Leon’s shoulder burns something fierce. He’s lucky it’s his non-dominant arm - he’s going to have quite the hard time raising it up for a little while, at least until it heals.

BOWS have never been able to stab or wield weapons before, but the good lord above must’ve been testing him because one moment, he’s fine and clearing rooms with his trusty guns, and the next, the stumbling corpse of a lab worker manages to pierce his skin with a shard of jagged, broken glass.

This was supposed to be a simple goddamn mission - quick in and out. Retrieve sample from an abandoned lab and book it back home.

But no. No, now he’s on some sort of medical gurney in a room with the doors blocked, his leather jacket bunched underneath his head while you poke and prod him.

This is bullshit, he thinks, looking towards you as you patch him up. He’s laid down, hand gripping the edge of the gurney, knuckles white.

“You’re lucky,” You say as you stick the sterilized needle through his skin. He winces, and swallows a moan of displeasure, trying to tough it out. You continue, “A couple more inches, and you would’ve bled out.”

Leon grits his teeth as you pull the thread through the split flesh, the tug sending an ache throughout his arm, and he snorts to relieve a bit of his pain. His eyes find the cracking ceiling above his head, his nose curling at the antiseptic you used. “Yeah, lucky me.”