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He knew he was too old for these kinds of things. But he came anyway.
Why? Well, he doesn’t know, really. It could be because his social life is non-existent, and he just needed to be around people. Or because he had nothing better to do other than drink about 5 cans of beer while cleaning his guns and listening to music. Maybe he just felt like it.
Or perhaps- this one is the one he tries to push away from his mind- it’s because you were the one to ask him. All bright eyed and everything, looking up at him while you both stood in his office.
You sounded so excited, so eager. He warned you, reluctant, that he would only spoil the mood. Because who wanted their boss around when they were having a party to kick back and relax? And he knew his reputation, the broken, sad captain, acting as a black hole for joy and fun for whatever room he entered. He just ignored it well.
He told you that the others would be mad at you, but you didn’t care. You said, ‘Just come anyway.’ Before offering an encouraging smile, and walking out the door.
He stared after you for a long time, the file he was supposed to go through still in his hands, his grip softer than before.
Whatever reason it was that made him drive to the address you left him, and made him knock on the door and pretend as if he didn’t see the shock in the faces of people once he walked in, he came.
And now, he was on the floor, in the living room, surrounded by people who were at the very least 8 years younger than him, drunk and tired and sad. As always. And you were there too, just as drunk, if not more, your head on his shoulder and your eyes closed. But you were awake, he knew, by the way you breathed. His head was resting against yours, his eyes threatening to shut as well.
It reminded him of old times, better times. Before Racoon City and every hellish thing that followed. He could recall parties like these, where he wasn’t the oldest person in the room, or the saddest, for that matter. He could remember laughing, deep, from within. And he could remember getting drunk without feeling sorrowful, his eyes tearing up. Jill and him would talk for hours, sharing a cigarette, then two, then three. She would talk about the girl she was seeing, and he would listen, smiling and nodding. Sometimes Barry would be there, though it was rare, and it was mostly get-togethers. He would tell stories of his daughters, and then they would talk about anything.
He missed them. He missed everything.
“…You okay?”
He heard your voice, and opened his eyes slowly, gazing at you from the corner of his eye. Yours were still shut, your eyelashes brushing your cheeks.
“…I am.” He answered after a moment. Tonight had been nice too. Really, it had been. He was nervous at first, but once you found him, and dragged him to the kitchen, it had gotten better. You talked and talked, and you made him laugh. From within. Not deep as it was before, maybe, but that had nothing to do with you. You were funny, and friendly, and good. You were so good to him. He didn’t mind how much you talked, or what you talked about. You just made him feel better.
If he was braver, a little bolder, he would have asked you out ages ago. For dinner, or maybe just for coffee. He wanted to know more about you, so much more than what he learned during the space between debriefs. And he would be good to you, if you liked him too. He would, he swears. He would hold you while you were drunk like this, and he would work on his addictions. He would keep listening to you, whatever it was you wanted to talk about. He liked you. Hell, he was sure he could even love you.
But he was a sad, old man. And things weren’t getting any better in the world.
“Good…” you murmured, sighing. You adjusted your head, snuggling deeper into his neck, and he inhaled your perfume, encouraging him to take a deep breath that filled his lungs. “I hope you had fun.”
He looked around for a moment, trying to see through the fog that was in his mind.
“I did.” He responded. And it was true. He did. “More fun than I would have by myself, for sure.”
“Good.” You said again, nodding. “Good. I’m glad.” There was a beat, and then you spoke again. “I’m really glad you came, Chris.”
There was something in his chest. A feeling. It ceased his heart first, and then climbed up his throat, before it reached his eyes. A few seconds more and he was crying.
He could love you, he really could.
“…I’m glad I came too.” He managed to say, somehow, his voice raspy as salty tears slid down his cheeks, slow and steady. His gaze fell down to his hands, still and relaxed in his lap. “Thank you. For inviting me.”
You nodded again, and he saw you smile. “Of course.”
Silence fell, as well as it could fall, with all the people and the music that surrounded both of you. But he could swear, for a moment, there was no party. There was no one else in the room, in the street, or in the world. There were no monsters, no victims. It was just you, and him.
He wished it could last forever.
“…Hey.” You said, and he was pulled back to reality. He turned his head, and looked down, smiling a little.
“Yeah?” he asked, wanting to reach out and trace your lips, you chin, your jaw…
“…Can you take me to the bathroom?” He frowned gently. “I think I need to throw up.”
His smile widened for a moment, only a moment.
“Sure thing.” He said softly, wrapping one good arm around your waist, and then reaching for yours to throw it over his shoulders. “Just…hang on, okay?”
He rose slowly after you nodded, using the wall as support as he pushed both himself and you at your feet. He made sure, carefully, that you could stand, and then, he started walking.
Soon, your head was in the bowl of the toilet, and he was behind you, his hands in your hair, pulling it back as much as he could.
He made his plan then, as he was on his knees, helping you throw up. He said to himself, focused as if he was preparing for a mission: ‘Tomorrow.’ He thought. ‘Tomorrow, when we are both sober and better, I will ask them. I will take them out for coffee, to somewhere nice. I will. I will. I swear I will.’
He washed your face, helped you wash your mouth, and kissed your hair. Once, and then when you leaned into his touch, twice. He lowered the both of you to the ground, sitting on the tiles, pulling you close. You murmured something, and this time, despite the foggy silence, he didn’t hear. He just kept petting your head, slowly, his eyes drifting shut.
Tomorrow. He would ask you tomorrow.