Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“No, absolutely not!”

Leon is livid, standing in Hunnigan’s office, grinding his teeth together so forcefully he’s surprised he doesn’t chip one of them.

“Leon, would you listen to me for one minute?”

She tries to get through to him but he doesn’t want to hear it, it’s enough that they’ve canceled his vacation again, but to ask this of him– is utterly humiliating.

“I said, I am not doing it!”

He digs around in his pants pocket, grasps the dark blue chip he finds there tightly between his thumb and index finger and bangs it on Hunnigan’s desk, leaving it between them like a beacon to remind her of what she’s demanding.

“You might as well just take it now.”

Six months of sobriety. Weekly AA meetings. A prescription for SSRIs, he isn’t dumping in the trash. He’s really trying to be better, he is , but he knows having to accept this mission, will make all of that be for naught.

“I wouldn’t ask you, if I wasn’t sure you could do it.”

She slides the coin back towards him. ‘To thine own self be true.’ Is embossed on one side and Leon wants to believe it’s not just an empty phrase.

“It’s not you calling the shots here though, is it? They know Ingrid, I don’t know how but they do. And now they send me on this ludicrous mission just to prove it, because they think none of the others would do it.”

He balls his hands into fists, fixating on the shimmering blue coin, not looking at Hunnigan.

To thine own self be true. 

It says but this feels more like he’s cattle being herded to the butcher. He hadn’t even officially come out at work, had no intention of doing so either, but some rumours must’ve made it through anyway, which was why his superiors saw it fit to assign him to this ridiculous mission to begin with. In his left temple, he can sense a migraine building up.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Hunnigan doesn’t get it, hasn’t seen how people tend to look at him, one glance usually enough for them to clock him as something ‘Other’ , even if they don’t have the correct words for it right away. Ever since he’s been with the DSO though, luckily it stayed within the realm of derisive comments. He can live with the whispers behind his back but he doubts he can keep it together should one of them cross a line.

“Besides, it’s just gathering intel, I thought you’d be relieved.” She continues.

Except it never is just that, how often has USSTRATCOM, or DSO, or whoever called the shots at that time, sent him into a ‘quick’ and ‘easy’ mission just for things to go tits up, as soon as he arrived? Hell, even Spain had started as a scouting mission.

“It doesn’t matter, I said I’m not doing it.” He shakes his head, resolutely crossing his arms.

Hunnigan looks at him like she’s trying to figure out how to tell him, he doesn’t have a choice. But Leon already knows, if he’d really wanted to avoid this conversation he wouldn’t have come here in the first place. Dumb as he is, he’d just hoped a ‘No’ from him would be enough this time.

It never is though, is it?

“Leon,” She pleads with him, pushing herself up from the office chair and piercing him with her gaze. “Top brass has already made the necessary preparations.”

He picks up the chip again, running his thumb over the minting. Six months, one week and three days of being sober. This job is killing him.

“Of course,” He drops his head to stare at the coin in his hand. “What’re the details?”

Hunnigan gestures for him to sit down, taking a seat in her own chair again and opening the file laying ready by her side. Leon swallows against the heavy feeling in his chest, tucking his memento back into the pocket of his dress pants and pushes the creeping dread as far down as possible.

“You’re going to assume the identity of one Mr. Carpenter, the son of a wealthy arms dealer and married to his husband of five years.” She begins. “They have gotten an invitation recently, offering them a trip to Europe for a business meeting. The DSO currently has both Mr. Carpenter and his husband detained and were able to interfere with their prior communication regarding the invitation, which gives us the perfect opportunity to infiltrate this meeting and possibly expose both the company presenting their products, as well as their buyers.” Elaborating on her prior pitch, he had interrupted, she flicks through the manila folder and pulls several documents from it, presenting them to him. 

“Sounds easy enough, where’s the drawback?”

He looks over the pages Hunnigan has accumulated. The mugshots of the disgruntled pair strike him in particular, one of them eerily similar to Leon, albeit a few years younger, while the other looks like the brutish type, all broad shoulders and sharp edges, his eyes glaring darkly from a mop of brown curls.

“Who is he?” He asks, pointing at the older one of the two.

“That would be the other half of the happy couple. He’s relatively new money, having dealt with stocks for a few years before he got lucky and invested in the right company at the right time.”

Leon hums at that, regarding the two with a keen eye for a moment, until he moves on to the other pages. It’s more info on their subjects and their companies, that he can’t help but sneer at, when he reads how filthy rich both of them are. More money on their bank accounts than any one person can spend in a lifetime, meanwhile there are people starving on the streets. But all that those dickheads know to do with their riches, is to invest it in more death and suffering. God how he hated them all.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard that’ll be my mission partner?” He asks nonchalantly, though he can feel how his muscles have locked up, cold sweat standing on his neck. 

He has no intention of playing gay chicken with some green handed rookie for a week, who hasn’t seen a day in the field. Of course if Leon would get to have his pick, he’d know a guy who he’d just love to shamelessly flirt with for the time. But there’s no way he’d ever be that lucky. Here’s to hoping whoever accompanies him, won’t be so violently homophobic, as to jeopardize the mission.

“Chris Redfield.” Hunnigan states, her hands folded neatly on her desk, face absolutely neutral.

Leon freezes on the spot and can tell blood is already rushing to tinge his cheeks red, as his brain processes what has just been said.

“He isn’t even DSO.” He blurts out, making an effort not to sound too offended.

He’s been trying to kill that unfortunate crush, ever since they first shook hands and even though he’d love the opportunity in fantasy, being required to feign a whole marriage with someone who would never even consider dating him, is more than just cruel. Even in his books.

“The DSO and BSAA have worked together in preparation for this endeavor and since no one in our department volunteered for the mission I thought it was only reasonable to get them involved. The DSO has approved of it too.” She says it almost clinically.

Leon can feel his stomach tying itself into knots with nervosity. He doesn't want to be doing this in the first place, scared he'll fall off the wagon again and now he'll have to worry about ruining one of the few friendships he has on top of that. 

"Does he know?" He asks, because he can't imagine Chris being fine with that either.

There’s no way Chris would be fine with that, so he’s gotta ask, maybe even getting both of them an out, Hunnigan though only nods mutely, her eyes glinting with consideration, before she decides to speak.

"He specifically requested I put him on the team."

She smiles at him for the first time since they've been having this discussion but Leon can only frown back, anxiety stirring in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he presses his thumb into the bandage on his wrist, until he can feel the sting.

"Okay."

He turns his head away, the headache is getting worse and the office is too brightly lit. Even if he complains, Leon doesn't get to make decisions. It could be worse. He should be glad it's Chris.

"You don't sound too happy." Hunnigan leans forward, reaching out with her narrow hand, hovering it between them like an offering. 

Leon hasn't been feeling well for a long time, doubts he still knows what that is like. Sure, the pills she gives him help in taking the edge off, enough to get him out of bed in the morning, maybe even shower but he's still waiting to be anything but numb, uncertain if his SSRIs are to blame, or if he's just not someone who gets to be happy.

"It's fine, I just don't like the idea of dragging Chris into this too." 

He tugs at the sleeves of his leather jacket, before bracing his forearms on the tabletop. Hunnigan responds by laying her hand on the limb and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I promise, you'll be fine. Both of you." 

Her lips are shiny with gloss, that shimmers as she curves them into a pleasant smile. One corner of his mouth quirks up to mirror her, as he gives a curt nod. His handler is trying her best, the only person to have his back at the DSO and his closest confidant, which is why he is so desperate to convince her nothing is wrong. Even when they both know it’s a lie.

“How long do we have to prepare?” He asks at last.

Hunnigan gathers the documents into their folder again and closes it, pushing the file towards him. 

“We’ll have the briefing at noon and then it’s three days for you to get into the role. Everything else can be set up on the flight.” The lines of her mouth are grim, like she doesn’t agree with the schedule either.

Even with his experience in conducting intelligence missions, those usually include a longer timeframe beforehand. To not only memorize the information they have on the event but also to assume the identity of another person in just three days is reckless, even for the DSO.

“Guess I’ll make it work.” He quips, attempting to lighten the mood.

“I believe you will.” There’s no hesitation in her response, before Leon is sent off to R&D to check for any gear that could be useful.

***

“I need to talk to you about Leon.”

Ingrid Hunnigan has her hands clasped together on her desk, the office Chris had been brought to smaller than he expected for the woman who’s handling the DSO’s golden boy. But then again, he also didn’t anticipate her cutting to the chase this quickly. Chris came here for, what he assumed to be, a short briefing regarding the mission. He had agreed to it via e-mail but judging by the secretive demeanor Hunnigan emanates and the fact no other personnel are here with him, something else is going on beneath the surface and Chris is just on the cusp of finding out.

“What about him?” He asks innocently, leaning back in his chair and propping his ankle on his knee.

“Do you two talk a lot, outside of work I mean?”

The question is posed, like she’s trying to interrogate him and Chris feels kinda put on the spot here, eyes wandering subconsciously to the door, tracing an escape route through the room. A force of habit, rather than actual intent. 

“We’re friends, if that’s what you’re asking?” He replies, unsure what she’s getting at and honestly also a little wary to find out.

Hunnigan sighs tiredly, like she’s aching to put down a weight she's been carrying for far too long, then she starts again:

“I am asking you, if Leon has told you anything about his mental illness.”

Something in his chest contracts uncomfortably, the same thing which has made him jump on the opportunity to take part in the undercover operation. The thought of Leon being sent alone into another set up for disaster unbearable, even when Chris is less than trained for missions like these. How hard can it be though?

“We’ve both been at the intervention. But I thought he was sober, did something happen?”

It’s been nearly a year since they had waited in Leon’s apartment to sit him down and talk to him about his drinking problem. When confronted with the harsh reality that he wasn’t doing as good of a job at hiding his addiction, as he thought, Leon had been incredibly uncomfortable, bristling at every well-meant word, every passing of eyes. Maybe, if it had just been them, Leon would’ve probably had little qualms about kicking all of them out, or cursing at them to leave him alone. The deciding factor though, had been Sherry sitting amongst them, crumpling another letter between her fingers, as she waited for Leon to calm down enough to listen. If it hadn’t been for her, maybe they’d never gotten through to him. Despite everything, what went down that evening had not been pretty. Chris is thankful every day, they haven't had to repeat it since. 

“No it’s– something else.” Hunnigan explains and Chris doesn’t know whether to feel relieved, or dreadful. “Listen, I need you to have an eye on him, when you’re both deployed. Just make sure he stays away from the booze and doesn’t get hurt.”

The way she says it makes him uneasy. It’s not like anyone needs to tell him to protect his mission partner but this sounds like it’s more than that. Dropping out of his relaxed position in the chair, Chris leans forwards conspiratorially, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Hunnigan, is there something I need to know?”

He says under his breath, fixing her dark brown eyes glinting over the rim of her glasses. Without batting an eye, she pushes them up the arch of her nose and neatly folds her hands on the desk.

“It’s a demanding job, Redfield, and the DSO in particular is– “ The pause is heavy with the unspoken, when Hunnigan hesitates. “They expect a lot from Leon, too much sometimes. He hasn’t been taking it well for a while now. I don’t want to go into detail here without his permission but I know he needs help, a retirement plan, therapy, or something and I’m trying to pull some strings to make it work but I’ll need time for that.”

Her tone is urgent, pulling on Chris’ heartstrings, making his chest ache. He isn’t naive enough to think the alcoholism was Leon’s only problem but he is also painfully aware that they never spend enough time together for him to truly know what is going on. Unlike Hunnigan, who seems to have contrived a plan to get Leon out of his arrangement with the DSO. Preferably before he lands himself six feet under. 

“So this is a set up?” He asks anyway, wanting to make sure they are not being sent on a wild goose chase.

“Unfortunately, no. But it was the next best option that didn’t include having him handle another outbreak with minimal preparation.”

Chris shakes his head gravely. The things he’s heard over the years on how the DSO treats him, are shocking time and again. Little to no protective gear, mostly equipped with a handgun and a knife, never enough ammo to his name when in the field and always without backup. And that’s only the stuff he’s been told, not to imagine the things Leon might omit when relaying these stories. None of that would fly at the BSAA, looking at Leon’s colleagues he’s sure it usually doesn’t at the DSO either, but Leon specifically seems to be an exception to the rule. Though Chris has no idea why.

“What do you need me to do then?” He says resolutely, set on whatever plan Hunnigan might propose if only it gets the other out of there. God knows he’s offered him a spot at the BSAA enough times by now. 

“Try and get him through that mission with minimal damage. If you get the info we need in the process, great. If you don’t, I’ll handle the fallout.”

The gaze she fixes him with is intense, as she scrutinizes him from head to toe but Chris just nods at her. She is treading carefully and he gets that, they have the same goal here though, so he finds her suspicion less than helpful when Chris would’ve done anything for that man, even before being ordered to.

“Well then,” She drops the interrogative demeanor, straightening her spine and sliding a beige file in between them. “Let’s go through the OP, shall we?”

Chris flips the file open and starts to read.

***

This is bullshit.

Leon thinks, looking at the attaché case filled with the equipment the higher-ups had cleared as appropriate. He's already gone back twice to the storage department to argue with whoever he can find, reminding them about not being on a solo mission this time, which would usually imply he'll get a bit more resources than just the usual bare bones.

'We can't allow any firearms for undercover missions in Europe.'

They've told him, lecturing him about discretion and European jurisdiction. It's not like Leon doesn't know about their reasoning, he just doesn't believe them. There's no way an organization like the DSO can't smuggle a single handgun through airport security, not when they're pulling bigger stunts on the regular. Leon huffs through his nose in frustration, eyes roaming over the assortment of technical equipment. They have ear pieces, tracking nodes, a set of burner phones, some USB-drives and a clean laptop. He's worked with less before, but the fact that the only weapon he's allowed to bring, is his combat knife, still unnerves him. Snapping the case shut with a resounding clack, Leon hopes at least Chris can bring his gun.

He grabs its handle, turning swiftly to head from the basement housing the equipment and the archives, to one of the upper floors, where Chris and him are supposed to meet today.

It takes him moving five feet towards the door, before a sudden bout of vertigo hits. Leon stops, the floor tilting underneath his dress shoes, as he begins to sway softly in the middle of the room, one hand coming up to hover at his temple. When the sensation makes nausea stir low in his stomach, he swallows, squeezing his eyes shut. Bile creeps up his throat, the longer he remains standing, blinking against the black stars pulsing in his vision. Cold sweat stands on his neck, while a wave of heat rushes over him, before at last, he relents and lowers himself to the floor carefully, legs folding to kneel on the bare concrete, as his hands press against it. The stone is cool and his heart-rate settles minutely, while he focuses on his breathing.

It's been like this the entire morning, dizzy-spells forcing him to sit down and breathe, until the black spots in his vision fizzle out and he can be sure he won't faint, or throw up. Hunnigan had told him this could happen, reassuring him it would get better if he took his medication regularly and gave himself time to adjust. Leon's been doing just that, sticking to the schedule, not fudging with the dosage, or skipping them, when the urge strikes him, all the while itching to just have a drink instead, if only to take the edge off before going to bed.

The SSRIs help most of the time, clearing the haze in his head so he can think farther than what's immediately expected of him, he's more energized too, less depressed of course, though his insomnia is persistent, the anxiety thrumming in his chest, clutching to his rib cage every night. He can't sleep, or he doesn't want to, not when it means he'll have to toss and turn through the nightmares resurging, now that the alcohol isn't there to numb him.

Today the side-effects of the antidepressants are particularly annoying though. Leon suspects it's the stress, offsetting the careful balance he's found, symptoms always worse when a mission is imminent. But he doesn't have time to idly sit around, nursing his roiling stomach like he's a sick child, so as soon as the vertigo has simmered down to a slight floating feeling, he pushes himself to stand again. His head still drones but it's enough to get him up and about, entering one of the unending hallways, stretching through the basement, sterile and cold.

When he arrives, several floors higher up, Chris is standing in the middle of the room, arms spread at his sides, as a young woman circles him with a measuring tape and pins, fitting the suit jacket to wrap snugly around him, cinching it at the waist, to accentuate the solid line of his hips.

“Is this really necessary?“ He hears him complain, turning his head to follow the tailor.

Leon has to tear his eyes away from the edge of the suit jacket, brushing over the thin cotton of the black dress pants, the sudden urge to touch rushing through his limbs before he can avert his gaze guiltily. Chris is his friend, nothing more, he reminds himself. If he wants their friendship to survive this mission, he better take it to heart, no matter the pathetic crush he's been trying to kill for years.

“I'm afraid so, fine feathers make fine birds after all.“ She waves him off, placing another needle to pin the fabric in place.

Chris just sighs in defeat, before he throws another look over his shoulder, where the tailor is fiddling with the measuring tape and spots Leon, still tallying at the entrance, door handle in hand.

“Leon, thank god, this is the third jacket she's made me wear.“ He smiles at him crookedly, something like fondness in his eyes, that softens his face and makes warmth pool in his chest.

Leon just shakes his head, grins back. “Don't pull me into this, do I have to remind you that you've volunteered to accompany me?“

The door closes with an audible click, his dress shoes sounding similar on the tiled floor, as he rounds the statue that is Chris Redfield, to place his suitcase on the table next to his. Chris groans in displeasure but stays still otherwise, before the tailor perks up again.

“Take off the jacket please.“ She orders, holding out her hands for the piece of clothing and putting it on the hanger.

Beneath the jacket, accentuated with silken lapels and a silver inlay, Chris is wearing a matching vest that stuns him speechless with how it wraps around the curve of his chest and waist, coming to a stop just above his pelvis. The fabric looks expensive by itself, the back of the vest made from a shimmering material and embroidered with silver thread, the buttons at the front matching in colour and embossed with an ornate design. He's beautiful, looking almost like he's dressed for a wedding and for a moment, Leon forgets what the both of them are here for.

“I hate wearing suits.“ Chris mumbles absently, gaze examining his outfit critically.

What a shame. Leon thinks, taking in the sight a moment longer, before he sets his head straight again.

“It's not that bad, you'll get used to it.“ He smiles sympathetically, tugging a little self-consciously on his own worn out blazer.

The formal wear is a necessity here, if one isn't being sent on a mission, so he's had plenty of time to get accustomed to it, even when it never seemed to fit him quite right. More often than not though, Leon's running around in combat gear, weapons strapped to his body and blood splattered on his skin.

“Sure thing,“ Chris sighs wearily. “Where's your fancy suit then?“

He nods at him, eyes getting stuck on the frayed seams, the missing button forcing him to leave the blazer open. He's been meaning to get new clothes for a while now, his old ones falling apart after years of use, but he just can't seem to get around to it, something else always more pressing.

“Agent Kennedy already has the necessary garments.“

The tailor cuts in, before Leon can say anything. Feeling like he's supposed to remember her name, he wracks his brain for it, though in the end comes up empty. So he just shrugs, uncomfortable at the title but trying not to let it show.

“Not your first rodeo, huh?“ Chris addresses him again, lowering his arms, when she finally steps back and declares her work finished.

“Definitely not.“ He shakes his head, watching from the corner of his eye, as Chris pops the buttons of the vest through the holes and slips it off his shoulders in one languid motion.

Next he’s sent behind the folding screen to rid himself of the remaining clothes, changing back into the one's he's arrived with. The screen is a little too short to cover his full height, leaving his head peeking over it, eyebrows drawn in concentration, while he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. Leon tries to ignore it, as best he can, fidgeting with Chris' suitcase on the table, until he snaps the metal lock open and takes a look inside.

A quiet whistle escapes him at the sight, the suitcase stacked with anything and everything they might need. The BSAA really doesn't joke around, or maybe it's because of Chris' position within the organization. One way, or another, Leon can feel a bit of anxiety, he hadn't noticed until now, settle.

