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When Leon wakes, his body is covered in sweat, and there’s a scream still lodged in his throat.
He swallows it down as best he can, throat stinging painfully, like there’s an actual obstruction there. He blinks against the urge to throttle himself, draping his (uninjured) shaking arm over his eyes as he tries to breathe through the initial panic.
Sixteen goddamn years of this bullshit; you’d think he’d be used to the nightmares by now.
His heart feels about three sizes too big for his chest, and no matter how many of those breathing exercises he tries, nothing seems to be a match for the lingering tendrils of horror.
Fuck.
Leon’s still pretty unsteady by the time he manages to convince himself he isn’t actively on the verge of dying. He slowly opens his eyes and stares at the unwavering landscape of his peeling ceiling until he feels like he can exist outside of himself gain.
Another night, another nightmare.
He’d almost find it funny at this point — he’s been encased in this shit for nearly two decades and it still follows him home at night? How pathetic — if he wasn’t the one living through it. If he wasn’t the one who got lost in a bottle more times often than not, if only to find a bit of relief.
A glance at the clock on his nightstand says it’s only just past six in the morning, but he knows better than to try sleeping after that. It’ll only lead him to even darker places.
So, instead, Leon peels back the sweat-soaked sheets with a grimace, making the mental note to get those taken care of the next few days. His shirt is uncomfortably wet as well, sticking to his skin his entire walk to his ensuite.
He pulls a face, peeling it and his briefs off in one smooth motion with his good hand. He flicks the shower on as cold as it gets and in a move he’ll probably come to regret later, allows him to face the mirror.
He stares at the disagreeable reflection waiting for him and has to bite against the initial pull of disdain that sparks in his chest. It’s been a handful of weeks since Arias, two, to be exact, and Leon feels no safer nor steadier than he did at the start. He feels like he’s still trapped in that damn bar in Colorado; an entire river of blood on his hands and a legacy he never asked for biting him in the ass.
Again.
His torso and arm are still bruised heavily, but at least he’s regained most of the mobility back. There are dark circles clinging to his tear ducts and the state of his stubble has seen better days, but Leon, at least, still recognizes himself in the mirror. He knows without a hint of irony or vanity, most people would still gift him a double take in the streets. Unfortunately, Leon’s pretty face has only tasted more acrid the older he gets.
With a sigh, Leon folds himself into the shower, biting back the instinctual yelp that rises at the frigid water beating against his back. He forcefully angles his head back beneath the brunt of it, hissing petulantly. Hot showers certainly feel better, but nothing brings him back to earth like the bone-chilling awareness seeping in right now.
He should have had the bottle of whiskey last night.
He should have downed it, consequences be damned, the disappointed look on Rebecca and Chris’ faces, the ones that still haunt him weeks later be damned, the new found hope and admiration that had bloomed on that rooftop be damned.
At the very least, he would’ve slept soundly.
It’s too late now.
Leon hadn’t walked away from the fight with Arias with much. In fact, he’d wager he walked away with less than most, but he figures he owes it to Chris, to Rebecca, to the citizens of New York he almost let die had he drowned in a bottle in that bar like he intended — but most importantly, himself, too.
He needs to start trying. And he intends to — at least until the next disaster strikes.
Then, well. He’s not in the business of lying to himself: who knows what will happen then.
While his unhealthy reliance on self-medication hadn’t exactly been news, it also had never been something he’d allowed himself to face head on. There was always a justification, no matter how flimsy, for the overindulgence. Whether to balm his nerves in middle of a fight or to soften the blow of grief in the after, Leon had always had a cause for it, in the end.
Until New York.
Until the way Chris had stared at him at the end of it all, soft and understanding and contradicting every last word that had been spat at him in the bar.
Until Leon realized the weight of his own grief was going to cause more consequences than the heavy drinking.
Funny, how it takes almost dying for the twenty-fifth time for you to admit you have a problem.
——————————
Leon breathes a sigh of relief when he cuts the water off nearly twenty-five minutes later.
He quickly grabs one of the towels from the rack, running it expertly through his hair. He towels off the rest of his body, shivers wracking through him in a way that would surely be embarrassing should he have an audience.
A manic laugh punches out of his chest at the train of thought; imagining the twisted, pitying looks that would be thrown his way.
