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As expected as the nightmares are, they still fill him with dread. Because it’s real, more real than not. It is hard to wake himself up when he cannot tell he is dreaming. He has distinct memories of wishing that Raccoon City was a nightmare at multiple points throughout that night, even as he was struggling under the weight of a BOW trying to tear out his throat. Same with Spain. Hard to convince himself he is dreaming when the contents of his dreams are filled with things he has experienced too many times.
It doesn't make it any less scary— actually it makes it worse. Because the threats are real, they'll always be real—
Running out of ammunition, trying to get Marvin's knife free where it got stuck in a turned police officer's ribs. The handle is slick with blood, making it hard to get a grip so he can try a different angle, maybe try to twist and see if he can break a rib because he doesn't have another knife—
Back then, he did not have the experience to know when to back up and look for something else in the environment. All that mattered back then was his gun and his knife— he was helpless without either. This time, Leon has trust in himself. He disengages, comes right back with a well-placed kick. Similar technique to breaching a door, except his target is the knife handle so he can force it up and through a rib or two.
Bones crack. The BOW coughs like a person, blood spraying out of its grey rotting face and over the pale blue uniform shirt. After dodging a sloppy grab, Leon pulls the knife free. Bones grind but it is back in his hand. Back then, he didn't have the strength or knowledge to damage the brain with a knife. He relied too much on his pistol. Too much time wasted looking for ammo when he didn’t need it. He could handle a BOW or two or three. They are not fast or particularly strong, either.
The base of the skull is easy to puncture with enough force behind it. Under the jaw, the tip of the blade glancing off the front of the cervical vertebrae. A thin crunch. The BOW jerks and falls. He knows how to anticipate that, too, and keep himself from losing his knife from the body dropping. In and out, a quick dispatch. Strange, how comfortable he could get shoving a blade into something’s brain. How many times has he done it? Dozens of times? Hundreds?
The groaning hoard swarming him is expected. That happened, too. Even if his mind panics, he has muscle memory to rely on. Get space, get distance. Don't body hunt; do enough damage to move on. He is faster, more agile. Jumps onto a dresser to get past the choke point, kicks one in the head to take a couple down with it. Torches cast the dark hallway in a dim orange glow, flames flickering, matching the lurching gaits of the villagers choking the narrow hallway. Around the group, towards the open area he knows is ahead— thunder rumbles— no, that’s not only thunder—
Fingers scratch at his arms, his back, his head. Move faster. The terrifying shake of the tyrant’s heavy steps above, but he has time. No quick way down for it to reach him, not in this section of the precinct—
A woman latches on to his arm. Opening him up for a farmer to lunge for his neck with his teeth— behind him, someone grunts. Leon scrambles to his feet, hand knocking into the out-of-place nightstand to grab his gun— it’s not where he left it— Where the fuck is his gun?!
He switches, reaches for the knife he keeps tucked under the mattress, hilt half an inch further out than flush with the bed so he can find it by touch alone. Draws it— it’s not Marvin's knife, it’s much smaller than that— who the fuck switched out his knife? He needs the reach, it’s safer to have a longer blade when he is not ready—
In the dark, Leon can’t pick out any silhouettes yet. It is way too fucking dark, why can't he see anything? Did the power go out?
“Situation?” A familiar voice—
“Chris?” Leon asks, preventing himself from launching towards the voice to eliminate the threat.
“What’s going on?”
It is Chris. Chris turns on the bedside lamp and reveals them facing each other, both of them coiled to react, the bed abandoned between them. This is a hotel room. Chris is here. That’s why his gun and his usual knife aren’t here. Leon makes himself take a breath. That’s why the light was off; he didn’t want to keep Chris up by insisting that they keep a light on for him.
“Leon?”
— — —
Chris snaps awake. He rolls out of bed, reaching for his rifle on his chest that isn’t there—
“Situation?” The words are out of his mouth before he finishes scanning the darkness
“Chris?” Leon, confused.
“What's going on?” Chris asks, ready to react to whatever startled Leon.
Leon does not answer.
Chris reaches in the dark, feeling along the nightstand to the lamp. He turns it on. Leon is standing, ready for action, a knife in hand— where does he keep that? — blinking rapidly in the sudden brightness. Both of them scan the room, then return their attention to each other.
“Leon?” Chris prompts, keeping his voice steady. “What's wrong?”
Leon frowns. “I don't know. You woke me up.”
Chris almost denies it, but he actually does not know what woke him up. He thinks, trying to remember anything before Leon jumped out of bed.
“I thought something was happening. I think you woke me up,” Chris says, making sure to keep his tone casual, not accusatory.
Leon’s frown deepens with confusion. “You definitely woke me up first— something did.”
Chris takes a moment to listen, just to confirm that nothing is happening. This is not the first time either of them have woken up startled, but both of them at the same time? The chances of both of them jumping out of a nightmare at the same time are slim to none. Chris is pretty sure he wasn’t having a nightmare, but that isn’t anything he will bet on. The more logical explanation is that something external woke them up— if Leon is accurate about something else waking him up.