“No firearms for you either?“ He calls over, to where Chris is shrugging on his autumn jacket, while the tailor packs her supplies with practiced efficiency.

The man in question steps towards him, heavy boots thumping on the floor. He comes to stand right at his shoulder, taking a glance inside the case, so close, Leon can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, where his chest presses against his shoulder blade, the smell of his cologne hanging faintly in the air. It has a gentle note of pine tree, tobacco and musk. Leon doesn't move, just tries to suppress the shiver trickling down his spine at the contact.

“Not until we've passed airport security, but BSAA Europe HQ will be planting one in the hotel room we're staying at.“

His voice rumbles in his chest, the vibrations traveling through Leon like a hot knife through butter, setting the nerves at the surface of his skin alight. Goosebumps race down his arm, the shiver that follows barely suppressed, as Leon suddenly has to grasp for his self-control. How long has it been since he’s been touched by another human being again?

Abruptly he throws the suitcase shut, clicking the latches in place, the sound enough to break whatever spell has enthralled him long enough to bat away the consideration of leaning into the contact. He takes a step back, nods curtly, scoots a bit farther down the table.

“Good, at least one of us will be properly armed then.“

Chris gives him a look like he wants to inquire, brow creased in concern at Leon's comment but he doesn't give him the time to think much about it, moving hurriedly towards one of the chairs to prop himself on it and drawing forth the file they're supposed to be studying. Only moments later Chris follows suit, sitting down next to him.

“So,“ He begins, eyes nervously flitting over the row of photos provided in the document. “How will we be doing this?“

They're private photos of the couple, clearly taken from an album, or a picture frame, showing the both of them in different settings. A date in a bar, expensive liquor in their cups and eyes gleaming with excitement, a christmas party, posed in front of a tree higher than the ceiling in Leon's apartment, on a boat, the vast ocean behind them silhouetted by a red and gold sunset, one grasping the other's face in a deep kiss. There are many more vacation photos, the pair lounging on beaches and in hotels that he could never even imagine to visit.

The one photograph Leon gets stuck on though, is of their wedding. The two grooms are dressed in white tuxedos, pressed hip to hip in a richly decorated ball-room, candlelight shimmering throughout the space. From above deep-red rose petals are raining down on them, as the dark haired man leans down to seal their lips together, grasping the other’s face in his hands. On their fingers sit gold wedding bands, reflecting the light and upon closer inspection Leon could swear, the smaller of the two has a tiny rainbow coloured brooch pinned to his lapel, the thing sticking out starkly in the all-white get-up.

He has long given up on wanting the same for himself, certain that the DSO would rather see him dead than retired, though it doesn't keep his traitorous heart from longing for this; to live more gently, to be entirely himself, to be loved . But that is not something he gets to have, so Leon crushes the blooming feeling right when it rouses its head.

"Leon?"

Chris nudges him with his elbow, startling him from his thoughts. He hadn't even noticed, he's been quiet for too long, shaking himself out of the unwanted stupor. If he doesn’t get his head in the game soon, this will be more of a disaster than it already is.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, spreading the paper out between them, if only to buy himself time. “Like it, or not but we'll somehow have to put on a good enough performance, so that our hosts will believe we're actually married.”

His mouth twists into an apologetic grin, as he risks a glance at Chris, sure that the other is regretting agreeing to the OP already. What he finds though, is mostly neutrality, his intense gaze roaming over the intel, Intelligence has gathered for them. Staying silent, Chris is entirely enthralled by what he must be reading, leaving Leon's chest to tighten with uncertainty in the quiet office.

“You can still quit, if you're uncomfortable. I can handle myself well enough.” He schools his tone into something nonchalant, trying not to let his anxiety show.

“I think I'll survive sharing a hotel room with you for a week.” Chris bumps into him again, shoulder against shoulder, making Leon duck his head self-consciously.

It feels stupid having even suggested it, nervousness getting the better of him. If Chris didn't want to be here, he probably wouldn't, which is why he wonders what has prompted him to join this endeavor.

He shakes off the question as soon as it appears, swallowing before he continues. “We'll have to study their personal data and fill in the blanks for ourselves.”

There's only so much one can try to imitate, before things will get more complicated than simple mimicry. This is why it's so important to think quickly and be able to come up with believable details on the basis of what one already knows. Having two people in the equation will certainly make it harder though.

“You think we can improvise?“ Chris asks, pulling an assortment of papers closer to him, to thumb through them, clearly overwhelmed by the amount of data at their disposal.

Eyeing the phone-call transcript the DSO has pulled from somewhere, Leon nods. “That's how it usually goes but we should still have the most important things memorized.” He plucks some print-outs from the table at random, taking a quick glance at them. “Here, I'll quiz you.”

Chris turns in his seat, attention now fully devoted to him, as he listens intently, a faint smile on his lips. While skimming the pages, he searches for simple data to start with, then he places the paper flat on the table, so that he can't peek at it either.

“When's my birthday?” He asks, grinning at the other mischievously, because there's no way Chris remembers this dude's birthday, much less Leon's.

He hums for a moment, scratching at his beard thoughtfully. “July sixth, 1977.”

He has already taken a breath to disagree, as he realizes:  

That's right.  

Leon parts his lips, carefully sucking in air. When he can feel his cheeks heating up, he just shakes his head disbelievingly, laughing like this isn't doing things to him at all.

“That doesn't count.” He says, looking back at the papers on the desk, willing his blush away.

“C'mon,“ Chris complains. “Let me have this.”

“How do you even know?”

The last time Leon celebrated, his mom was still around but ever since then, he's just been trying to forget about it, mostly successfully too, when he's always occupied with something else. Preparing for a mission, aiming for a BOW’s head before they can tear his throat open, drinking himself into dreamless sleep, thinking about why he shouldn't do that, trying not to kill himself when another nightmare jerks him awake. There are many reasons why he hasn't given it any consideration for a long time.

“Claire.” Is the only explanation Chris gives him.

“Traitor.“ He grumbles to himself, before he changes the topic. “Well it says here, Mr. Carpenter was born on the second of December, 1979, so I'd say you were way off.”

Chris huffs a laugh, crossing his arms in front of his chest and giving him a challenging look. “Okay then, Mr. Carpenter, ask me something else.”

Leon thinks for a moment. “How many siblings do I have?”

The corner of Chris' mouth twitches upwards, leaning back in his chair. “None, as does Mr. Carpenter. What about me then?” He raises an eyebrow then in quiet anticipation.

“Two brothers, you're the oldest though.” Is what he counters with, deciding to add a bit more right after. “Theoretically, he has a younger sister too, after his mother remarried, his stepfather brought her into the marriage. But he was way past twenty at that point, so I'm not sure how close they actually are.”

If Leon had to guess, he'd say Chris looks impressed, flipping an overturned page around to confirm his claims, before a steadfast smirk settles on his face. “You really did your homework.” He praises and Leon can't help but to feel a surge of satisfaction spread through his stomach. “How did you know about the sister though? It doesn't say here.”

He slides him the page he's been looking at. Leon regards it for a second, recognizing the structure of the table pulled by IT, like it's second nature. “She's been mentioned in a few emails between him and his mother but I can't find her in any photos they kept. It only took some poking around and a bit of guesswork from there.” He explains, gesturing distractedly, not looking at Chris' face.

“Impressive.” His voice swings into a higher note at the end, the smile clearly audible, which is why Leon stares hard at his knuckles instead.

“Next question.“ He demands, shutting his eyes and keeping them closed, as he raises his head once more. “What's my eye-colour?”

It's a minute detail and nothing that Chris will be able to find in the paperwork they've been assigned to, though Leon's learned those are usually the bits and pieces that matter the most. How believable is a spouse who doesn’t even know their husband's eye-colour? If they want to do it right, stuff like this is just as essential as everything else.

“Blue.” He says, which is right, technically.

“Too easy, try again.” Leon keeps his eyes closed, waiting for Chris to falter and admit defeat.

Instead there is a drawn out silence, in which he can't hear anything else but the other man's breathing. Their knees bump together, when Chris shifts on his chair and Leon's fingers twitch involuntarily at the sudden contact, his skin bristling with the feeling of being watched.

“They are light-blue, like ice, but sometimes I swear there's just a bit of gray in them too.”

Chris sounds close, his deep voice purring out the words, as if he's trying to peer through Leon's lids to get a peek at his irises. It makes him feel unbalanced, losing the small advantage he's had over him by virtue of experience and thrusting him back into the immovable truth;

that no matter how hard he tries, he's never going to be good enough for Chris Redfield.

“Very descriptive.” He draws out the first syllable in a mocking tone, blinking his eyes open to bring him back to what they are doing.

Before he can say much else, Chris has already squeezed his own eyes shut, chin propped on his fist and throwing him a shit-eating grin. “My turn then.”

Leon considers answering in earnest, following the other's example but can't seem to conjure up the courage to do it. “Brown.” He deadpans, clicking a pen he's found between the mess of paper on the table.

“Nuh-uh, no cheating.” The other rebuts, because Chris just loves to torture him, keeping his eyes closed and waiting.

Leon sighs heavily, letting his gaze trace the relaxed lines of Chris' face like he'll be seeing them for the last time. He's known Chris for years, has liked him for just as long, of course he remembers what colour his irises have, he could probably cartograph the subtle changes of hue in them, with how intently he's been staring all this time. But despite Chris' insistence this isn't the place to start waxing poetics.

“They are dark-brown, or russet maybe, though they have a tint of burnt-umber in–” He stops abruptly when he notices that Chris has slitted his eyes open to smirk at him, heat rises to his face with embarrassment. “What?” He says indignantly.

“Nerd.” Chris laughs and his eyes glint like illuminated amber, when the ray of sunlight hits them just right.

He gives a chuckle too, if only to cover up how shame is dusting his cheeks pink and making his hands clammy. The laugh he gets in response is loud and bellowing, Chris too distracted to see him roughly rub his sweaty palms over the wrinkles in his black dress-pants, before Leon retorts dryly.

“I'm sorry that I read, unlike you.” His eyebrows furrow, but he can't keep the humour out of his voice, staring at Chris from behind his bangs, disquieted.

“I do too but that doesn't mean I can name three different shades of brown to save my life.” The tone is lighthearted, but Leon supposes it's not all that difficult when one's been thinking about it for over a decade.

“Moving on.”

He diverts, tracking rows upon rows of black on white text, transcripts, letters, E-Mails, tables and graphs scattered over the desk, all of it data they should have down to the last detail, even though they are rapidly running out of time to do so.

Despite the growing agitation in his chest, they continue to nag each other with their questioning, their banter temporarily silencing the worried murmur in the back of his head, that is hyper-aware they will go into this almost bare. He has little problem with the DSO tossing him into the deep end, but he rarely has to concern himself with someone else coming out the other side unscathed. The last time had almost killed him and after that they hadn't assigned him to another team.

‘The moment we quit, all of our subordinates and friends will have died in vain.’ 

Chris had said, dragging his sorry ass out from the bottom of the bottle, telling him that he knew. Knew what Leon was feeling, had been there before too but Leon doubted he could ever truly understand. There’s a rift between him and Chris, separating them at the line that has directed his whole life. If Chris wants to leave the BSAA, all he’ll have to do is submit his resignation notice and he’ll be out. The only way for Leon to quit is to go down in flames. 

Even now he finds it is easier to keep some things to himself, the secrets he's been hiding so well for almost all his life having festered into something he cannot bear to show anyone else. He's fine with projecting some barely there version of himself outwards, some spectre that might be more worth loving than what's lodged inside him.

He's done it all his life, one way or another.

Hours have passed, when they have finally finished working through the documents, cups of coffee scattered between them and the sun dipping towards the horizon. Leon rubs his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision, as he sorts the pages in front of him. Maybe he should look into getting glasses, his eye-sight has been getting worse these past years.

There’s a light touch on his shoulder, the press of fingers barely there but still enough to draw his attention. “Should we stop for today?” Chris asks, face lined with age and fatigue.

“It’s fine, you can go home if you want to.” He dismisses the worried look in his eyes, diverting his attention back to their notes, gathering them in a neat stack.

“Come on, we’ve made good progress today, the rest can wait.”

His hand squeezes his shoulder, as he gets to his feet, spine cracking when he straightens it. They read the files faster than he’d anticipated, though he can’t shake the feeling that he should be doing more. What if something happens and they are unprepared? What if it could’ve been avoided, if only he’d worked a little harder? 

He shakes his head, blinking against the room swimming in front of him. “I’m not going to stay long, just go.”

Chris’ voice drops into something more grave, his hand sliding between his shoulder blades to rest there, warm and steady, Leon tries not to shiver under it, the tips of his fingers having gone cold from sitting around all day.

“You look dead on your feet Leon.”

“Way to flatter a guy.” He snorts, aware he’s laughing alone, before continuing more seriously. “Really, I’m fine, I’m–”

“Used to it?” Chris interrupts him. 

Right on the head with that one.

He can’t remember when he’d last actually felt rested. It’s not like that ever mattered though, either he keeps on going, or he’ll fall over dead, there’s no inbetween for him.

“Not that tired.” Is what he says instead, bringing his abandoned sentence to a close. 

Chris does not look like he believes him. His hand doesn’t move from its spot on his back, instead it presses even closer, a solid weight against his tense muscles.

“Of course. Up you get, we’re going to get some food into you.” The tone Chris has adapted, tells him enough to know he’s not getting out of this, even before he reaches out to close the file Leon is currently failing to read.

The soothing palm leaves his back to wrap around his biceps instead, gently coaxing him to rise from the cushioned office chair. Chris and Claire are in no way inferior to each other when it comes to their shared stubbornness, so Leon is pretty sure to fight back now, would just cost him energy he cannot spare.

“Watch out, or someone will think you’re coddling me, before we’ve even boarded the plane.” He smirks, shrugging out of the firm hold chasing goosebumps up and down his arms.

“Everyone already knows you could use a bit more of that and now hush and get out of here.” 

He motions him towards the door, ushering him out impatiently. After they’ve both exited the room, Leon twists the key in the lock, sighing deeply.

"Satisfied?"

Chris acknowledges him with a quick nod and promptly turns on his heel to walk the both of them down to the garage. There’s a pressure behind Leon’s eyes that he just now notices, which has been increasing since his little dizzy spell this morning and is slowly gearing up to become a full migraine. He rubs two fingers in small circles over his temple, as he follows Chris down the flights of stairs, hoping to fend it off for a little while longer.

They take Chris’ jeep to Leon’s flat, even though he would’ve been fine with taking the bus. One advantage the government housing brings with it, is that he never has to commute long. No boring traffic to get stuck in for him. They stop at the small grocery store he usually goes to, to pick up some basic necessities Chris insists they buy and before Leon knows it, he’s unlocking the door to his one room apartment, which has not only lacked visitors for years but also isn’t up to his standards of cleanliness to be presentable to anyone. The realization comes too late, as he glances inside the kitchen to see the dirty dishes he’s been meaning to do, sitting idly in the sink.

Leon takes the plastic bag from Chris, so the other can wedge his boots next to Leon’s own in the corner he has assigned for his footwear, before he too, starts to wind his way out of the suit jacket and shoes.

“I think it’s been a while since I’ve last been at your place.” Chris states wondrously, cranking his neck to catch a glimpse at the interior of the other rooms.

“I had to move a few months ago, though this one’s not much different. There’s the bathroom, there’s the kitchen and that’s the bedroom.” He gestures towards the three separate doors, circling the hallway.

“That’s–” Chris hesitates, a nervous quirk to his brow as he searches for the most polite way to put it. “cozy.” He settles on, inching towards the kitchen, to follow his bag of groceries.

“Sure is.” Leon says flatly, as he turns all three of the locks in his front door and meanders his way inside the kitchen as well.

Leon didn’t have his own place, since the one he’s signed to be renting, exploded in Raccoon City, ever since then it’d either been a single cot, or a flat like this, provided to him by his employer to ensure he never strayed too far from his duties. Throughout the years, he has learned to not collect too many possessions, always ready to uproot his life and move on at the drop of a hat, as a result his flat usually looks kind of barren.

Chris though, doesn’t mention it, is instead unpacking the groceries, lining up the few ingredients they bought on his counter, as Leon watches. After a moment he sidles up to him, standing at the sink and rolling up his sleeves. 

“What exactly is your plan here?” Leon asks, running the sponge through the stream of hot water from his faucet.

“I’ll make dinner for us, if you’ll let me.” He can feel the gaze on him, tracing the sharp cut of his jaw, as Leon scrubs at the burnt spots in his pan.

“Knock yourself out.” He jawns, before working the soap into the dishware.

With how tired and wrung out he is, he doesn’t feel like arguing right now, so he lets Chris do whatever he needs to, to make himself feel better, while he silently cleans the dishes. Afterwards he settles at the small dinner table he keeps in his kitchen, watching the man follow the recipe for spaghetti bolognese. As Chris fries the meat and onion, the rich scent rises in the air, grabbing Leon’s attention, who has lowered his head to rest in the crook of his elbow. He hasn’t felt hungry all day, his appetite annoyingly absent still, but now that he breathes in the aroma, the prospect of food, has his stomach pang with renewed interest.

“Smells good.”

He mumbles, not caring if Chris’d even catch it through the noise of boiling water and the sizzling pan. The exhaustion is catching up with him, the longer he keeps sitting down, eyes droop, as he tries not to nod off. Chris gives a laugh that fills the small room in its entirety, rich and mellow and soothing.

“I figured you’d come around.” He doesn’t turn but Leon blinks lazily at his back stretching the fabric of his shirt, as his muscles move beneath it.

Leon unintentionally dozes through the time it takes for Chris to finish cooking, only perking up again, when he calls for him, asking if he could set the table. His neck gives a dissatisfied crack, as he rises from his unfavourable napping position and strolls over to the cabinets to search for the second set of dishware he must have still lying around. By the time they are both settled, he has procured the necessary plates and cutlery, while Chris has strained the noodles and placed everything on his crowded kitchen table.

They eat in silence, Chris asking him for some water halfway in and Leon awkwardly fumbling his way through a compliment for his cooking. It’s not an uncomfortable quiet, the mutual understanding between them that they don’t need to fill empty air, if they don’t feel like it. Leon chews his way through his noodles, privately wondering when he’s last had more than a ready meal, or take out. Something inside him brims with emotion at the thought, desperately thankful that Chris hasn’t just left him here on his own and painfully aware that he will eventually.

He’s setting the dirty dishes in the sink, as Chris stretches behind him, jawning audibly. “I think I should go, or I’ll be too tired to drive.”

Leon nods.

Stay. He wants to say. Just for a little bit longer.

But Leon doesn’t say anything, just turns around to see Chris zipping his jacket closed, while he feels uncharacteristically on edge. A weight lodging in his throat and making him swallow.

Maybe his antidepressants are wearing off.

“I’ll be going then, make sure you catch some sleep.” Chris lingers uncertain at the doorframe to his kitchen, drumming the pads of his fingers against the wood.

Leon unsticks himself from the counter he’s been leaning on. “You don’t need to mother me, you know?” He says sarcastically, as he passes him to unlock the front door.

“Maybe I’m just practicing my connubiality?” He winks at him cheekily.

As he enters the hallway of the building, their shoulders brush against each other. When Leon feels a tugging sensation in his chest, at the renewed distance, he digs his fingers into the wood, holding on to not sway after him.

“Save that for the op.” He dismisses the joke for what it is. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His voice thaws and bleeds into something gentler, as he adds the goodbye, waiting for the fracture of a moment to see Chris turn back around towards him and smile once more, giving a tiny wave. Then Leon closes the door and is alone again.