Leon can’t quite meet his own gaze in the mirror when he brushes his teeth, but from the fantastic view of his arm, at least the bruising finally seems to be fading to an only slightly black-purple.
It had been nearly black, two mornings after Arias.
By the time he’s freshly dressed in a pair of loose-fitting relaxed pair of jeans, the sun is a dancing kaleidoscope across his kitchen tile. It isn’t quite enough to warm him, but it is enough to make him pause in front of the sad state of his coffee pot.
Leon doesn’t have to look in the fridge to know he won’t like what he finds.
It’s then he decides to stop by that one coffee shop just outside of Central Park that he won’t admit to liking so much. It’s the least he can do for himself, lest he be forced to survive on the swill provided at the office.
——————————
(If it will also allow him to not have to lie to Sherry later, when she inevitably asks if he left his house for any other reason that work, then that’s something he’ll just keep to himself.)
——————————
The coffee shop, despite the early morning, is already bustling with activity when Leon parks his motorcycle outside.
Autumn is starting to bloom in full, rich, gorgeous colors painted in broad strokes across the treetops. Leon would think he’d be immune to the beauty of foliage by now, having grown up in New England, but there’s something about it that never gets old. He still feels like a kid sometimes, like it’s his first time being able to play in piles of leaves all over again.
While he’s never considered himself to be a particularly artistic man, he thinks he gets it, why so many painters have dedicated their careers to immortalizing sights like these.
Running a hand through his hair, desperately trying to tame the no doubt horrible case of windswept strands. He opens the door, letting the two teenagers behind him step in first before they all fall into line to order.
The shop is a cozy, warm and comforting haven that fights away the lingering chill from outside. While it’s nowhere near actually cold just yet, it’s a welcome change from the cling of humidity that had stuck around all summer. Truthfully, he’s just grateful Arias had the decency to wait for cooler weather to initiate his grand plan.
Leon grunts to himself, cocking his neck until it cracks and then pays the other side the same attention.
He pauses.
Considering his status as a highly respected government agent, it takes him a horrifying amount of time to realize he’s being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up the moment he realizes, and he, very smoothly, whips around to try and discern the source.
It — well, it doesn’t take long.
It never takes long to notice the tank of the man that is Chris Redfield.
Chris looks a little more weathered than he did when they saw each other last, but no less ethereal. He’s wearing a stupidly tight turtleneck that hugs him in all the right places, military fatigues and an overcoat that is trying very hard to be a trenchcoat and failing.
He’s beautiful.
Leon’s gaze trips over his form several times, at the fading bruising on his face from Arias pummeling into him with his fists, at the base of his throat, covered by cloth but no less inspiring, and the wide stretch of his shoulders that Leon’s long since had dreams about. Impossibly, they seem to have filled out even more over their last couple weeks apart.
(This part, admittedly, may be wishful thinking.)
Leon realizes he’s staring at him, he does, but he can’t make himself stop. Chris waves a hand in front of Leon’s face, the bastard, effectively breaking the spell Leon was under. When he raises his gaze to the other man’s face, he finds him already watching, an amused tilt to his mouth.
“Hey, man,” Chris greets.
Leon clears his throat, fails, and then tries again.
“Redfield,” says Leon, winces, and then coolly corrects himself, “Chris. I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
Chris just raises an eyebrow at him.
“You know I live here, right?”
Leon knows he means in New York, but Leon’s never been able to ignore an opening when he sees one, and he isn’t about to start now. At the very least, being a bit of a pedantic ass isn’t going to be a surprise. If anything, Chris of all people probably expects it.
“What, here?” He asks, being sure to widen his eyes in feigned shock as he glances curiously around the coffee shop.
Chris just snorts, lightly punching his (good) shoulder. Leon wonders how much of that was luck, and how much of that was him remembering Leon’s injury.
“Come on, man,” he says, not sounding or looking nearly as annoyed as Leon would have wagered on a few weeks ago.
Chris’ annoyance and steadfast disapproval has melted into something a bit softer, a little more understanding. Leon thinks maybe part of the problem from the beginning is Chris had been staring at himself in that bar and didn’t appreciate the reminder. Leon’s read the reports from Edonia: it isn’t that far of a stretch to put two and two together, and Leon’s always excelled at puzzles.
