breathe through your mouth. The air on the ridge is dry enough as it is."

Leon’s smile widened, the heavy ache that had been sitting behind his ribs for weeks finally vanishing into the floorboards. "Copy that, Agent Wong."

"Bring the wool blanket," she said, leaning forward to press her forehead briefly against his shoulder before she stood up, using his arm for leverage. "The north side of the house is getting cold, and I don't feel like sleeping alone."

Leon watched Ada settle herself beneath the heavy duvet with a satisfied sigh, “Come here.”

When he settled behind her, she let out a shaky breath, “I’ve missed you, Leon.”

“So do I, Ada.” 

She turned to face him, “Look, hun. I…,” the words caught in her throat, but she pushed through. “I’m sorry, for… for everything.” He caught her eyes glistening in the dark.

“Hey, it’s okay,” his hand cupped her cheek.

She pulled back, “No, it’s not, Leon. I hurt you. I was being unfair to you.”

Leon let her words sink in, his mind flashing the moments that led them both to their breaking point. A sigh — exhaling the negativity that had managed to pent up in his chest earlier that day. “Just don’t kick me out like that again, please?”

“Never again,” scooting closer to him, invading his space as the two drifted off to sleep.

Later that afternoon, Leon sat on the sofa with his laptop, trying to organize the thousands of encrypted files he’d accumulated over his career—names, drop locations, old wire transfers that needed to be permanently scrubbed from the federal registry. 

Ada brought her yarn bag over to the couch, sitting on the opposite end and swung her legs across his lap, 

"Comfortable?" Leon asked, resting his laptop on her shins.

“Mhmm..”

For nearly an hour, neither of them spoke. Leon typed with one hand—one finger; his other hand never leaving her ankle, his fingers moving in slow, steady circles that kept the cramps from returning to her calf.

"Leon…”

"Yeah?"

"The name I chose..."

"The one you won't tell me?"

"It belonged to a man I knew in Macau… He was an old watchmaker who didn't have an alias and spent decades of his life fixing things that other people thought were broken. When the local syndicates came to clear the block, he refused to leave his shop because he made a promise to his customer."

"What happened to him?"

"I moved him to a safehouse in Hainan," Ada said, her needle pausing for a fraction of a second. She looked up from the wool, her eyes locking onto his. "He told me that the most difficult part of life isn't surviving the winter; it’s remembering why you wanted the spring in the first place."

She shifted until her hand came up to rest over his heart, her palm feeling its steady beat.

"Our son is going to have a lot of names on his federal alerts, Leon," she whispered, "But the one I’ve chosen — his real name — is going to be something that belongs to a person who is a man of his word and…also belongs to the man I love."

He closed the laptop, setting it on the side table. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into his lap, his face burying into the side of her neck. "Thank you," he choked out, his voice rough against her skin.

Ada didn't reply with words. She just held him. To their surprise, the boy kicked Leon's ribs; a reminder of the future that was waiting for them just beyond the edge of the woods.

"He's active today.”

"He knows his father is a soft target," Ada said, a genuine laugh escaping her as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Now stay here. The sun is going down, and I don't want to look at the kitchen until tomorrow."

"Copy that," Leon smiled, his lips pressing against her temple as the shadows in the cabin lengthened,

Ingrid Hunnigan’s office was the only room on the entire operations floor that didn't feel completely exposed to the bullpen's chatter.

Leon sat in the low-backed leather chair opposite her, his mind running through a variety of cover stories.

"56 days, Leon," she crossed her arms, "That's eight weeks. Two full calendar months. You submitted the form at 07:00 this morning."

"I have the hours accrued, Ingrid. The policy manual says anything over 45 days just needs a divisional signature. I’m well within the limit."

"That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it," she said and tapped a key. A spreadsheet flashed on her screen.

> PERSONNEL LOG: KENNEDY, LEON S.

> 2005: 0 days used (Active Field Status)

> 2006: 0 days used (Joint Task Force Operational Oversight)

> 2007: 0 days used (Strategic Field Deployment)

> 2008 (Current): 0 days used until current pending request.

"You haven't taken a single personal day since the retrieval operation in Spain," Hunnigan said, her eyes drilling into his through her lenses. "Autumn of 2004. When the director offered you a week in Hawaii after the Harvardville incident, you told him you’d rather oversee the logistical transfer in Russia. Now, out of nowhere, you want two months off."

Leon cleared his throat, forcing his shoulders to relax. "People change their minds, Ingrid. I need a real break."

"Don't lie to me, Leon.”

She reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a notebook and dropped it on the desk between them.

“I started running the data through the internal security loop after our conversation at your desk. You thought you were being careful with your personal procurement. Every time an agent buys medication within fifty miles of the district, the system generates a silent log.”

Leon’s jaw tightened. He bit the inside of his cheek, his knuckles turning white where his hands were linked.

“And then there’s your physical profile,” Hunnigan continued. “The morning sickness. The fatigue. The sudden leave request after years of refusing to take a single day off.”

She leaned back slightly in her chair. “You’re hiding someone.”

The room went completely silent.

“Ingrid…”

“No, listen to me.” Her voice wasn’t angry. If anything, it sounded tired.