Chapter Text

He’s supposed to be boarding their jet in ten minutes. He’s been told to not put wrinkles in the new suit before they’ve even arrived at the airport. All of his luggage has already been stored in the plane hours before, the only thing he still has with him, a sleek black case with the last few necessities inside, nothing more. There are no weapons on him and maybe that is what sets him off, or maybe it’s just the crossed wires in his brain lighting up but Leon has ducked into the men’s bathroom five minutes ago to breathe through the sudden panic, squeezing his chest so tight, he thinks he’s being crushed in one giant fist.

His heart is pounding too fast, as he tries to chase it with deep inhales that never feel like they’re enough. In his hurry, he hasn’t made it to a stall, clutching the edges of the sink in a deathgrip to keep himself standing, eyes fixed on the metal fitting rather than the mirror. He doesn’t have time for this but his stupid body refuses to listen, cold sweat beading up on his forehead to disturb his carefully styled hair.

From the other end of the room, he can hear the door click open, the sudden noise causing him to flinch away. He can’t let anyone see him like this, has to keep up appearances, or else–

His breathing hitches in his throat at the fear, heart skipping a beat that has him pressing a hand to his aching sternum. Maybe this isn’t a panic attack at all, maybe he’s actually going into long awaited cardiac-arrest.

“Leon?” It’s Hunnigan’s voice, addressing him, after the door has fallen shut again.

“This is the men’s bathroom.” He wheezes, head bowed between his shoulders, not turning to look at her.

But she ignores his comment, heels clicking on the tiles, as he listens to her approach. The hand on his arm is small and gentle and not uncommon between them, this exact same situation having increased in frequency the longer they’ve worked together.

“Breathe with me.” She directs, counting his in- and exhales in a familiar rhythm.

Four. Six. Eight. Four. Six. Eight.

Orders are easy, Leon can follow orders, trusting Hunnigan to mean him no harm, so he does what she tells him to, going easily, when she grasps his neck to draw him down to her. His hands hang by his sides uselessly, as he rests his clammy forehead at the crook of Hunnigan’s neck and slowly, slowly, comes down from the sudden episode.

“It’s going to be okay.” She mumbles close to his ear.

Her hand is warm and she smells like hydrangeas and petrichor. Leon has known her long enough to be certain he can depend on her, no matter what.

“I don’t even have my gun with me.” The confession is barely audible, his voice thin, as he stutters through the breathing exercise.

It’s the only thing he can say that wouldn’t make him sound like he’s coming apart at the seams. In truth, Leon is terrified, has been at every single mission he’s been sent on for the last twenty years, though he’s getting worse and worse at hiding it. Compartmentalizing the fear enough to push through it, isn't working like it used to. It’s just been so tiring and he doesn’t know how to stop it anymore.

“I know, but you’re not alone this time.” The warm hand on his neck slides off to push at his shoulders, breaking the semi-hug, so Hunnigan can pin him with her stare. “Do you trust me?” She asks, her eyes glowing with determination.

There’s no need to think long about it. 

“Yes.”

She grips his arms tighter, looks him in the eyes hard and says:

“I’ll fix this, I promise.”

He’s not sure what exactly she’s talking about, if she just means the mission, or the whole mess he’s stuck in but with the way she looks at him, Leon can’t help but believe her.

“Okay.” He says, his voice hoarse, smiling hesitantly.

One thumb traces the tender skin under his eye, as her lips pull into a soft smile. She gives him a curt nod. They both straighten up then, an unspoken cue causing them to shift back into their professional demeanor. His shoulders settle into a straight line and he picks up the abandoned suitcase, to follow Hunnigan into the Hallway.

Three minutes until he has to be on their plane.

When he finally does reach the runway, holding the private jet they will be taking, he’s just over two minutes late. The DSO Captain in charge of their timely departure scolds him for it, sneering at him about consequences, though Leon can’t bring himself to care at that moment, knowing he won’t be facing those consequences for a good week. Throughout the talking to, he fails to notice, how Chris has appeared right at his left shoulder like a menacing shadow, as he glowers down at the Captain.

“Are you done now, or do you want to waste more of our time?”

It’s only when he raises his voice, that Leon abruptly turns around, eyes wide with surprise. The Captain snaps his gaze onto the BSAA member, as he takes in the man’s appearance, Chris clearly irritated, before gritting his teeth and relenting.

“Of course not.” He gestures towards the set of stairs, leading into the airplane and Leon takes that as permission to follow Chris upwards.

At the door, he turns around once more, looking onto the asphalt below, where Hunnigan stands next to the Captain, a hand shielding her eyes from the first rays of the morning sun. Nervousness flutters in his chest with fragile wings at the sight, uncertainty lying ahead of him, as he takes a deep breath and heads inside.

“What a dick,” Chris grumbles as soon as they have chosen their seats opposite of each other, around a wooden table firmly bolted to the ground. “why do you even put up with that?”

He shoves his own luggage in the compartment above them, slamming it shut, while Leon turns the mechanical lock on his attaché case. He doesn’t have a good answer to that, or at least not one which wouldn’t pointlessly worry the other, so he just says:

“It’s fine, it was my fault anyway.”

Chris throws him a look, like he wants to disagree but Leon changes the subject before he has any chance to.

“Here’s your passport.” He hands Chris an envelope with his name on it, containing all of the documents they’ll need abroad, labeling them as Leon and Christopher Carpenter respectively.

“I guess it’s official now,” He accepts the folder, spreading its contents on the table between them. “We are as of today, husband and uhh–” He hesitates, tripping up on his own phrasing, “well, husband.”

Chris’ smile beams, like he’s immensely proud of himself, looking at Leon with fondness in his eyes, that definitely should not seem as honest as it feels. His mouth curves into a lopsided grin, as he regards the man in front of him, tucking the fake ID into an empty wallet and rifling through the rest of his forged papers.

“Not yet.” He intercepts, carefully opening an additional compartment in his case, revealing a small satin box inside.

Chris lets himself be temporarily distracted from his reading, when Leon slowly pulls on the top of the box, to reveal a set of gold rings to him, almost identical to the ones the pair had been wearing in the photograph. They are simple bands of metal, both fitted to sit on their ring fingers and nothing more, though their symbolism probably makes them the most important part in selling their act. Plucking the smaller of the two from the box between two fingers, Chris holds it gingerly in his palm to regard it for a minute.

“‘ The course of true love never did run smooth. ’ ’ ” 

He recites the engraving inside, turning the wedding band in a slow circle, as he reads, the object looking almost comically small in the man’s hands. The grasp he has on it is gentle, like he could break it at any moment. A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Leon recognizes. The limited Shakespeare he’s had to read in highschool is finally paying off.

“Cute.” Chris comments, casting another quick glance at the ring, before lifting his eyes to Leon. “Do you mind?” He holds his empty hand out to him, teeth glinting white between his lips, where his barely contained smile spreads into a grin.

It takes Leon a second to realize what Chris is asking of him, the tips of his ears instantly beginning to burn, as he struggles to reign in his facial expression. Wordlessly he lays his long fingers into the palm of Chris’ hand, barely touching the rough skin, marred with scars and calluses. The ring slides smooth over his pale finger, sitting snugly at the bottom of it, metal cold where it presses against him. The weight of it is unfamiliar, heavy and overlarge, though nothing that Leon couldn’t get used to. He withdraws his hand as soon as the ring is on, casting a short glance at it, looking away, pointedly hiding it under the table top. The longer he says nothing, the more the tension intensifies.

He is making this awkward. Goddammit. 

“Your turn.” Chris breaks the silence at last, face friendly and relaxed, even though Leon is sure the blush must’ve spread down his neck by now.

“You will be the death of me.” He groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes, if only to give him another second to will away the embarrassment.

Nonetheless, he takes the other ring, even as Chris chuckles to himself, like he isn’t red around the cheeks as well. Before Leon asks for his hand though, he also tilts it in the light, looking for an inscription in the metal.

“‘ Journeys end in lovers meeting. ’” Shakespeare again, he guesses, though he couldn’t name the accompanying work, if he wanted to.

He doesn’t know what to make of this, the quotes are sweet and all but probably not necessary for the mission. So why go through all the trouble? Leon sighs quietly to himself, too tired to ponder questions he won’t get any answers to.

“Very poetic, what’s that even from?” Chris buds in from the other side of the table.

Leon shrugs, holding the band between his index and thumb. “Not too sure. Now give me your hand.”

Reaching out, he offers his other palm in a mirror image to what Chris had done only moments before. The reward is a heavy hand in his own, as he pushes the ring onto Chris’ finger in one fell motion, at which the other hums, apparently pleased.

“Claire will be upset, she didn’t get an invitation.” Chris peers at him mischievously from below his eyelashes, withdrawing his palm and curling up the fingers where it sits on top of the table.

Leon shakes his head incredulously, his lips curving into a tight lipped smile and eyes falling shut. “We are not married, Chris.”

“But imagine her reaction if we were.” He laughs, loud and happy, to which Leon just gives a huff through his nose.

Is Chris laughing because Claire would probably kill them for eloping without inviting her, or is the thought of being married to Leon in particular so ridiculous, he can't help but laugh about it. There’s no need to contemplate either possibility any longer, so he doesn’t, wrenching his mind out of the spiral he’s probably slipping into and focusing instead on stowing away his own documents. Absently, he runs his fingers over the bandage at his wrist, just below the hem of his button-up. 

The flight to Germany is probably the most comfortable Leon has traveled so far. It’s quiet and the plane is empty, except for the necessary staff on board. The private jet they’re traveling in, has been provided by the DSO to further support their false identities, therefore it has been appropriately furnished with comfortable seats and spacious sitting accommodations, tables and a small bar right behind him. Chris and him basically have the whole passenger area for themselves, to bridge the ten hour flight, though Leon plans on staying strapped to his seat for the majority of it, worrying his thumb into the sobriety coin in his pocket until he can stop thinking about getting up and pouring himself a drink.

They go through the mission again for a few hours, discussing some last details, before Chris gives a long yawn and stretches his arms over his head.

“I think I’ll catch up on some sleep.” He declares, searching for the recliner on his seat.

Having departed at the break of dawn in Washington DC, their estimating time of arrival is at 9 P.M. on a private landing sight near Cologne, which means, theoretically, Jetlag shouldn’t be that big of a problem.

“Don’t you wanna nap a little too?” Chris asks after a while, blinking at him through one half-opened eye.

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “I’ll sleep later.”

Chris grumbles something he can’t make out and then he’s off to dreamland again, lying arms crossed in the cushioned black seat, with his head tilted so far back his mouth hangs open.

On the other hand, there’s no way Leon can catch any effective rest. Ever since the crash landing in China, he’s had his problems with flying and even though the possibility of a spontaneous outbreak is nearing zero here, he doesn’t trust his spoiled luck enough to bet his life on it. 

***

They land in the late evening. Chris and him watch, as the plane lowers towards a stretch of asphalt situated in a barren patch of farmland. It’s already dark out, so the only reason they can see the road at all is due to the floor lights on either side of it, illuminating the path the jet has to land on. In the distance, the city glows brighter than the night-sky, singular spots of light twinkling between the shadows of dark buildings. Watching in silence, they take the new environment in. Leon hasn’t been to Germany yet and doesn’t know much of note either. If anything, he’d honestly expected the club of evil billionaires would meet in Berlin, but as they’ve been told, they were expected to arrive on the whole other side of the country.

The plane touches down gently on the runway, Leon breathing slowly through the sensation, eyes fixed forward, as he keeps reminding himself of where he is.

Not in China. Not in the Cockpit. Not with Hunnigan’s frantic voice in his ear.

“Are you okay?” Chris asks for the hundredth time today, one hand reaching over the tabletop between them.

He nods, consciously forcing himself to relax his shoulders. If Chris is here that means nothing is wrong. Leon is safe, they are on a different mission and he has to get his shit together before anyone else notices.

They unbuckle their seatbelts the moment the plane has come to a stop, stretching their limbs and smoothing out the wrinkles in their suits, before they gather up their luggage, both of them dragging a medium-sized hardshell suitcase behind them, holding everything they might need for the coming week. At last the doors of the plane are opened with the sound of pressurized air releasing, before Chris and Leon climb down the stairs towards a well groomed man dressed in a neutral black suit, already waiting for them. Reaching the bottom of it Leon adjusts the ataché case, he’s been balancing on the top of his silver suitcase.

“Let’s get this over with.” He whispers to Chris at his side and entangles their fingers, reminding him of their mission.

His skin tingles from the sensation, unused to being touched like this. Gentle, without the anticipation of violence. At the pressure of their joined palms, he wants to shiver but rips his thoughts back out into the present instead. Chris turns his head to give him a small smile, squeezing Leon’s hand reassuringly. The wedding band presses against his knuckles and deep in his stomach something begins to stir.

The man in front of them is relatively tall with raven black hair and a finely trimmed beard. Everything about his appearance screams money, from the perfectly tailored suit, to the expensive looking watch sitting on his wrist. A name tag is pinned to the front pocket of his jacket, identifying him as S. Mueller, an employee of the pharmaceutical company PRISM, which will be hosting the week-long event.

“Mr. Carpenter, what a pleasure to meet you!” He sing-songs, shaking first Leon’s and then Chris’ hand with enthusiasm.

“Likewise, thank you for having us.” Leon smiles, his voice syrupy sweet, as he links his arm into Chris’ and leans a bit into him.

“Of course, we’ve been told the both of you expressed interest in our projects before, and after your generous donations, it was only appropriate to give you some insight, yes?” 

Mueller’s accent is thick, his ‘th’-sound coming out like a hard ‘s’ most of the time and rolling the ‘r’s where they really don’t need any of it. Apart from that though, his grammar is good. Leon tries to not get too stuck on linguistics, nodding along politely instead, as he listens quietly.

“We’re very excited.” Chris buds in, looking between Mr. Mueller and him.

“I understand. Though I fear your curiosity will have to wait, today everyone’s supposed to just settle in.” He explains, pearly white teeth glinting at them under the light of the nearby streetlamp.

A stiff breeze rushes through the field and over the flat of the runway, tousling Leon’s hair, as it permeates the thin cotton of his button-up. He trembles slightly, shuffling a little closer to Chris, who is basically radiating heat wherever he touches. It’s late summer and the weather here isn’t that different, though the nights have been cooling down significantly for a few weeks, the wind already carrying the beginnings of autumn.

“Not a problem, I think we’ll appreciate the rest.” Chris answers again, touching Leon’s shoulder while he says it, as if to indicate his exhaustion.

“Of course. Follow me then.”

Mueller gestures to a flat roofed building in the distance, its windows glowing yellow in the blue of night. They follow him inside the small private station, where two police officers already wait to inspect their luggage and pat him and Chris down. The process is quick and easy, much less hassle than he’s used to at any public airport, though they do inspect the hunting knife he’s brought measuring the length of the blade, before putting it into its leather holster and giving it back to him.

He acts casual when Mueller asks him about it, makes it sound like it’s a cultural thing, giving some vague reference to its sentimental value and Chris plays into it, nudging Leon like he’s long used to his eccentric habits. There are no other questions about it afterwards.

Coming out on the other side of the building, they find themselves in a small parking area, directly adjacent to a road, upon which a sleek black car shimmers in the low light, its purring motor the only sound in the dead of night. Mueller strides past them to open one of the back doors for them to get in, before taking their suitcases and stowing them in the trunk. Chris and him slide over the rear bench seat, greeting the chauffeur and buckling themselves in. The boot lid falls shut with a loud bang, before Mr. Mueller joins them. Once his seatbelt clicks shut, the engine revs and the tires begin to roll slowly over the asphalt.

Throughout the twenty minute car ride, Mr. Mueller rattles on about anything and everything, mentioning interesting landmarks they pass by and talking about the city they’ll be staying in, as they weave their way through traffic. For a while they mainly take country roads, passing a long stretch through a forest, the branches of the trees black in the dark of night, their usual lush green, pale under the headlights. Then they enter the city again, street lamps illuminating rows of houses, with pointed roofs on top.

It looks… small, if Leon’s honest, nothing like the metropolis he’s been living in for the past twenty years. Even the streets seem more narrow than he’s used to. Nearing the end of their journey, the driver takes a left turn onto a single lane road, tires bopping on the cobblestone. The car slows down at their steady ascend up the hill. To their left and right grow trees, their bulbous crowns lining the road. In regular intervals stand classical streetlights, glowing softly in a dim yellow instead of the halogen white they’ve been seeing before. When they seem to slow even more, Leon leans a little towards the middle, peering past Mr. Mueller to catch a glimpse at their destination. The blinding light of their car cuts through the dark starkly. 

“There we are,” Mr. Mueller speaks again. “Castle Bensberg, this will be the venue for the coming week.” The smiling face of their escort turns around and Leon has to reign in his facial expression to not show his amazement.

They drive by an iron gate, already opened, and enter a broad parterre. The castle before them is massive, two long wings to their left and right bracketing the courtyard, as the main building stands tall in the middle, five small domes sitting atop their towers. They take the left gravel road, driving past rows of well groomed trees and the flawless English lawn in the middle, until they reach a fountain only a few feet away from, what looks like, the entrance.

Mr. Mueller’s door clicks open and Leon takes that as his cue to hurry out of his seat, righting his posture to appear more composed than he is. He’d expected a hotel, something soulless and modern, probably overpriced and garishly fancy but not a throwback into baroque Europe. 

He’s been sick of castles since 2004.

“Your luggage, dear.” Chris mumbles, it takes a moment, before he realizes he’s being addressed, as the other presses the handle of his suitcase into his hand.

Leon grips it on instinct, unable to tear his eyes away from the entrance doors behind a set of doric columns. It’s different from the fortress in Spain, no castellations for one, no catapults, or drawbridges.

Vote’s still out on the deathly parasite though.

Being tugged along by his faux-husband, he follows as Mr. Mueller leads the way inside, Chris having once again slung an arm around his shoulders, like he’s trying to keep him close. They are brought to the reception, a page coming to their side to take their luggage from them, of which Leon only hesitantly lets go, while Mr. Mueller checks them in and procures their keys. There is one for each of them, a silver figurine of one of the castle’s towers dangling from the keyring.

“You two will be situated in the southern wing, on the second floor among the other suites,” Mueller gestures to their right, down the carpeted hall. “We’ve rented the entire wing to ensure the privacy of our guests for the duration of the event.” He goes on, ushering them away from the front desk, the page following them quietly.

“Mr. Smith will show you to your rooms and you’ll be having a tour of the place tomorrow morning. A colleague of mine will pick you up at nine if that is alright?”

He states it like a question but Leon is pretty sure they’ll only be messing up their tightly timed schedule if they refuse the offer, so he nods.

“We’ll be looking forward to it.”

“Great,” Mueller claps his hands together, a pleasant smile plastered on his face. “Do you have any questions before I’ll leave you in Mr. Smith’s capable hands?”

Leon ponders for a moment, wondering if this might be their first opportunity to gather more info on what exactly they are getting themselves into.

“We’ve been asking ourselves, since we’ve only been directly contacted by your company, if an event such like this will be showcasing other pharmaceutical corporations as well?” 

He formulates carefully, feigning disinterest, as he lets his gaze wander from Mr. Mueller towards the white plastered walls, adorned with gilded ornaments of leafs and vines reaching for the ceiling. 

“You want to know if our offer will be a PRISM exclusive I assume?” He leans in like he’s sharing a secret, eyes crinkling from the barely suppressed smirk.

“You got me there.”

Leon laughs, cocking his head towards the muscle of Chris’ shoulder, where it flexes nervously, as he tucks the other’s arm close to his chest. At the unspoken signal, Chris slides his opposite hand into the pocket of his pants, relaxing his stance.