That doesn’t mean the memory of Colorado doesn’t chafe, but he knows that’s just the kind of man Chris Redfield is; stubborn to a fault, a bit of a martyr, and unable to do absolutely anything quietly.
Leon should know, he’s asked. Several times.
Despite everything swirling inside his chest, though, Leon’s lips still manage to twitch into a smile.
“So, how’ve you been?” He asks, eventually. He figures it’s only polite, considering Chris approached him first.
Chris shrugs. “Good, good. They’ve got me on paperwork duty until the Arias thing calms down,” he sighs, annoyance finally lacing into his tone. He then straightens his posture, calculating eyes very obviously roaming over Leon’s form not once, but twice. Any other time, maybe, Leon would feel over the moon. Now, he just feels tired. “How’s your arm?”
He almost feels a little guilty about the surge of surprise that goes through him at the consideration.
“I can move it without screaming now, so. I’d say it’s pretty good,” Leon replies, suddenly feeling quite glad he opted to wear one of his leather jackets out today. This one is a deep brown, brings out the blue of his eyes and hides the still persistent bruising covering his arm and torso.
Considering the way Chris had been adamant that Leon seek medical care as soon as the helicopter landed, he knows its better to keep that to himself. He really doesn’t want an encore of that particular showdown of bullheadedness any time soon.
Chris looks less than pleased by that answer, but miraculously, he’s cut off from voicing any of it by the barista who calls them to the counter. She looks less than amused. Leon can feel his cheeks heat from being so caught up in Chris, but it doesn’t stop him from glancing to the other man again. He debates for all of two seconds before he beckons him forward with a sigh.
“Come on.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m buying,” Leon offers, and without further explanation, finally steps forward to place his own order.
Chris isn’t nearly as slow on the uptake as most people assume of him at first glance. Soon enough, the man’s a warm, solid presence at Leon’s side, chasing away the last of the chill from Leon’s shower this morning. He’s rattling off a surprisingly sweet concoction that Leon can’t help but side-eye him for. Still, he represses the urge to lean into him anyway.
He slides his credit card over once the barista reads them the total, more as an excuse to focus on literally anything else.
They both fall quiet until the barista starts preparing their drinks.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Chris says, at the same time Leon drawls,
“Are you trying to put yourself to sleep with that shit?”
They both stare at each other for several long moments, caught in a silent showdown before laughter seems to erupt from Chris’ chest. It’s not mean, that much Leon can tell, but gleaning anything else from it is next to impossible when he feels so taken by the sound.
He’s never heard Chris laugh like that.
“Jesus,” says Chris, lips still stretched into a smile. “Here I am trying to thank you for the drink and you’re making fun of me for it.
Leon smiles, wry. He wonders if he should be concerned, how much better teasing Chris makes him feel.
“I wasn’t making fun of you. I’m concerned, Chris.”
“Sure,” Chris allows. “Thank you, though. I — I really didn’t come over here for a free drink.”
Leon doesn’t bother angling his face away to hide the roll of his eyes.
“Obviously,” he intones. “I was just being nice.”
For some reason, Chris looks stupidly pleased at this.
Part of him wants to reach out and shake the other man, ask him what’s gotten into him in the last two weeks. For just having survived the same hell as Leon, losing just as much if not more than him, there’s a certain…lightness to him, one that he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with. Like Chris wouldn’t rather be anywhere else than some hipster coffee shop in Manhattan, talking to him.
To Leon.
“Very nice,” Chris agrees.
The barista calls their orders then, and they both step forward to grab their drinks. As they make their way to the door, Leon is fumbling through reasons to try and get the man to stay with him just a little longer, or maybe an excuse to leave entirely when Chris bumps their shoulders together gently.
“You got a few minutes?”
Leon swallows, makes a show of checking his watch even though he knows damn well he doesn’t have to be at the DSO office for another hour and fifteen minutes.
“Possibly,” Leon replies. “Depends. Is this about another mission?”
Something flashes across Chris’ face but it’s gone before Leon can place it.
“No, no. No mission this time. How about a walk, instead? We’re pretty close to Central Park.”
Leon couldn’t keep the surprise off his face now if he tried.
Of all the things he expected Chris to say, that had not been one of them.