“I’ve watched you for years, Leon. I’ve routed your extractions. I’ve read every report you’ve submitted and every report you’ve deliberately left half-written. Do you know what stands out the most?”, tapping a finger against a page.“The omissions. There’s only one person you’ve spent a decade protecting without ever admitting you were protecting them.”

His stomach dropped. “Hunnigan…”

“I saw the Munich files.”

His head snapped up.

“The encryption wasn’t enough to identify a ghost,” she continued quietly, “but it was enough to remind me of a very specific pattern.” She folded her hands together. “Tell me I’m wrong, Leon.”

The silence stretched. Neither of them moved, her eyes boring into his.

Finally, Leon looked away.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

“…Jesus Christ,” She pinched the bridge of her nose, her mind already running how she can cover this up.

“If you’re going to file an incident report, Ingrid, file it now.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Leon?”

The professional distance she’d maintained dissolved, leaving behind only the woman who had spent years keeping him alive through active war zones.

“Do you honestly think I’ve spent years routing your extractions and covering your ass just to hand you over to internal affairs?”

Leon blinked. The defensive tension in his chest fractured slightly, “Then why lock the door?”

“Because if the Director sees this leave request, he’s going to start asking questions. And if he starts asking questions, somebody is eventually going to find that cabin.”

Leon’s face went pale, but she continued.

“I don’t need to know where she is — I don’t want to know.”

A beat passed.

“But whatever is happening out there is important enough to make you file a leave…”

She paused.

“And if I’m right…”, her eyes studied his face.

Leon looked down at his hands. He didn’t answer. What was he supposed to do? Continue lying?

When he finally spoke, his voice cracked “She’s thirty weeks along, Ingrid…”

He heard her breath hitch.

“… her ankles are swollen. She’s crocheting socks, for god’s sake.” He let his head drop into his hands, his fingers dragging through his hair, “She’s… she’s doing her best to be a mother.”

For a moment, Hunnigan didn’t speak. The image clearly wasn’t what she’d expected.

“Leon,” she closed her eyes while letting out an exasperated sigh. “Do you have any idea how catastrophic this could become if the wrong person finds out?“

“I know what happens if the agency finds out.”

“I know.”

“And you know what I’ll do if they come for them.”

“I know that too.” The answer came almost immediately. Not because she approved, but because she believed him. She reached across the short distance between them, her hand coming flat over his knuckles, her grip surprisingly firm. "That’s why I’m not going to let them find out."

Leon stared at her hand on his. "What are you doing?"

"I’m modifying the leave authorization," she said, turning back to her keyboard. Her fingers began to fly across the keys. "I’m logging your two months as a 'Special Assignment: Undercover Surveillance Counter-Intelligence' in the northern sector. It overrides the standard regional director’s audit loop. To the system, you’ll be active in the field, tracking a suspected cell. No one will look for a house or check the pharmacy logs. Rest assured, your stipend will continue to clear through the standard secure route."

She stopped, her finger hovering over the final input key. 

"But you have to promise me one thing, Kennedy.”

"Anything." 

"When the kid is born... you send me a picture," she said, her eyes shining behind her glasses. "And you tell her that if she ever tries to run an extraction through my territory again without a proper clearing code, I’ll personally lock her out of the accounts that I know of."

Of course, she knew about the camera.

Leon finally exhaled the breath he forgot he was holding, his hand turning over beneath hers to squeeze her fingers tightly. "I'll tell her. Though she'll probably just tell you your security architecture is outdated."

"It probably is," Hunnigan smiled, her thumb tapping the enter key.

The screen gave a brief, green flash as the system accepted the modified entry.

> STATUS: APPROVED (Classified Clearance Level 4)

> OPERATIONAL WINDOW: [REDACTED]

> ASSIGNED OVERSEER: HUNNIGAN, I.

"You're cleared until her due date, Leon," she said, her voice returning to its normal bullpen volume as she reached for her coffee mug. "Now get back to your desk and finish that paragraph on supply chains before the Director thinks you're slacking off. You still have three hours on your shift."

Leon paused by the door, "Thanks, Ingrid. I owe you lots.”

"Don't make me regret it, Agent," she called out without looking up from her monitor. "And Leon? Pray to the heavens he doesn’t inherit your dexterity skills with a keyboard."

“I’m counting on it.”

34th Week.

"The wind is picking up from the north," Miriam’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet cabin. "The ridge road will be iced over by midnight. You’ll need to salt the steps before you turn in."

"Already did the first coat an hour ago. The truck’s gassed up, too. Just in case."

Miriam looked at him over the rim of her glasses, a small, nearly invisible twitch at the corner of her mouth passing for a smile. "You're a cautious man, Kennedy. I like that in an asset. Most of your type rely too much on luck."

"Luck doesn't keep a roof over your head.”

Seeing the two of them like this would have seemed impossible a month ago.

(A month ago…)

"I am not a hostage to my own anatomy, Leon" Ada hissed from the bedroom floor, her fingers dug into the wool rug as Leon tried to help her change position. "I can manage the transit lanes."

"You can't even stand up without your blood pressure dropping, Ada," Leon countered, "We aren't risking a checkpoint or a flat tire on the highway while you're like this."