Mueller takes a half-step towards them, lowering his voice but still forcing that overly-friendly ring into it. “While I cannot give you any names as of today, I can promise you the goods and services we’ll be presenting will not disappoint.”

He gives a nod, before opening their confidential circle again and combing his fingers through the perfect wave of his hair.

“We’ll be betting on it.” Leon says, swiping at his bangs in a way he knows makes most people think he’s pretty, or insufferable, depending on the audience.

He’s glad though Mueller doesn’t seem to react strongly in either direction, just wishing them a good night and excusing himself, before he strides back towards the reception. Which leaves them to follow the silent page up a flight of stairs, through an unending hallway, until they reach the last set of doors on their floor. The young man gives something akin to bow, though Leon tries to ignore the motion as best he can, suddenly uncomfortable. Shortly after Mr. Smith takes his leave without another word, down the infinite hall of doors and ancient paintings.

‘102, Dom Suite’  Is what’s written on the wood, though Leon is unfamiliar with the exact meaning of the word. They wait a moment, to be sure the page won’t be turning back around, before Leon lets Chris slide the key into the lock.

When they finally step in, well–

It’s a little overwhelming to say the least. 

The room is easily double the size of his apartment, greeting them with the sight of a fully furnished living room, composed of couches and antique looking armchairs that Leon would normally be too scared to sit in, as well as a long countertop housing a small kitchen unit. Leon locks the door securely behind them, as the both of them begin to wander, opening doors and cupboards aimlessly, as they try to comprehend it all. The cushions are all draped in warm reds and golds, similar patterns embroidered onto them, as he’s seen on the walls. The curtains are a clean white, falling to obscure a full length window, giving him a perfect few of the city not far from them, twinkling in fluorescent light.

In the kitchen they find a fully stocked coffee machine, which elicits a sound of satisfaction from both of them and a mini bar, hidden in one of the cabinets, that has Leon gnawing on his lip nervously. There’s a lock on it, at least, so Leon decides to leave the door sealed and ask for a more permanent solution tomorrow.

Their bathroom is, as everything else, a sight to behold, golden faucets in the sink, marble tiles, a rain shower and a bathtub so big, Leon and Chris could easily fit inside together. Not that Leon is considering it, after all their arrangement is only performatory. Adjoining that is a dressing room, holding enough space for more clothes than Leon has probably ever possessed in his life and a full length mirror.

For a moment, he sees himself in the shiny silver surface, looking out of place with his hands awkwardly tucked into the pockets of his dress pants. He’s not wearing the vest that came with the rest of this suit, feeling like that would’ve been a bit overkill for the first night, though despite his best efforts he still thinks he looks fake. Even after nearly twenty years, he’s never really grown into the attire.

Watching his reflection hasn’t served him for a long while now, he concludes and thus turns from the mirror at last, to dally back into the bedroom. There he is greeted by a king size bed, furnished with more red and gold satin, hanging heavily from the edges of the mattress. The room has another full length window to one side, the curtain obscuring the exit onto a balcony. On the plush down blankets, Chris has already – very unceremoniously – heaved his suitcase, unpacking his clothes and hygiene products to stow away for the morning.

“I’ll be taking the couch then.” Leon mumbles tiredly, rubbing a hand over his tense neck.

He’s exhausted and not looking forward to the busy day that certainly awaits them. Sorting through his luggage will have to be delayed until he’s rested enough to give a fuck about where he puts his stuff.

Chris looks up at him then, a confused quirk to his brow he barely manages to reign in. “Are you serious right now?” He laughs disbelievingly, gesturing at the large mattress.

When's the last time he's shared a bed with anyone?

Usually he doesn’t sleep with other people around if he can avoid it, especially not since the vivid nightmares have worsened. If not to spare him the trouble of explaining, than rather to leave his company to their well-deserved rest.

“I just figured you didn’t want–” He shrugs instead of finishing the sentence, suddenly anxious without meaning to. Mulling it over in his head, he starts again:

“I thought you’d be uncomfortable.”

Leon doesn’t think Chris is the kind of person to be overly occupied with projecting some straight hypermasculine image but he is scared to cross an invisible boundary he’s set anyway.

“Nonsense, you’re fine Leon, don’t worry about it.” He shakes his head at him, gesturing with his hand at the oversized mattress, like it’s reason enough to not make such a big deal out of it.

Leon shrugs his shoulders, like they aren’t rigid with tension and strolls over to the other side of the bed, plumping down into the comforter that gives way beneath his weight and bunches up around him like one big cloud.

“Just so you know, I’m a chatty sleeper.”

He doesn’t look at Chris, tracking his hands instead as they rezip the suitcase, while he gnaws on his lip nervously. He usually doesn’t remember what he’s been talking about in his sleep, just knows he’s yelled himself awake more than once. It’s been one of the few things the alcohol had actually helped with, getting him down enough to not lay awake for hours with a racing heart and endless streams of thoughts flitting through the dark. The antidepressants hadn’t fixed his insomnia yet though and Hunnigan is reluctant to procure sleeping aids for him ever since–

“Claire claims I snore.” Chris smiles nonchalantly at him. “Guess we’re even.”

“Sure thing.”

The chuckle he gives in response is dry, as he tears his thoughts back to the present, letting his head fall against the upholstered headboard. Beside him, Chris has gone over to kneeling next to the bed, sticking his head under the wooden frame, before shoving an arm underneath it to feel for something.

“What exactly are you doing there?” He asks, leaning towards him a little, to get a better look at what Chris is searching for.

The question goes ignored, as Chris focuses on fumbling with something, the pink tip of his tongue peeking from his lips in concentration. After another moment, he can hear the ripping sound of tape and then Chris gives a noise of triumph, as he pulls forth a sizable handgun.

“Gift from Europe HQ.” He holds out the weapon towards Leon, barrel in hand.

Leon takes it from him carefully, a secure grip on the handle, as he makes sure the safety is still on. It’s a .44mm Desert Eagle, heavy and definitely not inconspicuous but more than enough to get them out of any tight spots. Giving the gun a quick look-over, checking the magazine and pulling back the slide, he hums in approval.

“Sweet. Hopefully we won’t have to use it.” He offers the weapon back to Chris, who places it on the bedside table for the time being.

“I’m counting on it, because we won’t be getting far with eight bullets.”

Leon nods at that. Their main goal is to procure the intel they need and then leave ASAP, not getting themselves into shootouts or outbreaks.

“Any plans on where to keep that thing?” Eyeing the size of the barrel, he can’t help but wonder. The BSAA really couldn’t give them something looking less like a murder weapon.

“I brought a shoulder holster that should do the job just fine, otherwise I’d put it into the ataché for now.” Chris answers absentmindedly, as he roughly kicks his suitcase to fit under the bed.

Leon sighs deeply, loath to leave the comfortable bed, lulling him into relaxation, before he pushes himself back to standing and gets his own luggage. They pack away the gun for the night, though Leon gets out the knife he’s brought to tuck it into the bedside drawer. Just in case. Then Chris disappears into the bathroom with a few clothes and his toiletry kit, to wash up.

He uses the time to take off his own suit, folding it up neatly onto the desk chair tucked into the corner of the room, before changing into an old set of sweatpants and a moth-eaten, long-sleeved shirt. The bandages on his left arm disappear right under the fabric, hidden from sight. Maybe the warm summer night doesn’t really justify his get-up, but he thinks it’s long-sleeves only for him, permanently.

Chris is quick in the shower, probably habit by now, as he exits the bathroom shortly after Leon has fished out his own toothbrush from his bag. He disappears inside, as soon as Chris has freed the space to follow suit with a quick wash and brushing his teeth, then at last he lets himself sink onto the bed, Chris sitting on the covers in nothing but his boxer shorts, squinting at the pages of a book.

“Did you seriously bring a book on a mission?” He glances over, while he shuffles to squeeze himself beneath the covers, before pawing his pillow into shape.

“Figured I might as well get some reading in, when I’m not hunting down BOWs for once.”

The book closes with a quiet thud, after Chris tucks a bookmark between the pages, then he places the novel on the bedside table next to him, face down, so Leon can’t read the cover, before he clicks off the gaudy victorian lamp on his side.

“Never had enough leisure time on an undercover mission before, to even consider that.” Leon chuckles, more to himself than anyone else, as he twists his spine to reach for the beaded cord hanging from the lampshade.

“Maybe you should think about transferring to the BSAA then. We have a book club.”

In the dark room, he can barely see Chris’ face, though he’s pretty sure there’s a shit-eating grin on it, right this second. If Leon would get a nickel for everytime Chris offered him a position at the BSAA, he'd probably have his first month’s pay already gathered.

“Sure you have.”

Leon snorts derisively, staring at the back of his eyelids, as his head sinks further into the down pillows threatening to drown him. Restlessly, he turns on his side, pushing on the overly-soft fabric to stuff it beneath his head. Only a few inches from him, Chris is stretching out on top of the blanket, yawning loudly, as he too sags into the bed, belly up and unbothered by the fact he’s weighing down the rest of their bedspread. After what feels like a few minutes, in which Leon holds himself deadly still, in order to trick his brain into letting him sleep, he hears gentle snoring from the other side, Chris’ breathing slow and relaxed, as he’s fallen asleep.

***

It’s raining outside, he knows, even deep down beneath the earth in the DSO’s cellar. Dark clouds had been weighing down the gray sky, promising a brewing storm. The sound of raindrops hitting the office windows follows him down into the deep entrails of the organization that has been dictating his life for sixteen years. He doesn’t know where he’s going, his feet carrying him towards his destination regardless, as he proceeds deeper and deeper into the familiar basement.

The morgue shouldn’t be this big, long corridors stretching between endless steel doors, but maybe he just misremembers, maybe he’s forgotten. After all, the bodies have been piling up since 1998, maybe they have finally come back to avenge themselves. The stop he comes to is sudden, arriving at a strangely familiar door, a small window in its center. There’s a number plate above it, though he can’t make out what it says. When he tries to peer through the glass, there’s just darkness waiting beyond, his own reflection staring back in the dusty surface. He looks tired and slightly off, not entirely there, as he moves robotically to creak the door open. Maybe he's drunk again, or he’s never sobered up in the first place.

The sharp taste of liquor burns in his mouth.

‘Please.’ He thinks. ‘Please don’t make me kill them again.’

There’s a gun in his right hand, the weight of it impossible to hold, as time stretches endlessly. Why are the corpses still in their body bags? Why did no one care to store them in the cooling units? Sweat stands thick on his brow, his heart beating so loud he can hear it pound against his eardrums, as hot shivers run down his spine.

They should’ve died in the explosion in Bethesda. He’s identified their mangled corpses, barely enough to scrape them into the DSO-issue body bags, before they’ve been transported off. Maybe he should’ve died too, nothing but luck shielding him from the blast. The head wound had been dripping blood in his eye and down the side of his neck for the entirety of decon, until the medics were allowed in his vicinity.

The corpse closest to him, suddenly snaps upright, the sound of his steps having alerted the dormant BOW. He can’t see the face beneath the plastic, can only hear the snarling growl, as if it’s breathing right into his ear. His body works on instinct, barely feeling the recoil of the gun, barely feeling anything at all as he thinks:

‘Please, let this be over. Please, let this be over. Please, please, please.’

Rain drizzles down on him.

The sound of it all has always been the worst part for him.

***

Chris is roused from his light sleep by a frantic voice, the words slurred and indistinguishable but the tone urgent and pained. He sits up drowsily, fumbling for the cord to switch on his bedside lamp. When the light finally illuminates the space in a dim orange, Chris can see Leon’s pale figure shaking in the sheets beside him, blabbering in his sleep like he’s hurriedly reciting a prayer.

The other looks like he’s burning through a fever, skin slick with sweat, as his face contorts with the words spilling from his lips. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes that Chris is all too familiar with by now, unable to recall a time when Leon hadn’t looked exhausted and sleep-deprived. The one hand peeking above the edge of the comforter curls delicately on the pillow beside Leon’s head, fingers twitching spasmodically, as his breathing picks up, obviously caught in some sort of nightmare.

When he is just about to reach out, wanting to gently shake the man awake, Leon suddenly shoots upwards a strangled cry scraping itself free from his throat, before he immediately curls in on himself, burying his head between his knees. His shoulders shake minutely, as he sits there, choking on the cut off noises sticking thickly in his throat.

“Leon?” He asks carefully, raising a hand to hover over his back.

The other rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling on the blonde strands and digging his nails into the back of his own head until the tremble in his hands isn’t as pronounced anymore. It’s then that Chris lowers his palm to rest lightly on Leon’s shoulder blade, feeling the twitch of the muscles beneath the fabric.

“I’m good, go back to sleep.”

The words sound pressed and shaky, so unlike what Chris knows of Leon and it kinda scares him, because the only other time he’s seen him like this was in Colorado, before the intervention.

“You’re breathing too fast buddy.”

Pushing his hand more steadily against Leon’s back, he can feel his chest expanding into it in a rapid rhythm, Chris knows far too well. He’s had his fair share of panic attacks himself, especially after China, though he’s gotten better at handling them by now.

“Don’t–”

Leon jerks out from under his touch, turning away to sling his legs over the edge of the mattress. It’s impossible to see his face in the dim light, but Chris catches the movement of his arms as he wipes at it.

“I’ll go sleep on the couch, sorry I woke you up.”

In an instant, he’s upright, ghosting through the bedroom on silent feet until he wrenches open one of the doors to the living room and disappears, leaving Chris stunned on top of the bed, sleep-rumpled and confused. It takes him a moment, before his brain has caught up with the sudden change, Chris’ body responding to his command to move only sluggishly. When he pushes against the handle, the room beyond greets him with darkness, mostly vague shapes outlined in the black of night. He comes to stand in the door frame listening for Leon’s open mouthed breathing.

“Are you alright?” He asks, because he doesn’t feel like he has much ground to ask anything else.

Obviously, Leon wants to hide this from him, even if it’s unnecessary and immature. Chris would respect that boundary, if he could trust him not to do something rash and stupid.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

Comes Leon’s voice from the dark, a blurring shadow moving on the love seat at the opposite wall. There’s a shake to it, speaking of breathlessness and the effort it takes for him to not let it show. Chris has spent too many nights on the opposite side of a bathroom door, working through a bad flashback, to not know what that’s like. Usually, he had Claire with him though, just outside the room he’s locked himself in, as she calmly talked him through it.

“You sound like you’re having a panic attack.” He states, hand flexing on the curved, golden handle of their stupidly lavish suite.

There’s a hiccup from across the room, Leon shifting on the upholstery but nothing more. 

“I can handle it.” 

There’s no denial, which is good, but he still refuses to let Chris help, making something hot and uneasy stir in his stomach.

“Just come back to bed Leon,” He begs, taking a step towards him. “you’ll feel better I promise.”

The floorboards creak under his weight, always betraying him in his effort to be quiet. Wide eyes stare at him, glinting in the dark, pupils slitted from the ray of light falling onto the sofa where Leon sits with his knees up at his chin.

“Stay away, I–” He breaks off, shifting back into the dark. His face was wet, the white of his eyes bloodshot. A weight lodging in his throat, Chris can’t help but frown, his chest suddenly feeling too tight. “I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

Leon placates, the sound of his feet hitting the hardwood barely audible, as he gets up off the sofa. The sound of his voice is small and kind of defeated. Chris wants to believe him, as he promises to come back to bed, but Colorado is still stuck in his mind, together with his oath to Hunnigan. It’s their first night, so Chris will not be taking any chances before their mission has even really begun.

“Give me the bar key then.” Chris bargains, schooling his tone into something he hopes does not sound like a command but Leon just huffs quietly.

The overhead light is turned on abruptly, as Leon fumbles for the key inside a kitchen drawer. When he turns around, his expression is set in a carefully neutral facade, his eyes still red rimmed but face otherwise devoid of tear tracks. There’s still the tiredness though, as he lets the tiny key fall into Chris’ open palm.

“I wanted to get that thing removed tomorrow anyway.” He grumbles lowly, averting his gaze, as soon as Chris has wrapped his fingers around the item.

In the hand hanging by his hip, he can see the nervous twist of his fingers, as he lets the deep blue coin roll between them.

“If you want to call your sponsor–” Before he can finish his suggestion, he’s cut off.

“I won’t do it with you in the room.”

It’s supposed to be a snarl but it lacks the energy to really sting, instead Leon just sounds resigned, a little embarrassed maybe, which he definitely shouldn’t be in front of the guy who’s had his own little stunt with addiction. He takes him by his word anyway though, shrugging off the irritated jab and returning to their bedroom, key in hand. As the oversized double door falls shut between them, he can hear the other sigh, mumbling to himself, before Chris turns off the light again, laying back down to catch a bit more precious sleep.

Hours pass between Leon’s nightmare and him quietly sliding under the blanket again, waking Chris only, because he can feel the dip in the mattress. Something relaxes inside him, that has been keeping him on the edge of true rest, as he acknowledges, Leon returning to his side, safe and sound, which is when Chris finally drops off into deep sleep again.

The next morning, he wakes up alone, the bed beside him long gone cold, while he’s sweating through the thin blanket someone has placed across his naked torso. When he looks at his burner phone, he realizes they still have hours until they’re expected to meet up with their tour guide and thus has to wonder what Leon’s been doing all morning.

Chris skips dressing himself, in favour of scouring their suite for his temporary husband, exiting the bedroom, after checking the bathroom, to find Leon standing at the kitchen aisle, tearing open a small creamer cup.

“Do you want one?” He addresses him, having picked up on his entrance.

Getting a good glimpse of him, he definitely looks worse than yesterday, lines of stress marking his face, with dark eyebags shadowing his cheeks, the usual drape of his hair, sticking a bit wildly in every direction. Unlike him, Leon is already dressed, if a bit more casual. He’s tucked his black button up neatly into the dress pants, though he’s left the upper most buttons open and has rolled up his sleeves. It makes him look attractive in a quaint way that almost makes Chris overlook the long stretch of bandage, spanning from his wrist to the crook of his elbow.

“Yes, please.”

He joins him in front of the coffee machine, letting Leon hand him one of the boring white cafeteria cups and rifling through the collection of coffee tabs until he’s found something that sounds suitable enough.

“What happened there?” He asks offhandedly, because that’s usually the best way to get Leon to talk about anything.

It takes him a moment to pick up on what Chris is referring to, looking up from his coffee stained mug towards him, before his eyes follow the gesture, to drop onto his forearm.

“Oh, that’s still from a previous mission, nothing too bad, just got a bit scraped up.”

He waves it off, though after he’s said it, he begins rolling down his sleeves self-consciously, like he doesn’t want Chris staring at it too intently. While the coffee maker drones to life behind him, Chris turns around to watch Leon carry his fresh cup to the couch, cradling it close, after he sits down.

“What have you been up to anyway?”

Leon blows at the steam, closing his eyes, as he inhales the scent, before taking an experimental sip. It’s almost mesmerizing to watch, especially after last night, seeing him calm and centered again.

“Not much, was mostly occupied with getting rid of the mini bar. It didn’t really help that the receptionist chose to fight me about it.”

Chris picks up his own cup absentmindedly, leaning on the counter to taste test it. He hums at the explanation Leon gives him, nodding contentedly, as the rich taste of his coffee spreads in his mouth.

“Sounds exciting, any chance they offered you breakfast as compensation for your troubles?” He asks, feeling the slight grumble in his stomach, now that his body has woken up enough to feel hungry.

“They did not, in fact. But I found out how to get room service.” With no intention of getting up again any time soon, he gestures to the phone sitting on a crocheted place mat upon a small side table.

Curiously, Chris strolls over, setting his mug down on the coffee table, to leaf through the informational flyer. Since he’s not a picky eater, it doesn’t take him long to find something that sounds good enough. Lifting the receiver, he turns towards Leon, asking:

“Do you know what you want?”