Leon doesn’t know why he pauses. He would have jumped at the opportunity just a few years ago, before China, especially. But, now…
This wouldn’t be the first time they’ve hung out outside of work, of course, but it would be one of the only times that wasn’t prefaced by getting a little too drunk at one of Claire’s barbecues. Certainly, this is the first time either of them initiated just because. Leon can’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t Sherry or Claire wanted to spend time with him just because.
Fuck, he really is pathetic.
Leon clears his throat, as if Chris can hear his inner turmoil, and decides he has no real reason to say no, now. It definitely beats waiting around on his motorcycle outside the DSO offices until he’s supposed to report in. Plus, exercise. Always good for the heart, or so he hears.
“Sure,” he says, finally.
There’s that damn smile again, breaking out over Chris’ face like a dawning sunrise. Leon has to look away from the force of it should his chest cave in on him. He busies himself with taking a sip from his cup; its way too hot, burning the roof of his mouth. Thankfully, Leon’s an expert at not reacting to pain by now and loftily pretends his mouth isn’t on fire.
“Great. Follow me.”
As has been proved thus far, that’s one command of Chris’ he always inevitably follows, and this time is no different.
——————————
The silence between them stretches as they cross the street to the entrance of the park, shoulders brushing together almost conspiratorially every other step. Leon bites his lip at the repeated movement — is he really so starved for contact that isn’t inherently violent? At this point, probably — eyes snapping around the park continuously, desperate for some relief from the sweetness of a gesture that should mean absolutely nothing to him.
There’s a lot to take in, least of all because despite spending more time in the city than not, he doesn’t spend much time here.
The foliage is as stunning as he expected, leaves still lush from spring and vibrant with the promise of shorter days. The temperature isn’t quite cold enough for them to start dropping in swarms but a few are scattered about already, either from the wind or curious, prying hands.
They aren’t the only ones enjoying the morning before the work rush, the park is full of plenty of civilians.
An old man sitting on one of the benches, morning newspaper spread out on his crossed leg, filling out that days’ crossword, the teenage girl walking with her hands in her pockets, a big pair of headphones that jostles with the bopping motion of her head, the couple already curled up on a picnic blanket beneath a tree, oblivious to their surroundings outside of each other.
Moments like these, the quiet ones Leon is able to steal away what feels like every few years or so, are a stark reminder. Why it is so utterly worth it in the end to be so damned screwed in the head, putting up with all of the terror hidden in plain sight to allow others the luxury of safety. Who knows how empty this park would be had they not succeeded in apprehending Arias.
He knows better than to entertain that thought any further.
Leon clears his throat, taking another sip from his drink even though it’s still much too hot. It’s still not enough to stop him either.
“Can I ask you something?” He asks, suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between them.
He feels more than sees Chris’ responding shrug.
“Sure. If you’d like.”
“Why did you approach me?” asks Leon, letting his gaze finally rest on Chris again. The man turns to face him once the question sinks in, eyes flashing with something akin to bemusement. Like he was almost expecting a question like this. “I honestly thought you would have pretended not to see me.”
It feels stupid as soon as it leaves his mouth, like they’re schoolchildren instead of adults in their forties but — it isn’t exactly untrue, either. Leon did kind of expect that from him; its not like he's made the greatest impression this last mission. Or in China. Or — it feels like ever, really. Maybe not since Rockfort.
Chris scoffs, this time the sound is exasperated, though not unkind.
“Why would I do that?”
Leon just stares at him.
“China? The bar in Colorado? Hell, Chris, take your damn pick. I haven’t seemed to be in your good graces lately, is all.”
Chris’ entire posture almost seems to fracture in on itself at the mention of China, face shuttering in grief before it smooths out again, almost as quick as it had appeared. To say things in China could have gone better would be putting it lightly, especially for Chris. Not that it was any walk in the park for Leon either, but comparatively, well.
China isn’t very far up on ‘Worst Experiences of His Life’ as much as other operations.
He’d, for once, lucked out with that one.
“China — China wasn’t your fault,” Chris says, voice barely audible among the commotion of New Yorkers. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Chris sound so apologetic before. “And I could have handled the bar better.”