Miriam had settled the argument over an encrypted satellite connection. [“Stay where you are, you stubborn idiot. I’ve crossed tighter borders than the Virginia state line with worse cargo than a medical bag. I’ll be there by Friday.”]

When Miriam’s old station wagon finally crunched into the gravel driveway that afternoon, it marked the first time she and Leon had ever faced each other in person.

The initial introduction had been thick with the tension of two veteran operatives assessing each other. 

After checking Ada’s vitals and the baby’s status, Miriam had walked out to the backyard, where Leon was splitting pine logs.

“Kennedy.” 

Leon had set the axe down, turning to face her. "Miriam. Is everything alright with them?"

The old woman hadn't answered the question. Instead, she had reached into the inner lining of her vest, her hand moving with a sudden, fluid speed that belied her years; a customized 9-mm automatic with a worn slide, the muzzle pointing directly at his heart.

Leon’s eyes had locked onto hers, “Something you want to clear up?"

"I’ve known Ada since she was born," the barrel of the pistol never wavering from his sternum. "I’ve watched her spend most of her life pretending she didn't have a soul just to stay alive in this world."

She stepped closer, "I am seventy-four years old, Leon. My lungs are full of tobacco smoke and my knees ache when the rain comes in. But I can still sight a rifle and open a man's carotid artery with a pocket knife before he can draw a breath. If you ever leave them behind… if you ever turn her over to your department to save your own career, or if you ever make her regret letting her guard down... there won't be a safehouse in this earth deep enough to keep me from finding you."

Leon had looked down at the gun, then back up at her face, “I’ve survived biological monstrosities since I was twenty-one, Miriam. I’ve spent a decade taking bullets for a government that treats people like file folders. The only real thing I have left—the only thing that actually matters—is inside that cabin. If a strike team comes through those trees, it goes without saying.”

Miriam had studied his face for what felt like an eternity. Slowly, the tension left her arm, clicked the safety into place, and slid the weapon back into her vest.

"Good. I’ll help you carry this wood inside. The draft in the hallway is terrible."

(Present day…)

"The tea is steeped," Leon announced, pulling himself out of the memory as the kitchen timer buzzed. 

"Bring the oil too," said Miriam as she picked up her medical bag. "Her skin is going to be tight this week. The fluid distribution is changing."

In their bedroom, Ada was propped up against a mountain of pillows; her legs tucked beneath the duvet. "The council returns. I assume you two have finalized the security protocols for my breakfast?"

"Eat your breakfast, Ada," Miriam said, setting her bag on the nightstand "And stop talking like a field agent. You’re my patient until your spawn is out of the womb."

Leon sat beside her, setting the tray on the wooden table. "How’s the hip feeling?"

"It’s gone from a sharp pinch to a dull ache. Every time I breathe deeply, he reminds me of his presence."

"He's getting large," Miriam noted, pulling the duvet back to expose Ada’s ankles. She took one of Ada's feet in her hands, her thumbs pressing firmly into the skin near the inner bone to test the rebound. "The swelling is stable, but you need to keep them elevated above the hip line for at least 15-20 minutes, 2-3 times a day. Leon, are you checking the salt content in the soup?"

"Two grams per serving, maximum," Leon said as he reached down, his thumb smoothing over the fabric near her knee. "I’ve been logging the water intake, too. She’s hit almost three liters every day this week."

"Good boy. Lay back, Ada. Let’s see how my grandson is doing."

Miriam pressed the doppler against the lower quadrant of the dome, her head tilting as she searched for the infant’s heartbeat.

"141 bpm. He’s already turned head-down, Ada. He’s positioning himself for the exit lane."

"He's stubborn and doesn't like the cold."

"Who does?”

“I do,” Leon blurted out before he could stop himself.

The ladies stared at him for a moment before Ada giggled, “Thank you for the information, dear.”

His face flushed, that has nothing to do with the cold outside.

Miriam cleared her throat, “As I was saying, the little gremlin will be fine.” She poured a warm pool of oil into her palms and worked it into the tight skin of Ada’s lower abdomen. 

When she finished, Miriam pulled the duvet up to Ada’s chin. "He's healthy, Ada. You’re both doing well.”

“Thank you, Miriam.” 

"Don't thank me yet. The last four weeks are the longest," the old woman said, walking toward the door. She paused at the threshold, looking over her shoulder at Leon. "Kennedy. The salt for the steps. Don't forget."

"I'm on it.”

He stayed by her side even after Miriam’s departure. His hand never leaving Ada’s. 

"She likes you," Ada murmured, her head turning on the pillow to look at him.

"She threatened to cut my throat and shoot me a month ago, Ada."

"That's how she shows affection, Leon. Consider yourself part of the network,” a genuine chuckle escaping her as she closed her eyes. 

Leon leaned down, his lips pressing firmly against her forehead until she dozed off.

He shifted just enough to press a kiss to her belly, whispering, “Dada is ecstatic to finally meet you, bud. Just a few more weeks. Be kind to Mama, okay?”

(That night...)

Leon sat on the edge of the bed, a paperback open in his lap. Ada, on the other hand, was already propping her pillows.