Putting his empty mug down next to Chris’ own, he crosses his long legs, as he considers his answer. Momentarily, Chris’ eyes get stuck on the way the black fabric hugs his thighs, his belt sitting just above the peak of his hips, before he can pry his mind back out of the gutter, reminding himself why they are here and that Leon is definitely not interested.

“Just bread and eggs for me please.”

Chris makes the phone call for them both. In turn Leon opens the door to accept the trays of their food, when they eventually arrive, while Chris does his best to force himself into the least uncomfortable suit. They eat together, filling the air with empty chatter to distract themselves from the passing time and the impending visit of whoever’s tasked to show them around. He kind of regrets not having ordered something extra for the two of them to share, when he notices halfway through the meal, Leon’s portion size being a little meagre in comparison to his own, though it still looks like the other is having trouble getting through it.

Not really feeling like Leon’s eating habits are his to comment on, he decides not to mention it for now. What does catch him off guard though, is the box of pills the other casually procures from one of his pockets towards the end of their breakfast. The only reason why he doesn’t ask him right away is the mouthful of beans he’s rushing to swallow, which leaves him only to watch, as Leon pops out two green and yellow oblong pills from the aluminum foil and swallows them down unceremoniously with the rest of his water.

“What’s that?” Chris mumbles, through the rest of his unchewed food, one hand held in front of his mouth.

Leon doesn’t look up, as he nudges the box towards him. It’s nondescript white cardboard, the brand name ‘Prozac’ printed in neutral letters, below that it says ‘Fluoxetine, 20mg’ .

Oh. 

A heavy lump settles in Chris’ throat, as he recognizes the psychotropics.

“They are anti-depressants, Hunnigan gave them to me a few months ago.” Leon explains, eyeing his slice of buttered bread like he’s dreading to have to eat it.

The bite of his breakfast settles in his stomach like lead, as he swallows heavily, a feeling of unease washing over him. Previously, Leon has always been hesitant about being medicated, for reasons he was even more reluctant to disclose to anyone but now he just seems apathetic about it, like it’s just another task on a long list of chores.

“Do they help?” He asks, because he knows how fickle antidepressants can be, not every medication working the same for everyone.

Leon shrugs, picking up the pill box to fiddle with the cardboard flaps. “For the most part, they do.” His eyes pinch, as he scrutinizes the carton, spinning it between his fingers.

Fidgeting, he’s always fidgeting when he’s nervous.

Chris wants to reach out and take the weight off Leon’s shoulders, that always seems to rest so heavily there. For once, Chris would wish for Leon to be okay, but no matter how well of an act the other puts on, he can never quite get the hints of stress off his face.

“Hunnigan told me the side effects should be petering out soon too.”

Leon fills the silence, like he feels obligated to do so, his gaze searching Chris’ face for any hint of a reaction. In turn, he tries not to let the worry show, that is digging its claws deep into his ribs, solidifying the desperate urge to shield Leon from the world. Taking a deep breath, Chris opens his mouth to answer him, when someone abruptly knocks on their door.

“Mr. and Mr. Carpenter?” A bassy voice comes from the other side.

Leon gets up automatically, the carton laying abandoned on the sofa cushion, as he hurries to open the door. His voice sounds unnaturally sweet, as soon as he greets the man waiting in the hall.

“Pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Carpenter. I assume Mueller already informed you about my arrival. I'm Mr. Koch from PRISM’s American branch.”

Chris watches as the two shake hands, Mr. Koch grasping Leon’s with both of his, a warm smile on his face fixating on Leon.

“He did. He said you’re going to give us a tour of the place.”

Leon withdraws his hand from Koch’s hold, who’s been cupping it throughout his explanation, which is the moment Chris decides to join them at the door, stepping decidedly into Leon’s space, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, as the other casually rests on the doorframe.

“Ah, and you must be the second Mr. Carpenter.” Koch’s attention shifts immediately, face creasing with the smile he gives him.

The man at their door does not look like someone who’s working in customer service at all, Chris notes. He’s tall, almost an inch taller than him, and the width of his shoulders speaks to someone who has plenty of muscle strength too. If Chris’d have to guess, Mr. Koch was probably drawn from security for this event.

“Pleasure to meet you.” He holds out his palm, putting just a tad of force into it, as they shake hands, his expression remaining unbothered.

Koch mirrors him, firming his grip for a moment, before he lets go and turns back towards Leon, who’s been eyeing the interaction with little interest.

“To answer your question,” He starts. “I’ll be accompanying you for the day, showing you the premises, though if you find yourself needing anything while you’re staying here, you can always come to me.”

From his breast pocket he draws a small, off-white card, handing the first to Leon, before offering the second to Chris. It’s a business card, the design straightforward and clean, the only splash of colour being the small logo of PRISM on its backside. There the information identifies the man in front of him as Jason Koch, an ambassador for PRISM’s emerging American branch and one of the Directors of its R&D department.

“That is very considerate of you.” Leon sing-songs beside him in a tone of voice Chris has never heard before. Slowly, Chris gets the feeling, Leon might be a better actor than he thought. “Let us just get our jackets and we’ll be right with you.” He continues, waiting until Mr. Koch has taken a polite step backwards to close the door again.

They quickly gather up their things, putting on their ties and clicking closed their personalized cufflinks, before Chris holsters the magnum, while Leon buttons up his suit jacket and straightens the lapels. Working with practiced efficiency, they are ready to go in just a few moments, rejoining each other at the door. For a last once over, Chris turns to Leon, his eyes tracing the lines of his chest under the black suit and the shape of his clean-shaven chin, the lack of stubble making him look a bit younger and oddly pretty.

“Can I?” Lifting his hands, he lets them hover at the height of Leon’s bangs, which are still a little tousled from the early morning.

“Sure thing.” Leon nods, allowing Chris to run his fingers through the soft strands of his hair and work out the stray knots that have found their way into them.

“Are you ready?” He asks at last, satisfied with his work and trying to glean, if there’s any sign of discomfort on Leon’s face.

“Let’s do this.”

It’s Leon who entangles their hands, turning away to push the door open faster than Chris’ brain can catch up with him, the sensation of their joined palms still new and exciting, flooding his stomach with comfortable warmth, as Leon’s calloused skin settles against his. He can feel the line of a scar running across his palm, which he hasn’t heard the story to just yet. The whole mixture of it is suddenly touching something soft and hopeful inside of him.

Chapter Text

Jason Koch leads them through the castle like he’s never done something more riveting in his life, staying stubbornly cheerful for what feels like hours, as their group dawdles through the premises of the old hunting château. It’s decadent in a way that has the hair stand on end at Leon’s neck, the historical grounds remodeled entirely to hold restaurants, wellness spas, meeting rooms and suites just like the one Chris and him have stayed in. The inside of the castle is drowned in elaborate brocade, adorning the walls on all sides in complicated patterns. There are murals painted on the ceiling and expensive pieces of baroque art hanging in their golden frames.

Guests and staff bustle through the carpeted hallways, hurrying past them in the broad foyers, so drowned in chandelier light, with golden reflections shimmering on every surface, that Leon’s disoriented by all the detail. It’s not loud, but the place feels loud, with all the pomp, the glamour. So much so, Leon finds himself pressing close to Chris’ shoulder, as he feels increasingly cramped, between the bejeweled patrons and the equally laden environment. 

They pass the gardens only briefly, the lush green of the maze’s bushes barely visible through the glass of the green-house, where Leon yearns to escape for a short moment, dreading the welcoming function they are heading towards. Eventually though, they do arrive at a set of white double doors, crested with more botanical ornaments and painted in rich gold, Koch turning around to address them right in front of it.

“Feel free to mingle with the other guests, we have some lovely people here this week who have been our loyal patrons for quite some time.”

The light reflects back on his straw blonde hair, the slight sheen of too much gel making the slicked back strands look almost metallic as well. Leon nods and smiles at their escort, the way he’s done for the past hour, while Chris parrots the appropriate courtesies, until Mr. Koch finally relents, gesturing for them to enter.

The doors swing open to reveal a gathering of dozens of people, inside a square room not unlike the ones they’ve passed through before. This one is lined on two sides by windows spanning from just above the floor up towards the high ceiling, heavy curtains drawn back to allow the sunshine to stream in. Noone notices their entrance initially, him and Chris waiting on the edges of the crowd at first to get an overview of the place. On the far end, they spot a podium, positioned on a low stage, the microphone sitting there abandoned, as the groups of people chatter lively. Leon loops his arm through Chris’ preemptively, so they won’t lose each other and fixes his posture. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, face set into serene contentment.

Though before they can approach the other guests any further, a waiter steps into their path, holding out a silver plate to them. 

“May I offer the Sirs a drink?” The young man asks, features still soft with youth, as the flutes of champagne fizzle atop his platter.

At the sight, Leon tenses, the familiar urge creeping beneath his skin and making his nail beds itch. The weight of his coin presses against the outside of his thigh, as he shifts away, throat dry, while he gapes wordlessly, searching for the quickest way to end the interaction.

“No thank you, we’re good.”

Chris buds in, raising his hand to hold the waiter up, in his attempt at coming closer, before he’s pulling on Leon’s arm and stepping into the crowd. Immediately following his slip up, he can feel his face start to burn with shame, cheeks certainly blotchy red. He’s supposed to be okay now, it’s been almost seven months and he still doesn’t have a lock on it.

They wedge themselves between another couple and a group of elderly men. Reorienting himself for a moment, he focuses on the woman’s conversation briefly, her hands flipping through the pages of a small booklet, as she holds it out to her partner.

“They’ve had the project in development for years now, do you think they’ll finally present it?”

She tucks one of her gray strands of hair behind her ear with gloved fingers, looking at the man beside her expectantly.

“Doesn’t it say in there?” He retorts, wrinkling his light blue suit, when he crosses his arms and peers at the writing from over the rim of his glasses. 

“If it does, I can’t find it. Well, we’ll be seeing our money’s worth eventually.” She smooths her hands, draped in white lace, over the cover, holding it at hip height, as the conversation topic shifts.

His attention diverts to their other side, where the three men have begun to compare the cigars each of them has brought to the event, rotating them until everyone has had a look. Leon vaguely remembers a No Smoking policy all throughout the building and hopes the High-Society present here, will be mannered enough to honour it. The last thing he needs now, is cigarette smoke in his face. Shifting restlessly on his feet, he begins looking for more suitable conversation partners, someone to pry and prod at, to begin gathering intel.

Beside him, he notices how Chris is glancing on and off at his profile, like he’s checking if Leon hasn’t turned into hot air yet, the scrutiny grating on his nerves, when he’s already beating himself up about his blackout.

“What?”

He hisses, after the tick doesn’t cease, even as they stroll through the crowd. If Chris doesn’t stop staring soon, he’s going to give himself a concussion just by neglecting where he puts his feet.

“Are you doing okay?” He stops, holding on to his elbow, as Leon belatedly comes to a halt.

Why does he keep asking him? 

Leon groans internally, even though the pressure in his chest softens at the question. Maybe he’s grown weak after years in the field, or maybe the feeling only has to do with Chris. One way, or another, he doesn’t have the time to entertain either of those possibilities.

“I’m good,”

When he notices how close they are standing, breathing the same air, he hesitates, Leon’s eyes flickering uncertainly between Chris and the bustle of people behind him. He deflates imperceptibly, a quiet sigh leaving his lips.

To thine own self be true.

That’s the motto and AA just loves to talk about honesty. 

“I’m sorry, I was just caught a little off-guard there.” He admits, glancing sideways for any indication someone might be listening.

Chris leans in then, in something resembling an embrace, though it only serves to bring his mouth closer to Leon’s ear, so he can whisper under his breath. Chris’ touch is everywhere, one hand at his forearm, while the other pushes him in by his shoulder, his hot breath dampening the shell of his ear. The only thing Leon can do is to stand still, feeling the warmth of the other’s skin drift onto his own, as he strains to catch the words Chris is about to utter.

Instead the high pitched screech of a microphone scratches through the air. He flinches and steps back with a start. –

The air horn rips him from his sleep, before an iron fist closes around his arm to rip him upwards. Momentarily his bad shoulder flares, as Leon cuts off a gasp, clamping his teeth shut. He barely gets his feet under him in time, before Krauser loosens his hold.

“When I tell you to be up at five, you’re up at five, do you understand?!”

His eardrums buzz with the noise, he’s so tired he thinks he’s going to fall over dead but sleep has been few and far between since he’s come here.

“Yes, Sir.”

Assuming parade rest, he waits for Krauser to hit him, because that’s how most of the other instructors handle his mistakes.

It never comes.

– The old memory fades, Leon blinking against the hazy image of a younger Krauser, as the voice from the orator floods back into his consciousness. Chris has turned away from him, intently listening, though there’s still a hand circling his elbow, like he’s forgotten it there. When he moves to straighten his spine, he staggers, the floor swaying softly under his feet.

“We are overjoyed to be greeting our numerous guests and want to welcome anyone who is a new addition to our close circle of patrons, as always–” A female voice blares through the speakers.

Dark spots dancing in front of his vision, Leon feeling hot and cold at once, as nausea climbs its way up his throat. He’d been hoping his SSRIs’ side-effects would be finally decreasing but his heart is pounding so loud in his ears, he can barely make out what the person upstage is saying. 

“You’ll be finding our schedule on the brochure, though of course we’ll be having the private convention as per usual on Wednesday and the charity auction on–”

He swallows compulsively, breathing slow and trying to hang on to the tail end of the speech he’s been dissociating through.

Talking about fitting into the crowd.

Leon feels like everyone can smell the crazy on him from ten miles away.

“If you have any other questions, you can always come to me, or to your assigned PRISM staff.”

The woman at the podium has her brown hair tied into a neat knot at the back of her head, addressing the crowd with a sweet smile and an air of firm authority, as she goes into her closing remarks. The tunnel vision slowly eases, the longer Leon focuses on one spot in the distance, his head’s spinning slowing back down to a bearable degree. Using the momentary relief, he extricates himself from Chris’ hold on him.

“I’ll be right back.” He taps him on the shoulder, not waiting for an answer, before he slinks away towards the door they’ve come through.

Striding briskly through the entrance, he heads straight for the next bathroom he can spot, as his stomach begins to turn dangerously. The taste of eggs lingers on his tongue and Leon deeply regrets his breakfast choice, while he fumbles himself through the bathroom door and into the backmost stall. With shaking fingers, he turns the lock , his stomach twisting painfully enough to send him kneeling on the – hopefully – clean tiles. He has half a mind, to loosen the tie around his neck, before he starts throwing up his half-digested food.

After he’s gotten clean, he really hoped he’d be done with the constant vomiting but with the medication his nervous stomach won’t quite leave him just yet. It sucks, and Leon’s more than sick of it, but he keeps following Hunnigan’s instructions regardless, because the alternative would be going back to how things were before.

Gasping for air, he spits out bile and spit onto the white porcelain, moisture clinging to his eyelashes, that he rubs at with one unsteady hand to clear his vision again. Sweat stands on his brow, cold and sticking his fringe to his temples, though most of the nausea has passed now, leaving Leon wrung out and tired. He rests his feverish forehead momentarily on the ball of his hand, inhaling shakily as he tries to stop the tremor that vibrates through him.

There’s no time for this.

The sound of the bathroom door falling back into the lock is cottony, muffled under the rushing of blood in his ears, but he picks up on it all the same. Dress shoes click on the tiled floor, their gate heavy and determined. Leon tears toilet paper from the roll to scrub at his mouth, flushing right after to get rid of his sick, before there’s a soft knock on his door.

“I’m fine, Chris.” He gripes, his voice coming out hoarse and quiet.

“Mr. Carpenter?” Someone who’s very much not Chris answers and Leon can feel the swoop in his stomach, as a rush of adrenaline shoots through him. “Are you doing alright?”

Now that he’s more focused, he recognizes the low drone, pretty much unforgettable after he’s had to listen to it for their tour through the castle. His shoulders tense at once, before he carefully rises to his feet behind the safety of the stall door. There’s a gap at the bottom, so it’s likely Koch saw him kneeling there, though he hopes he won’t mention it.

“I’m good.”

Taking a moment, he runs a hand through his hair and wipes the sweat from his forehead, then he turns the lock and opens the door, fixing a smile on his face, he can only hope is authentic.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were my husband.” The laugh he gives is short and small, awkwardly shuffling around the broad frame of the man before him, who does very little to make enough room for him to pass.

“Oh, I see, I think he’s still waiting in the parlor.”

Koch gestures to the door behind Leon, eyes crinkling with the practiced smile on his face, only serving to disquiet him. Now that he gets a good look at his face, he notes the burst veins on his nose and cheeks, the smattering of moles that dot his neck and throat and the shadow of scruff slowly growing back in. When the subtle smell of liquor on his breath hits him, Leon takes another step back. 

“I saw you come in here and grew a little worried, I hope I’m not overstepping.” He elaborates unbidden, reaching out with two hands as if to touch.

Leon tilts his head sideways in the way he knows makes most people think he’s pretty and smiles, clasping his hands in front of his stomach. The taste of bile still lingers on the back of his tongue.

“That is very considerate of you, but I’m fine, really. My husband’s probably waiting for me.”

He scrambles for an excuse to leave, while trying to stay polite, though he can’t bring himself to wait for the other’s indication if it’s appropriate to go, instead taking another few steps backwards before turning around and exiting the bathroom. The way Koch’s been looking at him since they’ve met doesn’t sit right with him, but for now, Leon chooses to ignore it, as long as Chris and him stay together, nothing can touch the both of them.

Coming back into the hallway, he takes a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering smell of alcohol, wafting over from Koch. It helps in clearing his head enough for him to take a moment to palm the coin in his pocket, the edges of it pressing into the skin as a steady weight, then he turns and heads inside the parlor.

At the door, Chris is waiting, brow furrowed as he catches sight of Leon. How that man doesn’t give himself a constant headache with his mother-henning is beyond him, but for now Leon is kind of glad he doesn’t have to search for Chris in the bustling crowd just beyond the entrance.

“Made any friends yet?” He asks, before the other can open his mouth.

Chris stops him from waltzing right past, by casually stepping into his way, one hand tucked inside the pocket of his dress pants, that exposes the stretch of his black leather belt cinching his hips.

“Not yet, because my lovely husband decided to abscond, right when it was the most inconvenient.” His voice is relaxed, a steady rumble filled with humor, as he lets his gaze wander over Leon’s attire.

At once, he comes closer, body moving fluidly through the space between them and into Leon’s carefully crafted personal bubble. The touch of his hands on his upper arms returns, warm and strong but lacking the usual forcefulness people tend to use with him.

“What can I say? I’m just full of surprises.” He deflects, looking up at the disgruntled expression Chris gives him in response. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.”

Urging the other to move, he holds onto his biceps and takes him in tow, as he makes his way towards the gathering. It doesn’t take long, before Chris falls into step at his side, allowing Leon to interlock their arms again. He’s not sure how much bodily contact is appropriate for them, his last relationship not really being a prime example of what a normal couple should look like. The two men did seem rather affectionate in the photos, Leon has seen though, so he figures he can do little harm, as long as Chris plays along.

They go and mingle with the other guests, more slinking their way through the different bubbles that have formed in their absence, rather than conversing with anyone, but it serves to give them a rough idea of who these people are. None of the names being dropped really ring any bells, though Leon knows from experience most of the smarter billionaires opt to stay out of the public eye. His second observation is that a majority of the attending guests are non-Americans, Chris and him being an exception among mostly people from Europe, some from Asian countries.