Leon takes another sip and tries to decide what the hell that even means. It’s not an apology, exactly, and honestly, Leon isn’t sure he’d even accept one if he got one. Not due to some invisible debt Chris owes him, but well — he’d been feeling sorry for himself, getting plastered on expensive alcohol at a ski resort. He can’t say it’s a moment he’s proud of, especially since he had an audience.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry, Leon,” says Chris, plainly, eyes on Leon like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the entire park. It stops Leon dead in his tracks.
Like he expects it, Chris does too, and the good natured charisma that’s been clinging to him like glue since they ran into each other has been replaced by a solemn, quiet sorrow. It steals all the breath from Leon’s chest and — shit. He is so not prepared for this. Chris reaches out like he wants to place a hand on his shoulder but it drops back to his side before it can land.
Leon tells himself he doesn’t miss the phantom touch and licks his lips.
“Chris—“
“I should have learned my lesson the first time around. Vengeance has never led me anywhere good,” He says, and his voice — it tears a hole in Leon so gaping he aches with it. Leon has the tendency to wear his grief like a shield and sword but he thinks Chris has always held his closest to his chest. Like it’s something he could never bring himself to turn away from. “I lost Piers because of it. I lost Damian because of it, and I almost lost Rebecca. Nadia. You.”
The pain in his voice is — unfathomable.
Leon knows that Piers had hurt; he, of course, didn’t know the specifics but the fact that he man was dead now was all he needed to know in the first place. Leon’s never been great at comforting people and he doesn’t know where the hell to start with Chris. So, he doesn’t bother with words. He knows Chris is a pretty tactile guy, he’s always slapping Leon’s shoulder, reaching his hands out to hold an elbow, brushing by him with a sure touch, and that was all when Leon was convinced the man didn’t even like him all that much.
Instead, he bumps their shoulders together more deliberately, steadfastly ignoring the way his heart is trying to drum itself to life outside of his chest, and smiles, a little wobbly,
“I appreciate the concern, but my injuries weren’t that serious.”
Rebecca and Nadia, however. Well, both of them were two of the luckiest, bad ass woman he’s ever worked with. And he works with a lot of bad ass women, really.
“He threw you into that building pretty damn hard, man,” Chris points out, eyebrows raised as if challenging Leon to contradict him. “I know your shoulder was dislocated too.”
Leon sighs. “Rebecca wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“She didn’t have to tell me shit, man. It was pretty obvious from the way you were holding your arm all night.”
Leon ducks his head to the curve of his smile.
Someone bumps into him, the person grunting but otherwise not acknowledging the fact that they collided with someone else. Leon sighs; typical. He realizes then that they’ve been stopped in middle of the pathway for several long moments now, block others on the trail. The realization is enough to force his feet to work again and he wraps his good hand around Chris’ bicep without thinking, spurring the other man into motion with him.
“We’re holding up traffic, Redfield,” drawls Leon. “You can chastise me and walk at the same time, no?”
Chris snorts. “So, what, showing concern for your well being is chastising you now, I see.”
Leon shrugs. He still hasn’t realized he’s holding onto Chris’ bicep, nor does he recognize the smug glint hiding in Chris’ eyes.
“Glad we understand each other, finally.”
Chris breaks out into helpless, laughter then. Leon traces the way his whole body shakes with the motion with lovesick eyes and thinks he could almost gag at himself.
Chris has always been unobtainable, and despite Leon’s abundant reluctance to accept the other man viewing him as anything other than an annoyance, that hasn’t stopped him from being practically wrapped around his finger this entire time. Leon’s only defense mechanism against his feelings for him has been the acidity which he coats his grief with.
But, this.
He thinks this might just be worth suffering for.
To have this moment stolen with Chris Redfield, the BSAA’s golden boy, in middle of Central Park while the civilians around them are blissfully oblivious. They’re the only two who know the part they played in preserving the city from an egotistical bioterrorist and Leon almost feels drunk on that alone.
Chris take a deep breath, and then says, “I’m so glad I ran into you today.”
Leon refuses to look at him from his tone; he knows whatever is waiting for him isn’t something he can handle. At least not without doing something recklessly stupid.
“Oh?” He forces himself to ask, still unable to bring himself to look at him, still grasping at his bicep. Chris, seemingly willing to use this as leverage, smoothly slides his arm up until their palms meet, intertwining their fingers together as they continue down the path. Leon takes three strides before it sets in that the warmth against his skin isn’t supposed to be there. His eyes fall on their joined hands as if he’s not able to process what he’s seeing.