“You’ve been reading the same paragraph for half an hour, Leon.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

He glanced down. The bookmark was still wedged exactly where he’d left it, “…Okay, maybe a little.”

Ada hummed as she settled deep under the duvet, letting herself drift off to sleep. 

Leon stared at the page, then closed the book, “Ada.” The shift in his voice made her open her eyes.

“Something you want to tell me?” 

He rubbed the back of his neck before exhaling a shaky breath, “Y-yeah. Something I should’ve told you a few weeks ago.”

She opened her eyes, "Go on."

“Hunnigan knows.”

A beat passed. Then another. Her expression didn’t change, that worried him more than if it had. Ada simply looked at him, “I figured.”

Leon blinked, “You… know?”

She sighed and adjusted the duvet over her stomach, “Leon. She’s not stupid.”

His mouth opened, then closed again — like a gaping fish. “That’s it?” His gaze darted across her features, searching for something—anything—that betrayed what she was really thinking.

“What exactly were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Concern? Panic? A contingency plan?”

“Hm,” Ada’s hand drifted over the curve of her stomach, “When?”

“A couple weeks ago.”

“And?”

“Nobody else knows.”

That finally got her full attention, slightly shifting her weight so she can fully look at him. “Nobody? How certain are you?” 

“Hunnigan pulled some strings.”

“Interesting.”

Leon stared, “Interesting?” His brows knitting together.

“Very,” she nodded before turning her back once again and pulling the duvet over her shoulder.

“Ada…That’s your response? Are you sure?”, his hands scrambling to her waist to calm his nerves.

“What would you like my response to be?”

He threw a hand into the air, “I don’t know! Look here for a sec, we’re still not done talking.”

She laughed softly as Leon turned her in his arms. The sound warmed something in his chest.  “You sound panicked, Agent.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Leon exhaled through his nose. Unfortunately, she was right.

After a moment, her expression softened. Her hand reached up to caress his jaw, “Leon, do you trust her?”

The question caught him off guard. He thought about the years he had Hunnigan as his handler — being the voice of reason in his ear both in extraction zones and in life.  The countless missions, the arguments, the reports, and the fact that she had every opportunity to destroy everything and chose not to.

“With my life, yeah” he said quietly. 

Ada nodded once. “Then I trust your judgment.”

The simplicity of the answer stunned him.“You aren’t worried?”, propping himself up with his elbow.

Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling, “When I chose to stay, I knew someone would eventually figure it out,” her fingers tracing lazy circles over the blanket. “People notice patterns…”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “…Especially when a certain federal agent starts buying prenatal vitamins in bulk.”

Leon groaned, “Oh, come on,” burying his face by her neck.

“You bought three months’ worth at once.”

“It was efficient.”

“It was suspicious.”

“It was economical.”

“It was suspiciously economical.”

He laughed despite himself. The tension finally easing from his shoulders.

After a moment, Ada reached for his hand. He immediately intertwined their fingers.

“If more people find out,” she said quietly, “then we’ll deal with it. I have my contacts ready if that’s what you wanted to hear.” Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, “But until then…”

She guided his hand onto the curve of her abdomen. The baby shifted beneath his palm, followed by a kick.

“…We have more immediate problems. For now, I’m more concerned about the tiny gremlin occupying my organs.” Ada settled deeper into the pillows, “So, can I sleep now?”

“Mhmm. Good night, Ada.” Leon bent down and pressed a kiss against her forehead then another against the curve of her stomach, “And good night to you too.”

38th Week.

Leon was awake before the mattress fully registered the movement. Years of field deployments had trained his nervous system to flag any disruption in his immediate environment, but lately, his internal radar had calibrated entirely to the rhythm of Ada’s breathing.

She wasn't breathing normally. It was a short, sharp hitch of air, followed by a long exhale. 

"Ada?" 

She was on her side, her knees pulled up as far as the massive dome of her stomach would allow. 

"Get Miriam," the words clipped and forced out through her teeth. "It’s time."

Leon was out of the bed and across the dark hallway, knocking hard on the guest room door. It swung open before his knuckles could leave the wood. 

"How far apart?" 

"I don't know—she just woke me," 

Miriam sat on the edge of the mattress, placing the probes on Ada’s belly, connecting it to a portable ctg machine. She studied the metrics on screen.

"Early stages," Miriam pulled her hands back and turned to look at Leon. "The intervals are long—eight, maybe nine minutes. She's a primigravida. First pregnancies are always a slow negotiation. The cervix has to figure out the mechanics. This isn't going to be a sprint, you two. It’s a long haul."

"I don't want a negotiation," Ada gasped, her head jerking back as another contraction came. "I want it out."

"You'll get what your body gives you. Your body is taking its time, Ada" Miriam grunted. She stood up, turning her sharp eyes onto Leon. "Kennedy, stop hovering like a mother hen. She needs to move. If she stays on this mattress, the labor is going to stall out until noon."

Leon blinked, "Move? You want her to walk? The hallway is eight feet long, Miriam, what if she—?"

