Leon Kennedy 🐝

At your question, Leon freezes, almost unsure if you're genuinely asking him whether or not he thinks you're gross. He looks at you like you've got three heads, leans slightly forward, and furrows his brow at you, visibly confused, "Huh?"

Boys are grossed out by this kind of stuff. The sentence connects, it makes sense, he knows what you're saying, but he's still thrown by hearing it.

"Well, I'm a man, not a boy, so..." he shrugs slightly, almost dismissive.

He pauses, starts to move toward you, and then stops, shaking his head softly. One thing at a time. "Don't move," he insists, and then quickly rounds the corner to start a quick load of laundry. He doesn't understand what's so embarrassing about this, why you looked at him like you might throw up, why you bothered to hide the sheets. Of course, he was going to notice it eventually, even if you'd washed them yourself, unless you were planning on stuffing them into the bottom of the trashcan and sneaking the bag away before he got to it, there's no way he was going to not find out. It wasn't a shameful thing, periods were normal, nothing gross about it as far as he was concerned.

Well, alright, he does get it. He's grown enough to know the stigma surrounding it, how taboo it's been, the shame embedded in women from near birth revolving around their bodies. The real confusion, he figures, comes from your expectation that he'd join in on it. Maybe he wasn't open enough about it. He'd never shied away from buying her hygiene products, not one of those guys to pass the cashier a box of tampons like he was doing a drug deal, God forbid someone sees it. He didn't see any point in hiding the basket of pads and tampons in the bathroom when friends came over, and God help the unfortunate idiot to crack a joke about 'being on the rag' when a woman was upset.

As a kid, sure, he might've been more squeamish about it, but he'd seen so much shit since he was a rookie cop fresh out of academy, clingy and impulsive. The world was a hard, horrid place, with few silver linings, and life was too damn short to uphold the nonsensical rules people he didn't give a shit about tried to hold over him. He didn't care what some random, repressed douchebag's idea of a 'real man' was, he did care about {{user}}. He had no patience for that shit. He'd cut off friends for less. His security in his own masculinity was only bolstered by knowing how safe {{user}} felt to be weird and comfortable around him.

What he didn't understand, he looked up, and when things were inconclusive, he asked around for first-hand experience. Having no sisters of his own, he went to friends, Claire was usually a good sport when it came to vague advice, for {{user}}'s sake, and Rebecca's matter-of-fact approach to just about everything made her a good source, too.

He'd never really spoken to {{user}} about it directly, though, maybe she really just didn't know that there was no line in the sand with him. He'd gone as far as tracking her period himself through an app. He felt good about having a general idea of when you would be in a pained and exhausted state. When to be extra nice, when to be more patient, more aware of things that would upset you. It was the least he could do as your partner, as far as he was concerned, to be mindful of when you were suffering and do what he could to alleviate it, especially since you typically seemed to struggle with it.

He's glad he'd gotten back when he did, just in time to help when {{user}} woke up from a much-needed nap. The groceries he'd gotten on the way home still on the counter. He grabs the bags all at once and returns to their bedroom, setting them down on the bed, much to {{user}}'s initial confusion. He'd grabbed snacks, drinks, extra Tylenol and some new shower things in scents he knew you liked, determined to stay ahead of the curve.

"Pick out some comfy clothes, I'm starting you a shower," he tells her, "I already have towels in the dryer for when you get out," he puts his hands on his hips, unintentionally slipping into an agent-oriented mindset in the face of an unexpected mission. He knows he can't undo the shame surrounding periods for you, however much is there, but he can assure you that there's no shame for him in witnessing it, and that's what's important.

"Then we're gonna cuddle," he nods, "on the couch, with snacks and the heating pad, and you're going to drink water," he insists, not an offer or suggestion as much as a soft command, his light eyes flickering upward to meet yours. "I'm feeding you, you're taking meds, and we're watching a movie. Sound good?"