They get shortly involved in a discussion between an Englishman and two elderly women who are debating the lack of information they’ve received prior to the event and its implications for their stock market shares, before Chris and him can extricate themselves to be immediately singled out by the woman who’s been speaking at the podium.

“Mr. and Mr. Carpenter, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure yet.”

She presents her hand to Chris first and then him, a bright smile on her lips. On the breast pocket of her suit jacket dangles a name plate, with the PRISM symbol right next to it.

“I’m Dr. Diavatis, the head scientist of PRISM’s experimental department and the host for this week, but you can call me Sofia.”

Her hand in his feels dry in the way people’s skin gets, when they wash it too often and he sees the white of her roots peek through at the bottom of her scalp, the inch, or so, that’s grown out, needing to be dyed again.

“I’m Leon, and this is my husband Christopher.” Introducing the both of them, he ignores the thrill spreading in his chest, when he says ‘my husband’.

He’s given up his chance on having a family of his own, even before he had fully admitted to himself he wasn’t into women. But that didn’t mean he’d been able to cast the wish for a partner aside completely. If he was younger, if he didn’t know he’ll never see life past his forties, maybe he would consider it, but with the job he has–

There’s no way he’ll let himself leave someone behind like this.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Chris says beside him, placing a hand on his spine like it’s second nature by now.

“The pleasure’s all mine.” She smiles sweetly, though Leon observes how her eyes track them both keenly, roving over every last detail on how they present themselves.

The moment passes much too quickly to know which conclusion she comes to, before she steers the topic to a meaningless string of small talk, none of it the information she surely would be able to provide, which is why Leon begins to prod a little after a while.

“Have you already met the other patrons?” She inquires, body language relaxed and open.

“Some of them, yes, though it turns out we’re kind of the odd one’s out around here.” He laughs lightheartedly, leaning a bit more into Chris. “We’re merely new investors, meanwhile it seems your more experienced patrons are involved in company politics, at least to some degree. It's a bit hard to keep up when they’re talking shop.”

Sofia’s features soften into something akin to sympathy, before she says:”Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to have a closer look at what we do here soon enough. As for the others, they’ll certainly be happy to provide you with a bit of insight as well.”

“I’m sure they will.”

Leon lets himself be fobbed off, the Doctor obviously unwilling to let up the info he’s been pushing for, so he acts like he doesn’t mind, when she sweeps them along into another topic of conversation, until she politely takes her leave. Meanwhile Leon has begun twisting the ring on his finger, feeling the metal band rub over the skin, as he increasingly gets the inkling Dr. Diavatis is only having this talk to gauge what kind of people Chris and him are exactly.

When she’s finally out of sight, he deflates a little, uncomfortable under the close scrutiny, even with Chris at his side, who had at some point vined his arm fully around Leon’s shoulders. It’s only once he lets it sink again, to give them both some room to look around that he notices the calming effect it has had.

“How long do you think we’re expected to socialize?”

Chris says under his breath, leaning back into Leon’s space, who is tracking Koch’s mop of blonde hair bobbing over the other patrons, as he weaves his way through the crowd.

“Unfortunately this is exactly what we’re paid to do here.” As he cocks his head, his bangs falling in his face, he whispers back sarcastically, giving Chris a lopsided grin. 

The other sighs, a smile playing on his lips. “And here I was, thinking we’re just supposed to have a nice vacation for once.”

Taking a step towards him, Leon lifts his eyes the few inches Chris has on him and locks eyes, brown and amber and auburn reflecting back at him like a dying sunset.

“As far as I remember, the last time I tried to ‘have a nice vacation’, you came around and ruined it.” He breathes into the space separating them, tongue sharp and gaze filled with wit.

In response, Chris laughs, clear and bassy like a drum beating out the rhythm of a song. Leon wants more, more of that happiness on Chris’ face, more of that warm feeling sprouting in his chest with tender roots, drinking up the sight like he’s been starving for it all his life. It’s beautiful, and he stands there for a long moment, as if stunned by it, until the laughter dies down.

“Colorado was ages ago, don’t tell me it was the last time you’ve been on vacation.” He says, incredulous.

The wonder inside him dies a little, Leon falls silent, gaze dropping as he turns away from all the good things he will never call his own.

“You are shitting me, Leon–” 

A hand on his shoulder, Chris stops him in his tracks, when Mr. Koch finally makes it through the crowd and reaches their little bubble, consequently bursting it.

“Ah, Mr. Carpenter.” He exclaims, eyes roving over the pair, as he comes to a halt. There’s no hesitation on Chris’ part,while he settles back at his side, thumb rubbing tiny circles on the spot where his palm rests. “I just wanted to hand you the brochure for the coming days,”

They are presented with a small, nondescript notebook, the cover feeling like satin and bleached in pure white. Printed upon the front, in golden letters it says ‘PRISM Convention Handbook’. Leon takes it from Koch, slipping it out of his fingers and glancing at the inside briefly.

“It contains the schedule for the week, as well as the most important information on our company and its benefits.”

When he opens the booklet, he sees a clinical layout, fitting for a pharmacy company. Taking a look at the table of contents, he notices the yellow highlighter marking some of the chapters. 

“I have taken the liberty to highlight the most important information for you.” Koch explains when Leon looks up critically, before closing the notebook again. He’ll have to examine it in more detail at some later time.

“Thank you.” The sweet smile on his face is forced. “We appreciate that.”

 “Glad to be of service.” Koch inclines his head towards him, mirroring his smile and Leon feels himself shrink away from it, stepping a bit closer to Chris looming at his shoulder.

“We’ve planned a dinner for all our guests in the evening, but you’ll have the noon all for yourself.” He explains further. “You’ll find all of the necessary information in the appendix.”

They nod, thanking him again and Leon is relieved to see after he’s left, that the room around them has started to clear too. A knot of anxiety, he hadn’t been aware of, finally settles, as the patrons dwindle and Chris and him have enough space to breathe and converse in private. When they notice another waiter approaching them, a tray of champagne flutes in hand, they decide to abscond as well, falling into lockstep as they search their way through the halls.

***

They pass through the sunroom again, glass doors wide open to allow the fresh air from the gardens to blow gently inside. When the breeze hits them with the rustle of leaves and the smell of bloom, they stop in their tracks, looking towards the growing gardens behind the glass paneled walls. It’s a beautiful summer’s day, the wind cool and the sun already past its zenith. Rays of light fall through the lush foliage, dotting the gravel path in rich greens. Leon feels himself ache to catch a small moment of reprieve between the trees and hedgerows, after having spent all morning inside the stifling walls of the castle. He swallows, staring for a bit too long for Chris not to notice.

“Come on, let’s take a break.” He entangles their hands again, their palms easily fitting into each other, before he tugs him towards the exit.

The gardens are extensive, him and Chris idly drifting through the space adjoining the sunroom. Between small ponds housing glittering fish, smoothly gliding through the clean water, stand fruit bearing trees and plots of colourful flowers. They pass beneath their branches leaden with mirabelle plums and deep red cherries, the last blossoms of apple trees drifting gently towards the beige gravel making up their path. The pebbles crunch softly beneath the leather soles of their dress-shoes, dust collecting on the shiny black, as they take in the small fountains, chiseled from stone and marble, pouring cold water from their weathered bronze statues, into streams and ponds that wind their way beneath bridges around the other vegetation.

It’s a beautiful sight, which drowns out the bustling noise from inside the castle, filling Leon’s senses with the sweet scent of rich fruits and a late bloom. The water gurgles quietly, as the sun shines warm on his back. For a while they don’t talk at all, just following each other around the garden, until they reach a rose arch, grown over with thick vines of thorns, dotted by the many petaled heads of english roses. To its left and right are well-groomed hedges, sealing the entrance to what looks to be a maze. Next to the arch, a sign has been affixed to the metal, golden letters carefully painted onto the wood, with decorative ornaments framing the short paragraph:

‘Maze of the Electress Palatine, Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici.

It is said, she commissioned this part of the garden for the purpose of hiding various poisonous herbs and plants from her husband. To this day, no one knows if her garden took any part in the elector’s death.’

It seems about right that the evil pharmaceutical company would pick an establishment with a garden full of poison for their convention. Before he even entertains the thought of entering, he pulls forth the small booklet they’ve been given, flicking through the pages for any information about the location.

At last, he finds a small annotation for the place:

‘The maze adjoining the gardens, covers an area of 11 000 square meters, which would amount to about 118 403 square feet, or roughly the size of a football field. While traversing a maze might demand a bit of patience, it can be a pleasant way to spend leisure time.’

Leon flips through the other pages, finding a blank one at the back he keeps open, while he digs in his pants for the small graphite pencil he stole from the reception.

“Do you want to have a look inside?” Chris asks, curiously leaning past the roses to stare down the long roads bracketed by tall, square hedges towering over their heads.

Sketching a little circle at the bottom of the page, he marks their starting point and nods at Chris. “Can’t hurt to find out what’s inside.”

The smile Chris gives him is disarming enough, he can’t help but return it, before extending his palm. Their skin is damp in the late summer heat, the fabric of Leon’s shirt sticky with his sweat, but it feels good to be under the sun for once, no dead things chasing him over barren ground, just him and Chris and the buzz of insects searching for nectar in the flowers blooming all around them. There’s a tug on his arm, as he realizes Chris is already heading inside the maze. Pulling himself out of the trance he’s in, he follows him down the left path, winding between the high growing privet bushes.

“So, what are we looking for?” Chris turns to him, when they reach another split in the road.

“Nothing in particular really, the purpose of these things is usually getting to the centrepiece but other than that, they’re just for wasting time.” Shrugging, he extracts his hand from Chris’ to add to his straight-line-diagram, then he picks the left path again and draws a line in the sand behind them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in an actual maze.” Laughing, Chris swivels around to Leon, who’s lagging two steps behind, as he catches up again.

The looping path, leads them in a circular motion through the place, the privet blooming with small white blossoms and the occasional cluster of dark berries, while the air is almost dizzyingly sweet with their scent, as they crush more of the rotting fruit beneath their shoes.

“They’re not as hard to figure out, as you might think.” He responds soothingly, picking the left path again, before drawing another line at the entrance to the new road.

“Is that why you’re ‘Ariadne’s thread’-ing where we’re going?” Humour clear in his voice, he gestures to the ground and Leon’s tiny scribbles in the booklet,.

“Something like that.” Leon laughs, as he saunters past Chris, down the curve the shrubbery is taking.

It’s a dead end, planted with an impressive shrub of hydrangeas, their blossoms wide open, radiating a pale blue colour. Taking a step forward to regard the plant, he traces his fingers over the silky smooth petals.

“It’s called the Trémaux’ method,” Incidentally, he continues. “It’s basically an easy pathfinding algorithm suited for practical application.”

Not looking at Chris, he bends at the hip to smell the hydrangeas, their scent less heavy than the one from the privet.

If this really is de’ Medici’s secret poison garden, then they’ve found their first specimen. The plant contains cyanide, in all of its parts, though it can also be used for medicinal purposes. 

When he turns around again though, wanting to share the thought, he’s met with the unexpected impressed look on Chris’ face, eyes wide with wonder.

“What?” He states surly, not wanting the embarrassment rushing through his chest to be visible on his face.

Chris should really quit looking at him like that. Else Leon might get the wrong idea andl believe he likes him more than just for show.

“Nothing, nothing. Just didn’t know I’m married to James Bond.” He nudges him with his elbow, as they meander their way back from where they came, Leon sealing the dead-end behind them with a second line on the ground. 

“It’s not that hard,” He says coyly, focusing on his graph instead of looking at Chris. “And definitely comes in handy, in all those labyrinthian labs.” Under his breath he mumbles to himself, cautious to not get overheard from someone on the other side of the hedge.

“Fair enough, but why not use the good old wall follower method?”

They pick the path to their right now, and are rewarded with another crossroad, this one splitting into three different paths. Leon stays with his tendency towards the left-most route, heading down the nearest road.

“Because if the maze has any loops, we’d just be walking in circles and judging by the size and time of construction, I’m certain it will.”

They pass a bench in a small alcove. It’s shadowed by another arch, overgrown with ivy, which is crawling past the edge of the hedge to peek into the pathways below.

“I’m honestly surprised you’re treating this so seriously.” Chris now tarries behind him, squinting down at his sketch to try and make sense of it.

“We can’t be sure what information might come in handy later, better to suss this one out while we’ve still got the time for it.”

He explains, a little unsettled by the sudden realization that Chris really isn’t used to these kinds of missions. If it weren’t for Leon’s experience, they’d be flying blind. Before he can muse much more about it though, he reminds himself of the gun, sitting in the holster on Chris’ chest and takes a deep breath. They’ve sent him into Valdelobos with only his handgun. This is already more than he could ask for.

When they find their way back to the crossroads, having been wandering around the maze some more, they seal another loop behind them. Most mazes Leon knows, function by the way of homogeneity, confusing the visitor with ever-same pathways and impenetrable walls, though this one hides its secrets in plain sight:

An odd specimen of European yew in between the hedges, its red berries glowing like a warning sign in the afternoon sun, as they pass a spiraling pathway. A patch of tall foxglove, growing at the side of the road, with the purple, dotted calyx, bowing its heads towards them like a cornucopia begging to be emptied. Wilted rhododendron at another dead end, blossoms dry and brown, falling apart, crumpling on the ground like brittle paper, its leaves hanging low in the heat that’s been making sweat stand on Leon’s brow with how long they’ve been walking.

All of those plants are poisonous, at least to some degree, some of them useful even beyond their toxicity, though Leon still hopes he won’t be making intimate acquaintances with any of them.

“Why do they grow parsley in here?”

Chris points to a small shrub nestled between a batch of dried out poppies, which Leon nearly overlooked. As they brush past, the poppie’s bolls rattle.

“The seeds are poisonous and can have abortifacient effects.” He mutters in response, too drawn into his own attempt at orienting himself to pay it much mind.

“How do you even know that?” Leon gets in response, Chris sounding even more fascinated with him.

Once more, he shrugs nonchalantly. 

“I just do.”

When he has enough free time, Leon likes to read, especially with the many close calls he’s had with handling random herbs, he figured it’d pay off to get some rough knowledge about the stuff that could definitely kill him.

“Sure you do. I couldn’t even tell you what half of the weeds here are called.” 

In disbelief, Leon shakes his head, casting Chris’ comment aside in favour of navigating them through the maze. When they abruptly hit a solid wall, instead of the usual greenery, he figures they must have apparently reached the backmost part of the maze. There, a shrub had fallen over to reveal naked brick, the old stone barely holding on to an iron ladder, bolted into place. They come to halt in the dead-end they’ve found and Chris begins to rattle the rusted frame of the ladder, checking for how sturdy it still is.

“Should we–'' He hesitates, looking up at the wall, cement falling from in between the stone. “take a peek?”

Leon curls his fingers around the metal. It’s cold to the touch, shielded from the sun, by the vegetation around it. Without giving a response, he sets one foot onto the first rung and pushes himself upwards. It’s a short climb, the ladder shifting under his weight dangerously but otherwise staying put, before he breaches the top, looking over the flat edge of the wall. Beyond he can see cobblestone roads with dense rows of trees to either side, a small parking space right below him but nothing more, the back of the castle less pompous than its front, only the odd single-family home visible between the trees.

“Found anything interesting?” From below, Chris calls, one hand on the rail of the ladder.

Leon lets himself drop downwards, his feet making a thumping sound as they impact the ground.

“Not really, there’s a parking space there but nothing more.” He says, before pulling forth his notes, to mark the dead end with a short annotation.

“Good to know, I guess.” Chris shrugs, as they turn around, heading back from where they came.

If Leon had to guess, it takes them going through three quarters of the maze, before they find its centre. When they hit the clearing, there’s a sigh of relief from beside him, Chris whispering to himself. 

“Fucking finally.”

The round plaza they come into houses a small, onion-domed tower, built from pure white bricks, reflecting the sun and turning the building into a glowing beacon. The arches circling its walls are empty, functioning as little balconies from which the rest of the maze can be observed.

Before they step into the cool interior, they have a look around the area they’ve just discovered. It’s a miniature version of the garden outside the maze, another fountain bubbling with clear water, a venus statue pouring the liquid from a scallop into a basin at which’s bottom gold and copper pennies lie, glittering like fish scales.

Another detail Leon notices is the old laburnum towering over a set of benches, casting its shadow over the plaza. The bright yellow blossoms hang from the tree’s branches in thick racemes, swaying softly in the breeze. A few of them have already dropped their petals, which sway lazily towards the ground and litter the floor in dots of sunshine yellow. The big trunk of the tree is enough for him to know how long this plant must’ve been here.

“Anything smart to say about this one?” Chris gestures to the plant Leon’s been focused on, his cheeks reddened from the sunshine, forehead beaded with sweat.

Laburnum is poisonous, just like most of the other plants they’ve encountered here. The brown pods, occasionally dangling next to the flowers, catch his attention in particular, they look similar to peas or beans, though they are rich in cytisine, a substance akin to nicotine, making them entirely inedible.

“It’s pretty and it could kill you.” He abbreviates, because he can’t imagine Chris would put up with more of his smart-mouthing.

“So nothing I’m not used to.” He winks, nudging Leon in the side.

“I don’t know if Jill would appreciate you calling her pretty.” Leon teases him back, forcing his tone to remain casual.

It’s not like he’s jealous, he just doesn’t want to be reminded of how painfully heterosexual Chris is. There’s no telling why he would even agree to any of this in the first place. It’s fucking humiliating, even for Leon, to be forced to reduce his sexuality to a mere performance, and he’s the one in the glass closet.

Maybe he can only be so casual about their mission, because Leon would never even be an option in his books?

As Leon begins to head towards the tower, Chris makes some noise of disagreement behind him, though he ignores whatever Chris is about to say, in favour of reigning in the wave of self-loathing washing over him.

He has burned away everything lovable about himself a long time ago.

Stepping into the cool interior instead, he climbs the blue corkscrew stairs to the top, the metal creaking under Chris’ weight, who’s already on his tail. The building isn’t very high, just tall enough to stand above the tops of the hedges, giving them a view over the whole maze. Tracing the winding pathways with his eyes, Leon loses himself in their continuous movement, merging and separating like the flow of a river, without getting a clear image of which routes they’ve taken to get here. Beside him, Chris joins him at the railing, leaning against it to take in the scenery as well. They stand there, in companionable silence for a few minutes, draped in the shadow of the roof, as they watch other groups of people head inside the maze.

“Leon I–” Chris breaks off, the sound of Leon’s name on his lips drifting through the warm air like a soft dream.

He waits, his fingers pressing closer to the oxidized metal he’s been resting his hands on. There’s a heavy sigh, like Chris is pondering something insurmountable and when he takes a glance at the man, he looks the part too, eyebrows furrowed so tightly, they are casting his eyes in harsh shadows. Nothing of the sweet amber remains, they are russet and bottomless now.

“You do know Jill is a lesbian, right?”

The air catches in his throat, Leon is staring, knows that he’s staring, as a thrill travels from his chest down his arms and legs. 

Thats–

Good for her. 

He swallows compulsively, whipping his head around to look straight forward again.

“I don’t like to out people like that, but Jill told me several times to correct anyone making batshit-insane assumptions.”

Laughing to himself, Chris continues, as he reminisces, Leon suddenly feeling very stupid for even entertaining the thought of them being an item. They just seemed so close, whenever he saw them together, their interaction looked so casual, it made his heart sink in his chest.

The moment stretches onward, impossibly long and Leon can feel a pathetic bit of courage pool in his stomach the longer the silence persists. Maybe he could tell him right now and everything would be fine. Maybe Chris could look at him the same way he looks at everyone else, who has the fortune to call him a friend. Opening his mouth to say something, he takes a tentative breath, when–

“Here we are! I told you we’d be fine.” An elderly woman laughs, walking side by side with her partner who’s flapping an ornate fan at her exposed chest.