"We walk the perimeter of the kitchen," Miriam ordered, "And Ada—start the nipple stimulation. We need the oxytocin high if we're going to pull these contractions closer together. Five minutes on, five minutes off. Your brain needs to know the baby is coming. The vials in my bag are a contingency, not a plan."

“I am aware of the endocrine system, Miriam."

"Then use it,” Miriam snapped, “I’ll be at the guest bedroom to set up everything.”

Leon’s feet remained planted on the floor.

"Leon, don’t just stand there. If you don't take my arm and help me off this bed, I am going to use the nightstand drawer to break your nose. Move."

He blinked, his consciousness returning. “S-sorry. Breathe for me, Ada. Okay?” He was hyperventilating.

Miriam peered back into the room, "Kennedy, if you faint in my workspace, I am leaving you where you drop. Get. Her. Moving.”

For the next few hours, the cabin became a track for the most difficult marathon Asa has ever encountered.

Leon kept his right arm locked securely around Ada’s waist to absorb the irregular shifts in her balance, his shoulder taking her full weight every time her abdomen seized. They moved in slow circles—from the edge of the dining table, past the windowpane, and back toward the bedroom.

Every five minutes, she would stop completely, her forehead dropping into Leon’s chest, her whole body shaking as the contractions slowly climbed the scale from a dull ache to a tearing, heavy pressure.

“Leon, it hurts,” she whimpered. 

Leon’s shirt was damp from her forehead. He kept his hands flat against her lower back, his thumbs driving heavy, steady pressure into the sacrum bone to counteract the internal leverage of the baby's head. 

He was panicking, but he kept his voice steady, whispering into her hair every time her breath hitched. “I know. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.” 

"Her pulse is hitting 120 during the peaks," Leon said as he read the monitor, his voice rising a fraction of an octave as they passed the kitchen counter for the twentieth time. "And the skin on her abdomen is burning up. Is that normal? Shouldn't we be tracking the fetal heart rate every ten minutes instead of thirty? What if the cord—“

"Leon," Ada hissed through her teeth, her fingers tightening around his bicep like a vice as another wave hit her. "Shut up. You're rambling. If you don't lower your frequency, I'm going to have Miriam lock you in the pantry."

"The girl is right, Kennedy. Sit down, take a breath, and let the woman do the work. Her body knows the manual better than you do."

Leon closed his mouth, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He took a slow, deep breath, consciously forcing his shoulders to drop, his hands remaining steady as he held her through the end of the contraction. "Copy that. Staying silent."

Ada suddenly stopped dead in her tracks; her entire frame went rigid, eyes wide.

Miriam went by her side instantly, "Ada. Look at me. Tell me if you feel the urge to poop."

She gave a single, jerky nod, her hands clamping onto the edge of the kitchen counter with a force that made the wood creak.

"Bed," Miriam ordered, turning to Leon with a quick, decisive snap of her fingers. "The transition's finished. Now, Kennedy."

The guest room had been transformed into a surgical unit.

"This is it, Ada," Miriam said, pulling a high-intensity lamp over the end of the frame and snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "No more tracking the clock. The crown is visible. When the next one peaks, you chin down, take a deep breath, and drive him out. Do not scream. Leon, hold her head when she pushes. Do you both understand me?"

Ada didn't nod. She couldn't. The contraction hit her like a physical blow, her head jerking back against the thin pillow.

"Push!" 

"Look at me, Ada," He made sure his voice sounded calm to ease her nerves. "I've got you both."

Ada’s eyes flew open, bloodshot and frantic, locking onto his gaze like it was the only fixed point in an exploding world. She gave a final push, draining all of the strength she had left.

Then, the tension in the room snapped. A wet, sliding rush was followed instantly by a sharp, indignant squawk.

Miriam’s hands dried the baby down until his flesh turned to a vibrant pink. Without waiting to cut the cord, she laid the small, squirming bundle directly onto Ada’s bare, heaving chest to ensure skin-to-skin contact.

"There he is. The little gremlin.” her gravelly voice carrying a rare, ragged edge of emotion as she reached for the clamps. "Leon, stay at her head. The placenta is still in there. We aren't done yet."

Leon didn't even glance down at the mop of black hair resting on Ada’s chest. He kept his hands locked around hers, his thumb rubbing the back of her knuckles.

"I’m right here, Ada," he whispered, his face burying into the side of her neck, his tears wet against her skin. "You did it. You’re safe. God, Ada, I love you so much. You did well.”

He stayed there for those long minutes, his world narrowed down entirely to the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. The baby could wait. The division could wait. Everything else in the world was secondary to ensuring the woman he has loved for most of his life was still breathing in his arms.

Miriam gently guided Ada’s arm, showing her how to cradle the baby’s head. "Don't force the nipple. "Keep his nose clear of the tissue. He’s got a good latch. See that? He knows where the milk is, Ada."

Leon stood by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene unfold in the soft light of the oil lamp.

He had thought she looked beautiful from the moment he first saw her until now. But looking at her now—their son in her arms, the two wrapped in matching blue wool blankets she made– it was a sight so pure, so entirely removed from the dark trajectory of their lives, that it made his chest ache. The scene carried a soft stillness that looked almost holy.  

He leaned his forehead against the windowpane and wept silently, his shoulders shaking as the final remnants of his panic washed out of his system.