Because he isn’t.
At all.
“Uh.”
Chris’ soft laughter sounds again, sounding a tinge awestruck the longer Leon goes without pulling away.
“Cat got your tongue?” He teases, voice rumbling, tender, and so, so warm. “If I knew all it would take to shut you up would be holding your hand, then this would have happened ages ago.”
Leon’s brain finally boots back online. He’s caught between wanting to push Chris away from him and pull him closer, but all he manages is squeezing his fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“Holding your hand,” Chris says. “Is that — are you alright with that?”
Leon doesn’t have it in him to answer that just yet, so he squeezes again.
“Why?”
“You didn’t answer any of my texts,” says Chris, as if that does any good at explaining anything.
Leon’s never felt so painfully out of his depth before, and he blindly dove headfirst into a concentrated zombie apocalypse at the ripe age of twenty-one. Something he’s continued to do for the last sixteen years of his life, and nothing has rocked him like this.
“Texts?” Leon whispers, once he can finally get his throat to form words again. “What texts?”
He has no idea what Chris is even talking about.
They’re holding hands.
Chris must be able to read that Leon really has no idea what he’s talking about, because the man sighs, rubbing his free hand through his hair, scrubbing roughly at the back a few times like it’s a nervous tic of his. Leon wants to yell at him, ask him what the hell all of this means and why he’s playing with Leon’s heart to boot, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t and he thinks maybe he would have a few weeks ago.
Maybe things haven’t just changed with Chris. Maybe it’s more that something has changed between them.
“Well. I guess that explains why you weren’t answering my texts.”
“I change my number a lot,” Leon explains, apologetic. “I’ve changed it so many times since I last gave my number to you.”
Chris looks a bit sheepish at that, like it’s something he’s done as well and that he should have considered it as a possibility.
“Right. I should have asked Claire before assuming, obviously.”
Leon doesn’t quite allow himself to hope, just yet, but he does allow himself to ask,
“Why did you try to reach out to me?”
“I wanted to spend time with you,” Chris admits, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like wanting to spend time with someone like Leon was a given for someone like him. “Arias sucked but seeing how competent you were in the field? Being able to work with you on solid ground for once? I didn’t want to let you slip away again.”
Leon raises an eyebrow. “You thought I blew you off and still approached me at Sera’s this morning?”
Chris’ cheeks dust pink, and he has the decency now to look more than a little embarrassed.
“I figured if you really wanted nothing to do with me you’d tell me to fuck off. And you didn’t.”
Leon very much would have done exactly that, if that were the case, so he laughs.
“Am I really that predictable?”
“No,” Chris says, and then in an effort to continuously steal the breath from Leon’s lungs singlehandedly, closes the distance between them to press their lips together.
Perhaps Leon should have expected this, but he doesn’t think he could have, in any possible reality. The other man’s lips are slightly chapped and warm, sparking a fucking revolution against Leon’s mouth that he can’t help but gasp against. His good hand, still wrapped around Chris’, squeezes erratically in time with the drumming of the beating of his heart. He feels like he’s coming undone and weaving together at the same time. He feels so many things and nothing at all; a quiet, settling peace coursing through him he’s only ever found at the bottom of a bottle.
Chris pulls away first, his free hand sliding up the side of Leon’s throat to cradle his cheek. He presses another chaste, exploratory kiss to the corner of Leon’s mouth.
“Do you have plans for lunch?”
Leon shakes his head, delighted when Chris moves with the movement to keep stroking his cheek.
“No.”
“I know a great place off of 1st Avenue that does a mean all-day breakfast. If you'd like to join me.”
Despite himself and despite all of the little things left between them unsaid, Leon finds himself grinning. He pushes himself into Chris’ space and brushes against those endearingly addicting lips once more. Fuck, anything more and Leon might just have to negotiate a sick day. Hunnigan would understand, truly. She’s the one that’s been trying to get him to go to Single’s Night with her at that one karaoke bar they frequent when they want to get plastered.
“Are you asking me out on a date, Redfield?” Leon asks, coy, once they pull away again.
The force of Chris’ smile puts all of his previous ones today to utter shame.
“Only if you’re saying yes.”
Leon smiles.
“Mm. Kiss me again and it’ll be a yes.”
Chris does exactly that.