Leon snaps his teeth shut and tracks the approaching people, one of which is excitedly talking to the other, whose face is covered by a wide brimmed hat.

“Yes I know, I was worrying more about finding our way out again, you remember last time?” She speaks in a low monotone, her translucent, white cardigan floating behind her, as they approach the tower.

“Oh look who's here!” The woman in the pants suit exclaims suddenly, as they catch sight of Chris and him.

A bright smile plastered on her face, she starts waving at them, Leon getting entirely jerked out of the moment they've shared. His body reacts as it should though, picking up the act again, as he begins waving back. They’ve seen the couple in passing before, though they hadn’t gotten around to talking to them yet.

When they ultimately make their way down again, the two women have settled on one of the benches in the shade of the laburnum, waving for them to come closer. Chris and him oblige, Leon straightening his back self-consciously, as the beginning of a headache makes itself known with a sting in his neck.

“It’s so nice to meet you two!” The elderly lady greets them cheerfully, presenting her hand to shake, purple nail polish and heavy gold rings glimmering in the sun.

Leon reaches for it first, her grip unexpectedly strong, as she squeezes his hand in her’s. Her eyes search for his own, as she keeps beaming at him, a kindness in her gaze that Leon is both unused to and wary of. Offering his palm to her companion too, she takes it more gingerly in one lace-gloved hand, regarding him cooly from beneath the brim of her hat.

They introduce themselves to each other shortly, the two women identifying themselves as Mrs. Ann and Theresa Thomas, two long standing patrons of PRISM and shareholders of the company.

“It’s great to see some young people at these events again.” Ann smiles, her whole face creasing with it, framed by her thick white hair.

Immediately, she begins to ramble on:

“I've been wanting to have a chat with you at the reception but I couldn’t get Tess to stay put for any longer after the speech was over.” Fondly, she settles her hand on her partner’s thigh, who gives her a neutral look, before she speaks up herself.

“It’s the same thing every year, be glad I’m polite enough to not leave during the speech.”

Her voice is flat and smooth, pleasant to listen to. Secretly, Leon empathizes with the woman, the exhaustion from the morning catching up with him too, now that he isn’t enthralled by his task of navigating the maze. The tension in his neck intensifies the longer he stands there.

“How long have you been attending PRISM’s events?”

Chris begins to make small-talk, casually hooking one hand into the pocket of his pants. Seemingly pleased to be asked a question Ann’s eyes pinch at the corners, showing off her crows feet.

“Since the seventies my dear, we’ve been supporting PRISM even before its founding. Though to be fair they’ve been rotating the venues, as they’ve started to expand their business. I believe it’s one of the reasons you two have been invited.” She gestures towards them in a friendly manner, before clicking the purse on her lap open to draw a bottle of water from the inside.

“They’re looking towards the American market for new clientele I think.” Leon explains, casually.

When he inconspicuously rubs a hand down his neck, the pressure in his temple eases for a moment, though his palm comes away wet, moisture having gathered at the nape of it.

“They would be crazy if they didn't, to be quite frank. But let us spare the business-talk for dinner later. Tell me, how have you two met?”

She stretches a hand towards him in excitement, grasping his wrist and squeezing it, like they’re already old familiar friends. The half healed wounds under the bandage sting, as she rubs her thumb over his sleeve roughly but Leon just smiles back, momentarily touching her fingers in reciprocation until she lets go again.

“One of my brothers introduced us at a function for his sailing club, I think he and Leon met in–” Chris begins confidently reciting the cover story they’ve agreed on, before slowly coming to a halt.

Leon interrupts him in the way he gauges couples do, when they finish each other’s sentences:

“I met him in college, where he got me into sailing and before I knew it, Chris was talking me into traveling down the coast with him.”

Screwing the cap off her water bottle, Ann listens intently, as she hands it to Theresa, who starts drinking silently.

“Oh that’s so sweet, so when did you become an item?” She asks with interest. 

“We’ve dated for a few years, after our joint vacation but we’ve been married for three years now, I think?” Chris turns to him, as if to look for approval, feigning to be slightly more confused than he actually is.

Curving his lips into a tender smile, Leon nods at him, before nudging the conversation away from the both of them.

“How did you two meet?” He buds in.

Taking the bottle from her partner, Ann drinks a bit herself, prior to responding to his question, her fingers fiddling with the lid, as she thinks.

“My brother worked for Theresa’s husband, so we’ve been having dinner together on the regular.” She gets a little lost in her own head for a moment, until she can shake off whatever memory had captivated her and continues. “We’ve talked about running away together for years back then but you know how things were at that time, we would’ve not only been ostracized but also absolutely destitute.”

She laughs in the way people do, when they brush aside old hurt and Leon just nods silently, slowly piecing together the kind of picture Ann is painting.–

Krauser kisses him in a supply room, the set of keys dangling on his utility belt, door locked between them and anyone else. Leon’s not even twenty two and terrified, not necessarily of his superior, who is breaking all manners of code just by kissing him but of the intensity with which Leon wants it.

It’s so different from making out with his girlfriend, back before Raccoon City. He can smell the sharp sting of the major’s cologne, feel the scrape of his stubble on his skin, the flex of muscle, as Krauser moves his lips against his. It’s absolutely exhilarating, so much so, in that moment Leon knows he can’t lie to himself anymore. It’s like something that was off his entire life suddenly slots into place.

This is what he wants, this is where he belongs. The feeling burns in his chest, bright and desperate, as he opens his mouth to kiss back. Adrenaline rushes through his veins with every ticking second, Krauser’s hands holding him so tightly, he’s scared it will bruise.

‘If anyone finds out,’ He thinks ‘everything he’s sacrificed will be for naught’.

– “So what happened?” At last it’s Chris who voices the question that is prey on Leon’s mind.

With a twinkle in her eyes, Ann looks at him, as she says:

“Well darling, things changed and it’s not a kind of freedom we’ve ever taken lightly.”

She keeps it vague, patting her hand rhythmically on her partner’s thigh. His gaze sticks to it, lost in his own thoughts. He still misses Krauser sometimes, if only for the need to be touched again.

“My husband died early, so we’ve had a bit more lee-way than most but when you can’t make any financial decisions, without a man vouching for you, then you basically have no more agency than a child. It was dehumanizing.” Theresa raises her voice, bitterness colouring her tone. 

“Enough about the past though.” 

Ann intercepts her, threading her fingers between Theresa’s and leaning over to peck her on the cheek. The grim lines on her face soften instantly, the harsh features of the elderly woman becoming less stern, as her eyes focus on her partner.

They are probably criminals, Leon reminds himself, or at least they have no problem funding criminals. Throwing a glance towards Chris at his side, standing relaxed in the tree’s shade, he searches for the signs of age on his face, the permanent wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the worry lines dug deep into his forehead, his graying temples, only serving to make him look more attractive.

Leon’s already older than he ever saw himself becoming, wishing he could watch the other man age for many decades to come but he isn’t too sure how long he can still keep himself going, not when it means he’ll be entrenched in this never-ending war. If he could, he’d take a fucking break from it all.

“Tell me, who of you proposed?”

Forcing himself to hold eye-contact again, he smiles fondly, even though the pain in his head makes him dizzy.

“Chris did, it was–” He halts when he feels the lump sitting heavy in his throat.

The image flashes in his mind unbidden,

Chris going down on one knee, gently taking his hand, like he’s never touched something more precious. There are a thousand promises spilling from his lips, a cascade of confessions, which don’t leave any room for doubt in Leon’s unruly brain.

As soon as the thought comes up, he casts it aside, swallowing against the choking tightness in his chest. “very romantic.”

An arm slings around his shoulders, Chris’ hand squeezing his biceps, which manages to steady him a bit in the oppressing summer heat. 

“We’ve been on vacation together, it was just the two of us in that rental in the mountains.” He goes on, rubbing his hand up and down Leon’s arm, wedding ring shimmering on his finger in the sun.

“Did you ever get married?” Leaning a bit more in the hold Chris has on him, Leon poses the question.

“We’ve been in a registered partnership since 2002, for me it’s all the same but from a legal standpoint it’s not.” Ann shrugs nonchalantly, showing off her own thin golden band, sitting snugly on her digit, the diamond in the middle a clear blue colour.

“It is bullshit.” Theresa shakes her head disapprovingly, the serious expression back on her face.

Leon nods:

“Yeah, I get that.”

Don’t Ask Don’t Tell had been overturned nearly six years ago, still Leon had only ever told Claire and Hunnigan, the thought of anyone else knowing, making anxiety curdle in his stomach. The shame and self-flagellation he put down a long time ago, but it didn’t mean he’d ever felt safe enough to actually come out. It’s not like he owes anyone that information, though it always feels like there’s a part of him he has to keep hidden, even now.

“You look unwell.” Her cold eyes fixed on him, Theresa states her observation plainly.

It takes him a while to register the words, only now noticing the droning in his head, muffling the noises around him. More out of reflex than amusement, he laughs, straightening his back again, his neck protesting the movement. Slipping the arm off from around his shoulders, Chris turns to look at him, Leon suddenly feeling himself list without the solid grip holding him steady.

“I’m fine.” Self-consciously, Leon turns his head away from Chris’ doting hands about to cup his cheeks, the instinct to brush away his concern stronger than the resurfacing vertigo.

“Are you sure?” Circling his wrist lightly, Chris discreetly presses two fingers to his pulse point, as he searches to make eye contact. 

He really hopes he cannot feel the fluttering of his heartbeat, as it stutters in his chest. His mouth feels parched all out of a sudden and the longer they’ve been standing around in their fancy suits, the more the late summer sun has become uncomfortably warm.

“I’m good.” Rubbing at the tense muscle in his neck, he smiles again, before focusing back on the couple they’ve been conversing with.

Ann pushes herself to her feet then, patting down the fabric of her white pants for imaginary dust particles and turns around towards her wife, offering her hand.

“Come on Tess, let us not bother these fine young men anymore.” She draws her up from the bench, keeping their hands loosely interlocked.

“It was very nice to meet you.”

They shake hands once more, mumbling their goodbyes. Right as they are about to depart, Ann catches Chris by the shoulder one last time, leaning in close. 

“Do get him something to drink, will you?”

She winks at him, like they’ve just been sharing a secret. With one last nod from Chris’ part, the two are off to head inside the tower themselves, hand in hand.

The headache gets worse as they navigate their way out again, Leon trying to backtrack the turns they’ve taken with the notes in their booklet. Meanwhile Chris lingers behind his shoulder, interrogating him about the exact workings of his searching method and how it translates into the line-diagram he’s drawn. Explaining to the best of his ability, he massages his temples every now and again to ease the strain.

At some point Chris stops him to slide the suit jacket from his shoulders, draping it across the crook of his elbow before they go on. The loss of the extra layer offers some momentary relief, the slight breeze traveling more easily through the cotton of his shirt, cooling him down.

They step out through the same rose-arch they’ve seen when they first came here, finding themselves back in the garden under the shade of the fruit trees. Leon’s headache spikes into another wave of pain, for a split second the image of the populated garden blurs in front of him. It’s probably just dehydration, he knows, but that doesn’t ease the uncomfortable creeping feeling of being defenseless. He really just wants to get out of here and lay down in their room for a bit, until Koch would inevitably pick them up for the dinner party. Shaking his hair out of his eyes, he presses on, comforted by the solid presence of Chris beside him, following without question.

Coming back into the castle, the temperature drops significantly, making Leon realize just how overheated he feels in the tie and white button up he’s wearing, even though the worst of the summer’s heat has already passed them weeks ago. Still, he needs to suppress a shiver, when the air conditioner momentarily blows cold air overhead.

Passing another familiar face in the foyer, they greet them politely but don't stop to converse, which is fine by Leon at the moment. From this point on, Chris’ hand somehow finds its way into his, his other grasping the crook of his arm. No matter how hard he thinks about shaking the touch off, as soon as they are out of sight from anyone, he can’t bring himself to do it in the end, having them still touching, even as they enter the empty elevator and press the button to their floor.

The inside only has one mirror, the rest of the walls covered in wallpaper, looking as expensive as it is ugly. To top it all off, over their head hangs a miniature version of one of the chandeliers he’s seen all around the castle. The lift doors close with a ping, announcing their departure, as it softly plays a jingle over the speakers. Leon’s stomach swoops a little, as it begins to move, reflexively he can feel himself tighten his fingers around Chris’ palm, his head spinning from the unusual sensation.

“Do you want to tell me now, if you’re okay?” Chris turns to him, the back of his head still visible in the mirror behind him.

Beyond that, he can just about see a sliver of his own face, skin waxy and pale, while the shadows underneath his eyes seem even deeper than this morning. It makes him look sick and weak, his posture shrunken into himself, as he tries to relieve some of the pain flickering from his shoulder muscle upwards through his neck and into one half of his face. 

“I don’t need you fussing over me, I can take care of myself fine.” He says coldly, cringing away from the skin on skin contact they’ve been keeping up until now.

Chris regards him, like Leon is a complicated puzzle, rather than a human being, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

“You’re going to drink some water and lay down, once we’re back in our room.”

It’s the Captain-voice he uses, as he formulates the command, making Leon’s skin bristle, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He hates it when Chris uses it on him, because Leon knows it’ll work and he can’t stand the thought of anyone else having power over him like that. Maybe it’s because he has the knee jerk reaction of following any order he’s being given, burned into him, or maybe he remembers the same lovesick kind of loyalty from the years he spent under Krauser’s thumb.

He still has the scars to show for how that infatuation treated him.

Chapter Text

When they finally reach their room, Leon fumbles the key into the lock, with agitated movements. The irritation that’s been in his tone, barely shows, the sole tell being the slight furrow in his brow, Chris only able to catch it, because he’s had years to study Leon’s face.

The day they first met, he'd felt like he was talking to a wall, almost confusing the practiced apathy with arrogance at that time, though he’s learned since then, Leon just isn’t very expressive, especially not when meeting new people. He’s closed off most of the time, quiet, almost to the point of being awkward, like he’s desperately trying to protect himself from anyone coming too close.

Which is why this whole mission has been so confusing for him. Seeing Leon fake this entirely new persona with ease, making small-talk, laughing at the right moments, exchanging niceties with anyone they encounter, it’s all stuff he’s never seen him do before and Chris has to ask himself, just how much of his personality is only put on for show. 

When they finally enter their suite, he picks up two bottles of water from the kitchen counter, while Leon is still occupied with locking the door behind them. He hands him one of them wordlessly, cracking open his own with a loud fizzling sound, as he acts like he doesn’t care if Leon drinks it or not. As soon as the water hits his mouth, he realizes how thirsty he actually is, downing the small bottle in one go.

Leon’s also emptying his water – thank god – because Chris isn’t ready to bully him into taking care of himself, after he’s already pissed him off in the elevator. Which is why he just tries his luck, by pressing another bottle into his hands, before casually strolling off to get out of the horribly uncomfortable suit.

He’s just shrugged off the sweaty layer of his dress shirt, throwing it haphazardly onto the bed, when Leon follows him into the bedroom, one hand pressed to his left eye and rubbing at his eyebrow. When he sees him, he halts momentarily, eyes snapping to Chris’ exposed chest and then back up to his face, like he tries hard not to stare.

“Do you have pain-killers?” He asks, placing a glass of water on the bedside table, before starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Sure do, is Advil okay?” Chris bends down to slide his suitcase out from beneath the bed, looking to Leon shortly for confirmation.

“Anything’s fine, really.” The other responds, letting himself fall onto the sheets, as he tears off the thin cotton of his button up, exposing a snug undershirt beneath.

Chris’ mouth twists in incomprehension, as he grabs the medication and throws the lid of his suitcase shut again. Of course Leon is overheated when he decides to wear an extra layer beneath his suit. As he hands Leon the pills, Chris has to bite his tongue to not comment, while Leon sets them onto the bedside table next to him, in favor of ridding himself of the sweat stained garment. Right then, he gets the full view of Leon’s back, his muscles flexing under the skin, while he neatly folds the shirt and stows away the undergarment.

The skin there is a story of past hurts, scars littered all over it. Most prominent is the entrance wound on his shoulder, which Claire told him he’s gotten in Raccoon City, though Leon never really mentions that day.

‘I was just a rookie cop, late as hell to his first day and then– I guess I was lucky, in not having been there when all hell broke loose, but still, all those people, the whole city had–’

He never got farther than that, the start sounding so practiced, like he’s had to repeat it many times throughout the years, while the rest of the sentence slips from his grasp as he tries to piece it together. Chris gets it, doesn’t attempt to pry. There are still things he struggles to put into words too, even years after the fact.

In the present the gunshot wound has become pale with time, almost white. The tissue is still slightly raised, even with how long it had to heal, almost seeming hypertrophic. If Chris had to guess, he’d say it looks like the original wound had become infected once. The pain that would cause, is unimaginable.

From there on, his gaze travels over his shoulder blades, criss crossed with white lines and down his spine, where the soft flesh of his hips peeks over the seam of his pants. Between his hipbone and the narrow line of his waist sits another smattering of scars, circular, almost blending back into the surrounding skin, the light just about catching on the slight indentation, casting a small shadow over each of them.

Chris gets stuck on it, between all of the faded wounds he doesn’t know the stories to, he’s never noticed these ones before, his chest going heavy, as he broods over how he might’ve gotten them, before coming to a conclusion he doesn’t like at all. When Leon grabs the sweatshirt again he’s worn to bed the night before, cutting off Chris’ line of sight, he snaps back to attention, turning his head away from Leon’s body, as he resumes with undressing himself.

“Are you in pain?” He wants to know, observing the way Leon holds himself, movements slow and careful, the tips of his fingers pressing on the muscle of his neck.

“It’s only a headache, I’ll be fine.”

The smile Leon gives him looks forced, as he squints against the sun silhouetting Chris from behind, but Chris only nods feeling like there’s not much else he can do, while simultaneously being relieved, Leon at least admitted to it in the first place. 

“Do you want to shower too?”

He asks, after he’s gathered a change of clothes in his arms to take into the bathroom with him. Leon’s already laying under the comforter, limbs loose, eyes screwed shut tightly.

“Later maybe.” He mumbles, hair draping across his face, as he moves to reposition himself.

For a short moment, Chris watches him silently, the light illuminating the blonde hair like a halo as it falls in wild curls around his head, there are still hints of tension in the set of his mouth, the furrow of his brow, even lying down as he is and Chris has the urge to wipe the expression from Leon’s soft features, taking that weight off his shoulders, always seeming to rest there. Instead he goes to the window, to quietly draw the heavy curtains shut, blocking out the light from outside. Subsequently the room is cast in relative darkness. There’s no response from the other side, but he doesn’t need it either, to know he’s easing a bit of the pain.

Chris takes a quick shower, to wash off the sweat of their afternoon exploration, dressing himself in another clean set of suit pants and a button down, foregoing the fancy accessories for now, until it is actually time to have dinner. Afterwards, he has a look at the booklet Mr. Koch gave them, procuring a highlighter from Leon’s luggage, to mark what he thinks might be important.

It provides him with a bit of information on how PRISM operates, as well as the many other businesses they cooperate with, which he underlines as subjects for further investigation. Another thing striking him as odd, is the fact PRISM apparently hosts this event at a few handpicked locations, noting how they have even bought certain rooms at the hotel they are currently staying in, to ensure they are always free to use. The writing though, doesn’t say which ones they are talking about. His best guess right now would be some meeting rooms, or a few of the suites in the wing they are occupying, but he can’t be too sure.