Ada looked up from the baby, her eyes catching the wetness on his cheeks. She reached out with her free hand, her index finger lightly catching the cuff of his shirt.

"Leon, come here,” she whispered.

Leon walked over slowly, sitting beside her. His eyes dropping to the child’s face — from the thick mop of jet-black hair down to the smooth definition of his jaw, he was the spewing image of a Wong.

Ada gently tapped his chin to adjust the feed, the boy’s eyelids fluttered open for a brief second.

The color beneath was a clear, unmistakable, striking blue—the exact shade that had stared back at Ada from across a hundred different target zones.

“Ha! I knew it! I called the shots, Ada.” Miriam let out a dry, hacking chuckle from her stool, shaking her head as she adjusted her glasses. "Well, Kennedy. Looks like your genetic material didn't even bother to put up a fight against her. You two are in deep trouble once he knows how to use his features to get what he wants.”

A small sob escaped Leon’s lips as he reached out to let the boy’s tiny hand loop around his index finger. "I don't mind at all," he whispered, his voice thick, his lips pressing against the side of Ada’s temple. "Having the two people I love most in this world share the same face just means I never have to look very far to find my home. He's perfect, Ada. I didn't think we could build something so… pure."

Ada didn't answer right away. For years, her mind had been a calculator; weighing risks, estimating casualties, and planning the next extraction before the dust had even settled. She had survived by ensuring she had no attachments that could be used against her…until she met the rookie. 

Now, she was holding a six-pound piece of reality that held the same gaze that tore down her defenses years ago — another person that would permanently define every choice she made until her heart stopped beating. "I didn't think this was a real destination… not for someone like me."

"It's real, Ada. You will be the best mother he could ever ask for," Leon said, his fingers locking into hers over the blanket. "You’re fierce, intelligent, and most of all, selfless. If someone deserves to have a family that loves her wholeheartedly, it’s you."

Miriam flicked a stubborn tear from her eye as she pulled out a birth certificate from her folder. She tapped her silver pen against the clipboard.

"Alright, you two. It’s time to log the registry details before the storm takes out the power lines. You still haven't given me the name, Ada.”

Leon looked at Ada, his heart rising into his throat as he waited for the secret she had kept from him. 

Ada looked down at the baby, her eyes turning wet again as she smoothed the blanket around his shoulders.

"Zayne," she said tearfully, her voice clear and resonant in the quiet room. "Zayne S. Wong-Kennedy. He’s going to hate me when he starts learning how to write, but it suits him well.”

Scott.

The name hit Leon to his core. She had given him his name—the one he’d hated as a boy and the one she used to tease him through his comms. She had taken his history and wove it directly into the marrow of their son.

But it was the hyphenated weight at the end that truly stopped his breath. Wong-Kennedy.

For a decade, those two names had existed on opposite sides of the trigger. He was the state's blunt instrument, bound by a badge, a uniform, and a code of defense. She was the shadow in the margins, a phantom moving through the dark spaces where the law couldn't reach, answering only to herself. 

And yet, they were minted from the same coin. Both survivors from the fire that forever changed their lives.

To see those two names fused together on a piece of paper was a declaration of peace. The ultimate, permanent truce, signed in black ink.

Across the room, Miriam was having a hard time maintaining her composure. Her fingers trembled as they tightened around the clipboard. 

"Alright," she wrote the characters out in neat script. "It’s quite a long surname for a tiny human. But it’ll do."

"It’s perfect," Leon whispered, anchoring the three of them in his arms.

From the kitchen, the rich, savory steam of braised beef, rosemary, and caramelized onions drifted into the living room, cut by the occasional sharp hiss of liquid hitting the hot iron stove. 

Leon was in his element—moving between the counter and the sink seamlessly, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, entirely focused on the meal he was preparing.

Zayne was asleep across his mother’s chest; a hand escaped the swaddle, his fingers hooked loosely around the neckline of her shirt.

Miriam sat in the matching armchair opposite the pair. "You’ve been staring at the top of his ear for twenty minutes, Ada. It isn't going to change shape while you watch it."

“I know… he’s just so tiny. I… I can’t help it.”

Their gaze landed on Leon, "The man spent hours checking the child’s respiratory rate every twenty minutes. I had to threaten to lock the crib interface earlier just to get him to sit down for an hour."

"He’s nervous.”

"He's a father who knows what the world looks like outside these woods, and so do you. That’s why you’re sitting there holding that child like he’s an active payload you’re trying to keep from destabilizing."

Ada’s fingers tightened slightly against Zayne’s swaddle. "I kept the ledger under my mattress in the Maldives, Miriam. Every name. Every drop location. Every corporate identity I used since I started. Earlier, I thought about where I would hide my son if a Class-1 alert cleared the divisional grid."

"And where did you put him in your head?"

"Nowhere… There isn't a safehouse in the database with a security up to my standards…”

"I may sound like a broken record, but I don't know how to do this without a perimeter, Miriam…"

Miriam stood up slowly, her old knees popping in the quiet room, sitting beside Ada. "You’re running the old programming, Ada… You’re trying to solve a domestic equation using field parameters. When you were twenty-four, your exit lane was the only thing that kept you from ending up in a ditch. But you aren't twenty-four anymore, you haven’t been for a long time.”

