Chapter Text
Leon stared blankly at the small invitation, his free hand gripping the hospital sheets.
Agent Kennedy,
As a thank you for saving out daughter:
Dinner at 1800 on Monday November 18th 2004 at The White House
Do not bring anything
Sincerely,
The Grahams
His jaw hung open. He had just gotten back from Spain two days prior and the 18th was tomorrow. He was in absolutely no condition to leave his bed, let alone attend a dinner party. Ashley had just gotten back too, was she not shaken up? Would they not wait a few weeks?
Leon reluctantly placed the paper on a table by his bed and leaned back to bury himself in the sheets. His whole body throbbed. He had suffered from an array of injuries, some of which his body hadn’t even processed.
The biggest and most pressing injury was a large gash down his front which had been gifted to him by a plagas villager as he was packing Ashley onto the jetski before leaving. The creature had swung an axe from below and hit him center mass before yanking back, dragging it down to his pelvis. He considered it a failed evisceration. Now, a long trail of stitches ran from his left rib to his groin, wrapped tightly in medical dressing. Tight enough that it was difficult to breathe.
The second but still very pressing injury was the dislocation of his right kneecap. It was extremely grotesque took place during his fight with Krauser. He took an unfortunate tumble in an attempt to slide away and the bone had popped from its usual place. After the fight, he was able to locate it and slide it back to where it was meant to be, but the process involved a few unintended consequences including lots of agony and a large, obnoxious hinged knee brace.
The final injuries, he considered one big collection, were the bruising and cuts that littered his body. Whether from being grabbed, choked, slashed, whatever, he was covered from head to toe in purple and black. He had received over fifty stitches just from the small cuts alone.
He laid back in the hospital bed, closing his eyes to focus past the haze of the medication they had flushed him with. Since the presidential family had invited him over, he was almost obligated to attend. They had personally requested him. By the sound of the message, he assumed he would be the only one in attendance to join them in celebration. But how big was the Graham family? Would it just be Ashley and her parents or did she have siblings, cousins, uncles, and aunts?
The thought of such a meeting made him want to vomit. His entire career was put together so he didn't receive recognition. Now the one time someone decides to hand it out, it's at the least opportune time.
When the 18th arrived, he had long since decided he would be attending. He could never turn down an invitation from the presidential family and if he was honest, he did want to see Ashley. He hoped that she was doing well, but their contact had been cut as soon as he was back in the hands of the DSO.
At around noon, he slowly dragged himself out of bed, pulling out his IVs and other wires before slowly limping his way to the corner of the room where his duty bag had been placed. He hunched and held his stomach to keep from pulling the still tender stitches.
The DSO was kind enough to leave his duty bag for him sometime when he had arrived. He was unconscious when he was checked into the hospital and the day following check in, so he’s not sure who brought it in, but he was somewhat grateful. Though, the lack of visitors leading up until now made him sour.
When he finally reached the bag, he peered inside to find his Class A, Class C, and Schott bomber jacket. Upon digging further, he also found his sidearm and dagger. He was giddy when he pulled the Silver Ghost out, his pain momentarily forgotten. She had been cleaned and was practically sparkling in the fluorescent light.
He decided it would be best to wear the knee brace under his pants if possible to try and hide his injuries. So, he pulled out his black Class C BDU pants and, with significant effort, pulled them over the brace. Since they were baggy, they hid the brace better than most of the other options would, but the silhouette of janky hardware could still be seen.
He decided it would suffice and pulled on a black undershirt with another force of effort, then his Schott to hide the bruising and stitches down his arms. After a few minutes of sliding on his combat boots and strapping up his sidearm, he shuffled to the mirror and scoffed at his appearance.
Yesterday night, the nurses had allowed him to shower so his hair looked clean, but dishevelled. However, his face was horrible. Dark circles sunk his eyes and stubble had started prickling through. His whole face was mottled with bruises and cuts, but his neck was the worst with visible hand marks from being grabbed and choked by infected.
He combed through his hair and decided his face was an unfortunate addition to his battered look that he couldn't prevent, though he did pull his collar up a little higher than usual. His posture was also slightly an issue. He was visibly in pain from wincing and the hunch didn't help. He decided it was another unfortunate feature he couldn't prevent.
He slowly shuffled back over to his duty bag and pulled his phone and other necessities out. He hoisted it over his shoulder and grabbed the invitation before exiting the room. He would have liked to make the bed before leaving, but decided it would cause him a significant amount of pain. He lumbered past the front counter, attempting to look as if leaving was normal for a man in his state. Shockingly, no nurses stopped him, so he kept moving.
When he stepped outside, the sun had already started lowering. He was able to catch one of the hospital taxis and requested to go to a local bakery. He dragged his way into the store, picking out a nice collection of cookies before stepping up to the counter.
“Just these for today, please.”
The young cashier looked at him with a worried expression. “Sure thing. Cash or card?”
Leon pulled out his wallet, “Card.”
“Alright, it’ll be $18.68 with tax.”
As Leon reached out to insert his card, he winced slightly at the movement. The cashier noticed.
“Sir, I don’t mean to pry, but are you okay? You look… not okay.”
Leon pulled the card out and grabbed the cookies. “I’m fine. Just had a rough week. Thanks.”
He limped his way out of the shop, much faster than his injuries would have liked, and slid into the cab telling the driver that the White House was his next stop.