“I don't hear anything.” Chris says, glancing back at Leon.
“Check the window.”
Chris obliges. He cannot see anything. Leon glides to the door, peers out the peephole to the hallway and listens intently, knife still held at the ready. Leon is on edge, convinced that something has happened. He moves on to check the bathroom and pokes in the closet as Chris gives the street below a lingering critical glance.
“What do you think woke you up?” Chris asks. He is starting to think that Leon heard something innocuous and assumed the worst. It happens.
“I swear I heard something in the room,” Leon says, still on edge.
Chris nods. Leon is more twitchy than any one else he has shared space with. He does not blame Leon for waking up like that. Chris has done it plenty of times, too.
“It could be people in the room next door,” Chris says.
Leon’s anxiety is turning into irritation. “It was in the room.”
“Maybe it was me,” Chris says to keep things practical. “I might have snored. Happens when my allergies act up.”
Leon’s squint says everything he would need to to convey that he isn’t buying Chris’s explanation. Chris shrugs. He might have made a noise in his sleep and woken Leon up. That is seeming more likely than anything they need to respond to like it’s a threat. Unless he is in the field, there is almost never a reasonable reason to believe something bad is going to happen. That isn’t how the world works— even though there is always a slim chance. Jumping at shadows isn’t helping anyone, not after a threat assessment.
Chris almost makes a joke about asking Leon to make sure he does not stab Chris if he startles Leon again, but decides not to. Leon does not appear to be in the mood for a joke like that; Chris does not want him to take it the wrong way, thinking that Chris is actually worried about Leon hurting him.
“Well,” Chris says, hesitating. “If you—”
“Go back to bed, Chris,” Leon says, not interested in hearing Chris try to fumble his way into a delicate comment about not thinking anything is amiss.
Instead of saying something else to make this situation even more uncomfortable for Leon, Chris just nods and pulls his half of the sheets back over him. He rolls over to put his back to the rest of the room to give Leon some space.
“You can turn off the light.”
“I don’t mind,” Chris says immediately.
Leon’s breath is not quite heavy enough to be a fully frustrated sigh, but it certainly is not a happy sound. “Turn off the light, Chris.”
Chris leans up, turns it off, casting them back into the darkness of night. He hadn’t closed the curtain all the way; there is a sliver of orangey street lamp light cutting through the hideously textured curtains. On silent feet, with hardly a whisper of clothing, Leon moves around the bed and inches the curtains closed. It is too dark to see Leon as anything more than a darker silhouette that he cannot quite define, his eyes not yet adjusted to the dark room.
Chris listens for a while, curious as to what Leon will do. Leon spends some time in the bathroom, the faucet turning on and off multiple times, and then no sound for a few more minutes. Even though Chris was wide awake, he is more than practiced at falling asleep quickly out of habit and necessity. Hearing someone walk around is not something that triggers his instincts into overdrive, not like it seems to do with Leon. Chris is too used to sleeping around Alpha team to be roused by sharing space with Leon. Especially when it sounds like Leon is doing his best to be as quiet as possible.
Chris has no problem falling back asleep. Leon must have come back to bed at some point after that, because the next thing Chris knows, he gets kicked in the shin and elbowed in the jaw.
“You fucker!” Leon snarls—
Rolling away, awake, Chris gets to his feet in a less graceful manner— tensing for a fight against whatever Leon is cursing—
As Chris turns on the lamp again, Leon laughs. Strained with fright and relief.
“What?” Chris asks, groggier than last time. Must have been deeper asleep.
Leon is standing much like he was earlier, except unarmed. Still poised to react, but instead of looking wildly around, Leon’s eyes are locked on Chris.
“You're fucking cuddling me! You dick!” Leon says, breathless with another laugh. Nervous.
“Huh?” Chris rubs his jaw.
Leon stares at him. “It was you breathing on my neck! I wasn't fucking dreaming—”
Chris drops his hand. “I wasn't—”
Leon laughs again, but Chris watches a full-body shiver work its way down his spine. “You scared the shit out of me, Chris, fuck!”
Chris rethinks his impulse to insist he wasn't cuddling because he remembers being really comfortable and tucking his nose into something warm. Fuck, he was, wasn’t he?
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”
“It’s okay,” Leon says, lying. He swipes his hand through his hair. “Damn, no wonder I've been dreaming about being grabbed.”
“I'm really sorry, Leon,” Chris says, appalled at himself.
“It’s fine,” Leon says, taking a huge breath. It is shaky when he lets it out. “Bad timing on that, though—”
“I’m sorry—”
“Chris, it’s fine.” Leon says. Not quite snapping at him, but there is that irritation again. “I’m not in the mood to cuddle right now.”
Chris didn’t think he was in the mood to cuddle, either— but that is not exactly true. Of all the times to be cuddly, he should have expected himself to be comfortable enough with Leon to creep into his personal space in his sleep. It isn’t okay, he didn’t ask—
“I’m—”
“Stop with the apologies!”