She continued, “Your mother was one of the most brilliant phantoms this industry ever saw. If she could carry you through a hot zone without missing a single target, you can survive this peace. Don't fight the instinct. It’s in your blood… Look at the kitchen.”

Ada watched as Leon set the heavy lid back onto the Dutch oven. 

"That man isn't an asset you hired for a retrieval, my dear" Miriam said softly. "He's a shield that has survived the same fires you have, and he’s spent a decade waiting for a reason to stand still. You think you have to hide the boy because that’s what you’ve always done with the things you care about. But you don't have to hide him anymore. You just have to let Leon accompany you to guard the door."

Ada looked back down at Zayne. The baby sighed in his sleep, before his head settled deeper into the hollow of her collarbone. 

"It's a very strange sensation… not having a passport in my pocket while I sleep."

"It's called peace, you idiot. It takes some getting used to. The withdrawal symptoms usually include an urge to check the window locks every twenty minutes."

"Dinner's ready," Leon appeared by their side, carrying a wooden tray with three steaming bowls of stew and a loaf of sourdough bread, his eyes instantly dropping to his son.

"Is he still out?" 

"He's deep in a sleep cycle," 

“As he should,” Ada’s stomach growled.

“Enough with the lovey-dovey for a while, you two. Let her eat, Leon.” Miriam grunted, “This bread needs salt, by the way."

"It's low-sodium for Ada's blood pressure, Miriam," Leon took Zayne from Ada, he leaned in,  "How are you feeling?"

"I am functional," raising the bowl near her nose,  "The stew smells amazing."

"It's the same recipe you taught me when I got sick, did I do well?”

“Yes. Way better than the slob you’ve made before.”

(That night…)

"Leon… You’ve been out of bed for forty-five minutes."

Leon didn't look up from the crib, keeping his chin resting on his knuckles. "Ada, is he supposed to be this quiet? I think he is broken."

Ada leaned over the rail to look down at their son.

Zayne was awake. His eyes—that striking, Kennedy blue—were staring at the ceiling. Unlike most newborns, he was not fussy. He was just... observing.

"He isn't broken… His capillary refill is less than two seconds. His vital signs are stable."

"Hunnigan told me her nephew screamed until his vocal cords bled for the first three weeks earlier at the office," Leon muttered, his hand reaching through the slats to lightly touch the edge of the swaddle. “Our janitor, Benjamin, used to complain that his kid sounded like a flashbang going off. Civilians write entire books about the sensory deprivation of the first month, Ada. They call it the purple crying phase. They buy earplugs."

He turned his head, looking up at her with a completely bewildered expression. "We haven't used the earplugs once. He hasn't even raised his volume above a low hum since he was born.”

As if responding to the inventory of his traits, Zayne turned his head towards his father. His lower lip slowly extended, forming a pout, and let out a pathetic whimper.

"See?" Leon said, pointing a finger. "That’s it. He pouts and makes that sound, then waits for us to tend to his needs."

Ada kneeled beside Leon, her arms reaching into the basket to lift the boy. "You’re a smart baby, aren’t you? Not wasting your energy on non-essential signaling,” she cooed.

"It’s creepy, Ada," Leon argued, an involuntary smile finally breaking through his anxious expression "It’s like he’s running a silent surveillance op in his own home."

"Hear that, Zayney? Dada is scared that you’re not crying enough.” Zayne responded with a hmp, causing his parents to chuckle.

“We expected a war, Leon,” Leon led the three of them on the bed.

“I never told you, but I spent nights calculating how many hours of sleep we could lose. I thought he would scream because that’s what happens when you bring life into a place that isn't secure."

She reached down, her thumb lightly tracing Zayne's cheek, "But he doesn't make any noise at all, Leon. What if he’s quiet because he thinks he has to hide?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and thick with the history they had spent years trying to outrun.

"He's not hiding, dear. He's quiet because he knows he’s safe. He knows it down to his bones. If Ada Wong and Leon Kennedy were my parents, I would be at peace too.”

“If you put it that way…”, her chuckle immediately lightened up the mood, “Goodness, his eyes, Leon. I just know he’ll use them on me to get what he wants.”

“That makes the two of us then?” 

She scoffed but her eyes softened, “Yes, you two are going to drown me with those blues – which is quite unfair.”

Epilogue

The snow on the southern ridge had finally dissolved into slush, exposing dark, damp pine needles under the warmth of spring.

Leon sat on the porch steps, the heels of his boots sunken into the soft mud. Tucked deep inside his jacket, was a velvet box. 

It had taken four months of silent choreography—three separate courier switches through retired contacts, a blind drop in a hollowed fence post two states over, and a Chicago jeweler who worked strictly not in cash, but in favors. When you’re being tracked by the government, you couldn't exactly leave a paper trail on Michigan Avenue.

Calm down, Leon. You got this. His palms were damp despite the cool mountain air.

Behind him, the screen door glided open. Ada stepped onto the porch wearing the powder blue dress they bought months ago, her dark hair, now longer, held back by a simple plastic clip. 

