Work Text:
You knew better than to drink as much as you'd drank that evening. You knew damn well you were supposed to be on a flight back to the United States the following day, three o'clock sharp in the evening with your assigned agent, Leon Kennedy.
And yet, here you were, stumbling and toppling over in his arms–he has to steady you every few seconds, he's debating carrying you at this point. He knows he shouldn't have left you alone for a moment, knows you don't handle your alcohol well and the bartenders always persuade you into another. "Just one more," you'd say, before becoming inevitably drunk and much less like yourself.
Leon really wishes you weren't such a lightweight, he's never been one. He handles his alcohol easily, some might say it enhances his work ethic. But you? You're the complete opposite.
The taller of you, Leon, stops next to a creamy white door, retrieving a key card from his pocket and sliding it into the door. It clicks after a moment and he pushes the door open before grabbing hold of your waist once more. He hates having to practically manhandle you but you give him no choice in the matter. It's that or let you collapse onto your face in the hotel hallway.
You whisper his name, trailing off your sentence in quiet huffs. You'd been protesting him since you left the bar–the bar he was insistent on visiting for "celebratory drinks" on a mission successful–and he had just about had it for one night. All he wanted to do was sleep but apparently, that wasn't going to happen either.
One bed rests in the middle of the room, big enough for the both of you but Leon's lips part to let a frustrated sigh out. He leads you to it, gently lets you sit down on the side and waits until you collapse onto the side before digging his phone from his pocket.
It rings once, twice, and then–
"Hunnigan," he speaks, not giving the woman a chance to question him. "Why does this hotel have one bed? I can't share with Y/N–"his voice drops, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you hadn't wandered off. You were asleep, he thinks–"fix this."
Hunnigan sighs from the other side of the line, tapping something on her keyboard while Leon waits rather impatiently. "I'm sorry Leon, it's late there, I can't do anything about a room reservation with the capacity of the hotel at the moment."
Leon huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, it does little to help. He can't share a bed with you–you're his assigned assistant. It's wrong in several ways for him to do so, not to mention, he's got a little issue of his own with the matter.
"Leon," Hunnigan interrupts him from his troubled thinking, a light tapping in the background. "You're adults, sleep in the same bed. Just–keep it professional on the job."
Keeping it professional would be no issue. It was hard to be an issue when you were passed out on the bed, and Leon Kennedy would never try anything like that on you when you're in such a state. Hell, he'd nearly clocked some guy at the bar for standing too close to you when you didn't fully know what was happening around you. He clicks the end call button, too annoyed to continue speaking.
All he wants to do is sleep. He has a feeling he won't get much of it, though, he never does before a flight.
He turns around to find you, kneeling next to you in order to remove your shoes from your feet. You're wearing mostly comfortable clothes, he thinks, you should be fine. Leon lightly lifts you up enough to tug the blanket free of the way it sat tucked into the corners, draping it over your side.
When he's certain you're asleep he does the same for himself. Shoes first, drops his coat to the nearest chair, exchanges his jeans for something more comfortable and very hesitantly comes to stand on the opposite side of the bed. There's nothing wrong with this, you would encourage him to share the bed if you were sober and awake. He knows you would.
Leon pushes the blanket to the side so he can climb under, settling his head on the cold pillows and staring at the ceiling. You shuffle in your sleep, turning to face him and your arm extends, fingers clutching around the dark fabric of his shirt. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, sound asleep and lips parted slightly.
It's strange to say the least, you're nothing like the other women he's met before. You're reserved–mostly, you do have some wicked jokes–and you've never done anything for your own self gain to him. You've just always been sweet, considerate, gentle. You're much too good for someone who's done the things he's done, that's what he would believe anyway. Maybe that's why he's always found himself growing attached to you; you provide him a sense of stability, something he doesn't have very much of.
But you're just friends, work associates. So what if you've exchanged a couple drunken flirty comments, so what if you did accompany him to a party at the office once and dragged him into dancing with you. He remembers that occasion like it was yesterday, you'd worn a black dress, complained about the music choice and still managed to sweetly smile at him to get him on the dance floor.
When he'd failed to stop the bomb, you weren't critical. You didn't put shame in his head or criticize him for drinking. Rather, you'd found where he was drinking and rested your hand on his shoulder, speaking hushed words to get him out of there.
He smiles at the thought.
Leon runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes before turning his head to look at you. You just look so peaceful, so content.
Leon's tongue slips a sentence past his lips before he can stop himself, "I have a bit of a soft spot for you."
Your dazed eyes briefly open at the sound of his voice, gazing at him through a lidded stare. You don't say anything, mind too cloudy and bogged to understand what he even said to you.
The man chuckles, albeit his pulse did kick up at the sight of you being awake, even if you were too drunk to understand. Maybe it was the alcohol fueling him to say these things to you with no care of consequences. Hey, if you did reject him, he could live happily knowing he has you as an assistant. You wouldn't shame him for this, you probably wouldn't even remember it in the morning.
He licks his lips, continues his sentence with anticipation. "I'm fond of you, too much. You're too good for me."
Even through the hazy influence of alcohol, your sleep ridden mind comprehends what he's just said to you. He doesn't notice the way you sleepily gaze at him, pulling your eyes shut the moment his eyes flicker back to you. It takes restraint to keep your lips from curving at the corners, he'd know you were awake then.
You find yourself wondering why Leon would think he's not good enough for you, he's better than ninety percent of the men you've met. He's always been a gentleman to you, when he's not teasing you for your work, he's always been just right. Maybe it had something to do with another woman you'd heard tales about, never met her of course, just heard of.
But you saw nothing less than good in him.
Leon pulls his eyes closed intent on getting some sleep, even if it were only an hour or two. From beside him, in a hushed drowsy voice he hears you speak, "I'm fond of you too, Leon."
Well, one thing's for sure, Leon won't be sleeping for the rest of the night.