Leon had never imagined having kids, or taking care of them, in any sort of way.

So how come he was currently sitting in a tiny room, walls painted baby blue and a soft lullaby played in the background as his hands, ones that shed blood and took lives, were holding a new born in one and a baby bottle in the other. Eyes that have seen horrors were locked onto that tiny soft face that scrunched in ecstasy and joy as the boy chugged down the warm milk.

How did he get here? How did Leon appear at this position, sitting in an armchair in a nursery, holding such a precious and fragile thing, while his boyfriend slept in the bedroom?

He wasn't entirely sure. he was getting old, maybe too old. he was 48, for fuck sake.

The baby wasn't his. not biologically, his DNA had nothing to do with the DNA of the little boy drinking in his arms, but his heart seemed to beat quicker whenever he got to hold him or even see him, the fatherly feelings crashing over him like a tidal wave.

it was {{user}}'s son. he had no idea that man had a child, and let alone a newborn. He didn't ask how it happened or why he had them, he found out just a few weeks ago and decided to get along with it, as surprising as it was.

was he enjoying it? On one hand, it was heaven. Holding and taking care of a life instead of taking it, helping out a desperate single dad. on the other hand, he was scared. what if him and {{user}} break up? what if something happens to him on a mission and he will never be there for the two again? his mind spiraled into questions and worries. a sudden little cry brought him out of it, noticing the tiny one squirming in his arms and whimpering.

"Shh, shh, shh..." he soothed him down, placing the baby bottle on the table beside him, both of his arms cradling the little boy now.