"You've been out here since the generator cycled. The coffee inside is getting cold."

"Just thinking," Leon replied, keeping his back to her.

"About the perimeter?"

"About the porch. The third step has a split in the grain. I need to replace the timber before the summer rains hit."

"You're a terrible liar, Kennedy. You’ve been staring at that same patch of mud for forty minutes, and your shoulders are up to your ears."

A short, dry laugh escaped his chest. He turned to face her, his fingers tightening around the box until the edges bit into his skin. 

For the past weeks, he had rehearsed a speech. He’d structured it while splitting wood behind the shed. He was going to bring up every encounter they had, wanting to tell her the ring wasn't an anchor to trap her, but a marker that when she gets tired of running, she has a place to come home to.

“…Leon?"

He pulled the box from his jacket. He didn't drop to one knee; a traditional proposal felt absurd for the casualties they had survived. Instead, he stepped up onto the porch, closing the distance until he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes. 

Here goes nothing…

He opened the lid to reveal a simple platinum band set with a deep blue sapphire that sat completely flush with the metal. There were no raised prongs so it wouldn’t snag on a glove or the strap of a rifle. It was designed for a woman who might still need to move quickly, if she ever intended to run again.

Ada’s breath hit his chin in a sharp puff. She looked at the stone and back to his face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the carefully structured words died in his throat. Everything he practiced vanished, leaving his mind entirely blank. 

Leon! Say something! Your speech started with, “The moment I saw you…”

He swallowed hard, the blood roaring in his ears. Abandoning the script, he held the box out another inch.

"Ada…" his voice barely a whisper, "…please."

Please. A single word carrying the weight of their history — the years of yearning and the nights spent wondering if the other was dead.

(Somewhere inside his head, his brain filed for a month-long leave; unable to process the secondhand embarrassment it just witnessed.)

Ada stood motionless. The wind stirred the pine branches above the roof, throwing a lattice of shadow across her face. 

"That's your pitch, Kennedy?" a sound that sat somewhere directly between a laugh and a sob escaped her lips. 

"It's… it’s all I've got… I-I forgot my speech…" Leon’s eyes pleaded with hers, "Please?”

Ada offered her left hand, "Put it on, before you pass out on the porch."

“Thank you, dear,” his fingers trembled as he slid the band on her finger. To his relief, it fit her perfectly. 

“I had a matching one made too,” he showed her a platinum band of his own, a ruby etched into the metal instead of sapphire.

“They’re beautiful, Leon,” she interlaced their fingers, “You truly are a romantic.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It’s your best asset.”

“You think so?” He pulled her into his embrace, starting a slow waltz. The birds and the wind orchestrating their music.

“I know so.”

Leon twirled her, "I don't even know what my legal name is on the current global grid, Leon. Are you sure you want me as your wife?”

"You could be called Orange tomorrow and I could care less. In our home, You are and will always be Ada — the Lady in Red, my wife, and Zayne’s Mama.”

From inside the cabin, a familiar whimper caught their attention. A signal that their dance should come to a halt.

Ada remained against his chest for a heartbeat longer. "Someone feels left out of the ballroom, huh?”

"I wonder who," Leon smiled, before leading them both back inside.

“Ah!” Zayne squealed when he finally saw his parents, his pout immediately stretched into a wide, toothless grin.

"Look at you," leaning down to lift the warm, solid weight of his son. Zayne was growing heavy, his neck strong enough to hold his own head up as his small hands instantly bunched the fabric of Leon’s shirt into his fists.

”Such a handsome little fellow, aren’t you?”, he tickled the infant with his nose, Zayne let out a happy squeal in return. “Da!”

Ada’s heart swelled at the sight. Oh my boys, be kind to my heart. This is too much.

Leon carried him over to the sofa before transferring the boy into Ada’s lap. Zayne immediately leaned back against her chest, his fist not letting go of Leon’s shirt, as if trying to bridge the gap between his parents.

"He's getting longer," Ada said, her fingers automatically checking the size of the cotton sleeper against his ankles. "His clothes aren't going to last until next month."

"He's a Kennedy," Leon said, his arm sliding over her shoulders, his hand coming to rest on the baby's round stomach. "He's going to outgrow everything we buy him before we can clear the tags. Eighteen more years, and then he’s the state’s problem.

Ada’s eyes glared at him with fierce intensity as she leaned her cheek against Zayne’s hair. Her arms tightening around his ribs until the boy let out another giddy squeak.

"No. He’s going to be my baby for as long as I can keep him. I’d even bring him on missions if I have to.”

Leon carved this moment into his memory — his entire world safely wrapped around his embrace. He smiled, the kind that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. His gaze fell to the framed photo he took of the three of them.

"Whatever you say, Mama," he whispered as he leaned in; his lips pressing to her temple and another on the boy’s head. “Whatever you say…”

In the corner of the room, the music of the movie faded into the credits. A calm, weathered voice drifted across the room, answering the very warning that marked the start of their long journey: 

[The detective smiled, “But you do realize that when it finally catches up…the end of the run isn't always a tragedy, Arthur. Sometimes, it’s the reason you finally lay down your weapons and stay.”]