Chris bites back another one that almost makes it out thanks to the guilt expanding in his chest. Leon has an absolute right to be annoyed, but the flash of anger across Leon’s face is another hit of guilt.
“I’m gonna take a walk,” Leon says.
“Leon—”
“Go back to bed.” Leon says without looking at him, sliding into his jeans discarded on the floor from earlier that night.
As much as Chris wants to ask Leon to stay, he keeps himself from doing so. Leon clearly wants space; Chris has done enough. Leon gets dressed quickly, grabs a hotel key from the dresser, plucks a jacket from the closet, and leaves. Without a single glance at Chris, without any other assurance that he is okay or any kind of Leon’s usual bullshit, easy-practiced excuses. Leaving Chris standing at the far side of the bed, his back to the window, the silence and the firm closing of the door cutting him off from offering anything before Leon is gone.
Leon was in too much of a rush, because when Chris looks, it is his jacket that Leon took. For a moment, Chris wonders if that was deliberate— to discourage Chris from following into the chilly night air. Not that a lack of jacket would stop him; it isn’t freezing out, but Leon can be damn calculating about his non-verbal communication. As much as Leon is comfortable talking— especially in bed— Chris knows by now he needs to pay close attention to pick out the real things Leon slips in between his smiles, his teasing, his sarcasm.
Chris sits on the end of the bed, also way too awake to go back to sleep right away. Is Leon doing a perimeter check? Chris has seen him do that before, probably when he thought Chris was sleeping. Checking the locks on the windows, clearing the room and adjacent bathroom with his hand low at his hip, hovering over where there is almost always a weapon.
Chris does not know where Leon keeps his knife. It isn’t visible to Chris at first glance— and as intimate as they have been, it somehow feels too strange to look for Leon’s hiding spot for his knife that he keeps close by when he sleeps. It is oddly vulnerable. A glimpse into Leon’s mind, rather than only skin hidden under clothes.
Chris checked the time when Leon left, out of habit. Leon is not on patrol; he doesn’t owe Chris anything, much less any reasonable length of time before he is comfortable coming back. Besides, what is a reasonable length of time to take if you wake up from a nightmare— possibly triggered by someone cuddling you without asking?
By the time the door eases back open, much quieter and cautiously than as when Leon left, Chris is lying on his back on top of the bed, feet still on the floor as if he unintentionally flopped backwards after being unable to stay up.
“Sorry for waking you,” Leon says when Chris looks to glance at the clock, likely interpreting that as Chris’ trying to reorient himself to what time of night it is now as if it is close to a normal hour of morning.
“Sorry for waking you, too,” Chris says, knowing his voice is not thick with sleep and that Leon will notice that. Leon notices a lot of details like that.
As expected, Leon’s glance towards him says that Leon does, in fact, notice. Instead of saying anything, Leon stops trying to be quiet by being slow. He takes off his shoes normally, hangs Chris’ jacket up and peels off his jeans. Chris catches a whiff of cigarette smoke as Leon returns to the bed to join him.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” Chris says.
Leon’s small smirk is wry. He looks Chris over, first his face, but then his gaze roams over Chris’ body, too. Leon lies down in a similar pose, except his knees are bent to keep his feet on the bed.
“Didn’t know you smoked, either,” Leon replies, referring to the pack he surely found in Chris’ jacket pocket.
Chris hums, noncommittal. “Do it when I’m stressed.”
Leon’s smirk grows into a deprecating smile. “Funny. Me, too.”
Leon is looking up at the ceiling, not looking at him, so Chris copies that, too. In the lull, Chris assumes that Leon is gearing up to say something along the lines of telling Chris to go back to sleep and ignore him, but instead what comes out is:
“Do you also get cuddly when you’re stressed?”
Startled, Chris snaps to look at Leon. To check for annoyance, for Leon about to dive into telling Chris off for being too handsy—
This smile is more earnest. “It’s a joke, Chris, relax. Go the fuck to—”
“To bed, yeah. I’m trying,” Chris says, since they’re now teasing each other. As Leon likes to do to avoid serious conversations. It’s a good tactic; it is easier to be funny than it is to be serious. “Been trying. Someone keeps getting up and waking me up.”
Leon rolls his eyes. “You started this whole cycle.”
“I’m still not sure I did,” Chris replies. “Did you know you can be really squirmy in your sleep? Maybe you smacked me in your sleep—”
“I’ll do more than smack you, Redfield—”
“Which woke me up, which then woke you up. So technically, this could totally be your fault—”
“It’s late, Chris, shut your eyes and your mouth and—”
“Stole my jacket, stole my cigarettes, and then you come back into my room and harass—”
“I’m sorry, who is paying for this room? It’s mine—”
“I thought it was the United States government—”
“You think I fuck in rooms paid for by Uncle Sam?”
Chris chokes on his next comment. Leon laughs, taking that as victory. Always so quick with the insults and the sarcasm, then whipping out exactly the right thing to push Chris verbally off-step.
Leon does not want apologies. He wants Chris to relax so he can, too.