Not long after, Leon wakes up, showering first before going over the information they’ve gathered with him, until their time draws to a close and they begin readying themselves for dinner. Completing his outfit, Chris picks a simple black waistcoat to wear over the steel gray dress-shirt he chose earlier, before deciding on the same suit jacket he’s worn prior. Quite satisfied with his choice, he takes one last glance in the mirror to see if he looks presentable, then he joins Leon in the bedroom, who’s focusing hard on getting the knot for his tie right.

After they’ve assembled their respective outfits there is not much else to do but wait, Chris twiddling his thumbs on one of the couches, as he follows Leon’s nervous pacing.

tap tap tap,

his dress shoes make on the hardwood floor, back and forth, back and forth. At least he looks a bit more chipper now than he did this afternoon.

“Do you want to sit down?” He asks him anyway, because he doesn’t want Leon to burn himself out before the evening has begun.

That’s enough to make the other halt, flexing his hands nervously like he can’t stand to stay still. In the end he acquiesces anyway, settling into an armchair near Chris. For a moment it’s quiet, in which both of them search for something to say.

“I wanted to ask,” Chris begins, straightening up a little in his spot on the couch. “Were you serious earlier, about the vacation?”

At the question, Leon averts his eyes, his right hand moving to circle his wrist in a loose grip. Chris’ eyes flick shortly towards the uncharacteristic movement, before he settles back on Leon’s face.

“What vacation?” He asks, feigning ignorance.

It’s been weighing on his mind, ever since the reception. He can’t imagine Leon hasn’t been on break for over two years, even with the constant pressure to be on call in their line of work, no one is insane enough to stretch themselves that thin. 

Deciding to indulge him, Chris spells it out for Leon, who has fastened his hold on his own joint. “The one in Colorado. You said you haven’t been on break since then.”

He watches Leon bite his lip, look away to the corner of the carpet and shrug.

“I mean I’ve been on medical leave, technically.”

Leon’s probably referring to the prescribed hospital stays, the former having been admitted there to treat the withdrawal symptoms, at the beginning of recovering from his addiction. As far as Chris knows, he’d been there twice, always adamant about being out of there as soon as possible, which usually amounted to maybe a week, despite everyone telling him he’d need more time to get stable. The first time, Chris had still offered Leon to visit him, to which the other had responded with a curt threat, before cutting off the call. He hadn’t tried during the second stay, knowing Leon wanted to lick his wounds alone.

If that was the last instance in which Leon got any rest though, then Chris was worried .

“You can’t tell me, you’ve not gotten a week to yourself, since fucking Colorado.” He said, offended on the other’s behalf, though it only served to make Leon’s hackles rise, looking at him with slightly widened eyes.

“I– It’s fine Chris,” He stutters momentarily. “there was just a lot going on, didn’t exactly have much free time to spare.” 

Shaking his head, he turns his face away again, eyes going distant as he stares at the same spot on the carpet. His hand flexes around his wrist, thumb swiping over the bandage peeking from his sleeve. A work injury, he’d said, and yet Chris has a bad feeling about it.

“You’re not the only one working there, let someone else handle it for once.” Leaning forward, he reaches a hand for Leon but stays just shy of touching.

It’s easy to burn out with what they do. Chris had been there more than once, throwing himself into his work to silence the guilt about never being able to save everyone. But destroying himself, had never brought anyone back either.

“I don’t make that decision though. The last time I handed in my vacation days, they managed to pull me out every single time for some urgent mission in the first few days.” Leon sighs heavily, rubbing one hand down his face.

Age and exhaustion clearly show on his features then, the bags under his eyes dark, the lines of stress and worry deeply engraved in the skin. Once again, Chris is reminded that maybe, when Hunnigan told him Leon needed retirement, he didn’t understand the full extent of it.

“They legally are not allowed to do that. You need regular down time, especially in our profession.” He straightens his back in preparation for how Leon might react, tense in the face of the defeated man in front of him.

To his surprise, Leon suddenly starts to laugh, the sound quiet and dry, sarcasm clearly audible, as he bares his teeth at him, grinning in a way that doesn’t look quite right.

“You do realize that I work for the government?” He asks, smile dropping from his face, like it hadn’t been there at all. “They definitely can do that.”

He doesn’t like what Leon is implicating, has to wonder about the many scars across his body unbidden, asking himself if they are all purely injuries from the field. The burn marks, he knows, aren’t. The lines on his back too, seem out of place. Chris opens his mouth, wanting to say something, wanting to disagree but coming up empty.

“Let's just stop talking about it.” At once, Leon stands up, shaking out his left wrist like it hurts, before he starts to pace again.

Chris watches him, the way his shoulders have bunched up a little too high, his fingers tapping against the outside of his thigh, as he moves stiffly over the wooden boards, looking wholly uncomfortable. Leaning back a bit into the upholstery, he crosses his arms in front of him, before he says:

“Leon, why don’t you quit? You could easily find a job elsewhere, maybe even at the BSAA, I could–”

“Don’t.” He stops him, halting his restless steps, to fix Chris with an icy stare.

They’ve had this conversation countless times before, because in every instance they meet on a mission and Chris has to watch, while Leon runs around in his stupid leather jacket with one handgun strapped to his leg, he asks himself the same question:

Why does he stay with an organization which cares so little about his well-being?

They’ve quite literally tried putting Leon on a plane with broken ribs and a damaged windpipe once and the man would’ve even followed the command, if Chris hadn’t stepped in, flaunting his authority in front of the military employees coming to pick the agent up, before wrestling Leon back inside the ambulance.

So why, after all these years, does he adamantly stick with the DSO?

“I just don’t get it, if they are treating you this badly, why would you still want to stay?”

Leon shoves his hands into his pockets, wrinkling the edges of his sleek black blazer. He can see his knuckles flex under the fabric, muscles stiffening with anger. 

“That is none of your business, so how about you stop interrogating me and start focusing on why we’re here?”

He’s getting defensive, which is all the more reason for Chris to keep pushing, sure that Leon’s hiding something from him.

“I’m not interrogating you, I just want to understand why, for god’s sake, you would want to work for people who treat you like shit.” It’s the truth and he spits it out like he wants it gone. 

The enamel grinds onto itself audibly, as Leon grits his teeth. “They don’t–” He can barely get it out before Chris interrupts him harshly, fed up with his constant denial.

“Don’t they?” 

How often had Chris encountered Leon taking on a virus outbreak, with no back-up coming his way? How many times did he have to force him to get checked over by the paramedics, only for them to unwrap self-stitched wounds that were only half healed? How often did he drag Leon’s drunken ass out of a bar in the aftermath of a bad mission, only to hold him upright for half of the night, so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit? It’s been too much for a while now and Chris really doesn’t know how long they can keep doing this, before Leon’s luck runs dry.

“Because last time I checked, they threatened you over running five minutes late.”

He reminds him of the Captain on the runway, talking at Leon like he was beneath him, the promise of violence glinting in his eyes sharply. If Chris hadn’t been on duty at that moment, he would’ve punched him.

There’s a hint of recognition flitting over Leon’s gaze, his lips thinning, as he presses them tightly together. He stares at Chris for a long moment, pale blue eyes unreadable, as he thinks.

“I don’t understand why any of that is so important to you, it’s not like you have to deal with it.”

It’s not a justification for what the Captain had done, not even a good reason on why Leon hadn’t fought back either, while Chris can only wonder about how stupid the other actually is, to never even consider the possibility that maybe, Chris cares about him just a tiny bit, enough to be concerned with his well-being.

Exasperated, Chris huffs, getting off the comfortable couch himself, to catch Leon, before he can spiral into whatever self-loathing thought he’s come up with this time. But then he sees the man take a careful step backwards, before Chris has even fully risen from the sofa. A sharp twinge flares in his chest at the sight, though he tries to swallow the feeling down, instead making his best effort to slow his step, as he approaches Leon.

“I’m worried about you.” He states simply, when he is close enough to carefully touch Leon’s hand, having come up defensively, to cover his abdomen.

Leon lowers his palm into Chris’, always chasing his touch, as if he doesn’t know what it’s like to be held gently. The moment feels fickle, easily broken, as Leon says:

“It’s not that bad, I’ll be fine.” He takes a deep breath, blinking like he’s lost in thought.

It knocks on the door.

***

Koch picks them up for dinner, in his usual overly-familiar way and they are led into a restaurant located on the ground floor. Square tables are placed all around the room, accompanied by matching, dark wooden chairs. One wall of the restaurant opens up into a row of windows, another door leading to a patio outside, the evening sun shining its last warm rays of the day onto the sand coloured tiles.

The place is bustling already, waiters and patrons alike weaving their way between the furniture, guests searching for their seats, while waiters ease down the steaming plates of food they are carrying. Most of them ignore Chris and him, skillfully avoiding their path, as they follow Koch to their reserved seats at a table right next to a window.

When someone passes them by, Leon can’t help but stiffen, the stranger having just barely brushed the sleeve of his suit. The place is crowded. It makes the hairs on his neck stand on end, as he tries to adjust to the amount of noise and people around them. In an effort to calm his spiking nerves, he leans just slightly into the solid body beside him, Chris acting like a barrier between him and the overwhelming sensations. Their arms hook into each other again, which Chris takes as his cue to squeeze his biceps reassuringly.

Something warm sloshes in the pit of his stomach at the small gesture, though Leon tries not to indulge too much, even as his heart rate slows in response.

Once settled next to each other, their escort leaves them to find the other people who’ve been picked to sit at their table, while Chris and him look around to get a feel for the new environment. It’s pretty, less historically accurate, like most of the other parts of the castle and more refitted to suit the atmosphere of a restaurant. Everything inside here is held in dark tones, the brown of their table almost black, as is the wood making up the struts on the walls, as well as the open shelves lining the entrance to the kitchen. It kind of evokes the feeling of a small mediterranean bodega, especially with the view outside onto the beige tiled patio, vines climbing up the walls, their leaves slowly turning red at the tips.

They are just on the cusp of autumn, the warm summer air streaming in from the open door behind them, carrying the murmur of the guests outside. It would’ve been a nice location, if it weren’t for the shelf of wine bottles presented on the wall behind a wooden counter. For a moment, Leon eyes it wearily, before one of the waiters steps into his line of sight. He hands them two menus with the words to: 'pick something to drink'.

On the front cover, letterpressed in gold it reads ‘Trattoria Enoteca’.

Leon’s italian might be rusty, but he remembers enough to recognize it must have something to do with wine, which would also explain the practical decor. His eyes begin to nervously flit between the leather bound menu, still resting uselessly in his palms, towards the bar and back to Chris, who is flipping through the laminated pages like he’s looking for something.

Carefully, he opens the folder himself, biting his lip, as he reads through a vast selection of alcoholic drinks. A knot twists tight in his chest, while he goes through excuses to use so he can bail from here without anyone asking too many questions. Flipping to the end of it, he comes up empty too, nothing else listed but their collection of ludicrously expensive wines. Snapping the leather cover shut, he pushes it to the side. Next to him, Chris has gone quiet, the turning cogs in his brain almost audible, though Leon has decided to ignore him for now, in favour of staring out the window towards the other guests. 

He thinks about why he's here, why he has decided to quit all those months ago. If he can't stay sober for himself, if he can't bring himself to care about what happens to him, then he wants to at least spare Sherry the grief.

"Just water please." He's jerked from his thoughts by Chris raising his voice. 

Looking towards him, he realizes the waiter has returned to ask for their orders. The well groomed man, his long hair tied to a tight bun at the back of his head, hums to himself, as he jots down a note, then he looks expectantly up at Leon.

"For me too." Forcing his mouth into a tight lipped smile, he adds his order hastily.

The rise of the man's eyebrow is almost imperceptible, as his pen glides over the paper, then he says:

"Are you sure? I guarantee you the quality of our selection is being held to the highest standards."

Opening his mouth to say something, Leon fixates on the black collar of the waiter’s button up instead of his face, before Chris beats him to it, voice calm and friendly.

"Don't worry, we know. I'm just allergic."

"How about you then?" He asks again, addressing Leon, who is clenching his fingers under the table.

"No, thank you."

The words are out of his mouth faster than he can think about them, the habit being a well worn script he's recited countless times by now, yet to some degree, it's still a fight, the compulsion nagging on the fringes of His mind, despite everything. Quietly, he wonders to himself, if it'll ever get easier.

"We can go if you want to." Chris suggests, as Leon notices he has spaced out again, expression having fallen flat and eyes fixated on the grain in the wood. 

Except they can't, because they're not out to eat, finding they didn't like the chosen place. They have expectations to meet and a job to finish.

"It's fine."

He dismisses him, the same feeling from the night before rising up from his spine and burning on the back of his neck. Maybe it's embarrassment, maybe it's the mortifying idea of vulnerability. One way or another, Leon doesn't want to entertain either of them.

Chris puts his palm over Leon's knuckles, tensed white on the wood. For the fracture of a moment, he wants to yank it away again to curl into himself, before he notices Koch approaching with another couple in tow.

The pair is approximately their age, the woman dressed in a tight fitting, black dress, a thin golden necklace hanging from her neck and her hair draped into an artful wave falling over her shoulder, while the man beside her is fitted into a white suit with a light blue shirt, having combed his graying hair neatly over his scalp with too much product. Together they look like two chess pieces, Leon thinks a bit roguishly, before he rediscovers his manners, rising to his feet, to extend his palm in greeting.

The man, Mr. Lazar, has clammy skin, as they touch, his hand feeling akin to a dead fish, when he squeezes it. Mrs. Lazar is warm in comparison, her jewelry pressing just a touch into Leon’s hand. They are left alone to converse by Mr. Koch soon after Mr. and Mrs. Lazar have settled at the table with them. It doesn’t take long, before the same waiter ambles up to the four of them, returning with the wine cards once more.

Mr. and Mrs. Lazar order their drinks and request the bill of fare, before they start animatedly talking about their choice of beverage back home in Romania. In turn, Leon feigns interest, laughing at the appropriate times, otherwise humming thoughtfully, until their drinks arrive and they are handed another menu to pick their dinner.

“They serve fantastic spare ribs here.” Mrs. Lazar points at a dish on the page in front of her, one black fingernail tapping against plastic.

“You’ve been here before?” Chris echoes, trying to steer the conversation away from senseless small talk.

All the while, Leon is intently studying the dishes with furrowed eyebrows. The pit in his stomach aches with the lack of food, though he is solely focused on figuring out if he can even eat anything here.

“A good handful of times, since we pitched a particular project to some people from The Connections.” She explains off-handedly.

Momentarily, he halts turning the pages of the menu to redirect his focus, his ears perking up at the strange name.

“‘The Connections’, what’s that?” Chris laughs, leaning back in his chair, pressing two fingers to Leon’s leg underneath the table in a silent hint to work with him.

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Lazar exclaims, her fingertips coming up to cover her open mouth. “You don’t know about The Connections?”

Her cat-like eyes shimmer with sympathy, the kind someone might have before slaughtering an animal. Turning to her husband, they exchange a look, to further underline her dramatic display of thinly veiled mockery. 

“iubițel, can you believe that?”

The man beside her sits up leisurely, gesturing loosely towards them. “Of course they don’t, you two are new to the market, aren’t you?”

Smiling from beneath a thick mustache, his gaze musters them from head to toe, Leon having to put in effort not to break eye-contact.

God, how he hates being sized up, watching people draw conclusions about him, before he has even opened his mouth.

“We’ve been invited by PRISM for the first time this year.” He answers friendly enough, as he in turn, watches the reaction of the pair in front of him. “But you mentioned a project–”

Letting his sentence peter out at the end, he sits in the building tension for a moment, before Mrs. Lazar huffs a short laugh.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the exhibition, pisi.” She waves her black fingernails at him, manicured to a pointed tip. The sharp edges of her eyeliner, make her gaze even more cutting. 

“I assume The Connection will be there too then?”

As he says it, he can just catch the smallest twitch of a muscle underneath the woman’s smooth skin, the line of her mouth hardening just a little bit, as she tries to cover up the fact that she’s been caught prattling a bit too much.

“Who knows, depends on if they have anything new to present.” Defensively, She crosses her naked arms in front of her, before shrugging, moving on like nothing happened. “Let’s order, shall we?”

Her husband raises his arm to snap his finger for a waiter, while Leon lowers his head again to continue studying his menu. After a moment, he feels a warm touch on the back of his arm. 

“Have you picked something?” Chris asks, leaning in to glimpse at the open folder.

“I’m not sure, have you?”

Hesitating, he taps his shoe nervously on the hardwood floor, to let out some of the sudden anxiety. There’s an itch beneath his fingernails, he can’t shake off and the thought of having to eat, when he can’t be sure it’s safe, makes his skin crawl. Detox was brutal enough the first time, the second time awful in its own way. If he relapses – on a mission no less – he’s worried he won’t make it a third time.

“I have, you’d like it too I’m sure.” Chris crowds his space further, the heat of his neck tangible on Leon's own skin, as he points a finger at a steak dish.

Reading it over quickly, he finds himself nodding along. Chris' fingers swipe over his biceps for a moment, before his hand retracts again. 

"Sure, I trust you." 

Carefully, he closes the bound menu, lifting his eyes to smile at Chris. While he can't make it entirely genuine, the exchange being just another act for their audience, he finds himself meaning it anyway. Relaxed and happy, Chris smiles back. The sight tugs at something in his chest, something Leon buries deep down, where he's kept it for a long time now.

"What can I get for you?" The same waiter as before asks suddenly, posture perfectly straight and brow just a tad damp with sweat. 

The Lazar couple orders first, pronouncing the names of their dishes with ease. Then the waiter turns to them.

"We'll take the tagliata di manzo, please." Chris muddles through the words a bit gracelessly but the man doesn't seem to mind. 

"‘Tagliata di manzo’, for the both of you?" He repeats, the Italian rolling off his tongue effortlessly.

One hand wandering back into his pocket absentmindedly, Leon just nods quietly, as the waiter scrawls onto his notepad.

"One more thing." Chris interrupts his writing, forearms folded on the table, while he leans over the edge of it towards the man. "Can you make sure there's no alcohol in the dishes?" 

Leon holds his breath automatically, like he's bracing himself for something, going through the same excuse Chris had used before, if their company should ask. 

"Sure, no problem." The waiter shrugs, scribbling an annotation. "Anything else I can do for you?" 

"No, thank you." Mr. Lazar dismisses him, a little irritated, while Leon and Chris shake their heads too.

The waiter nods, still smiling, before he turns to leave, going to check in with another group. Underneath the table, Leon is rubbing his thumb over the sobriety coin, feeling the embossing press into the pad of his finger.

The fact that he’s an alcoholic, will be a conversation for the rest of his life, is what he’s been told in the AA meetings. He’s not supposed to hide it, or feel ashamed about it, self-admittance being the first step towards recovery.

‘To thine own self be true’ His coin reminds him, every time he passes the metal letters.

Lying to the waiter, as they just did, does not follow that principle, is quite the opposite of how he’s supposed to be handling his substance use disorder but what else can he do? Giving away information like that, in front of people who do not hesitate to fund corrupt corporations like PRISM, to develop more horrendous viruses, destroying other people’s lives, is not a matter of honesty but personal safety. He can be true to himself again when this is over, for now he has to play his part and get his shit together.

Leon slips the coin back into his pocket.

Their food is mortifyingly good, once it arrives. He watches Chris taste test both of their dishes, before he even considers touching his, but when he does, his suppressed hunger hits him like an unstoppable force. It takes effort on his part, not to dive in to get as much down as he can in one go, the fear of having it taken away thrumming through him still, even decades after his training. So he paces himself, by watching their company, who has resumed conversing with them about nothing important, beginning to ask questions about their private lives themselves, the longer the evening progresses. 

“So, have you ever thought about having children?” Mrs. Lazar directs the question at Leon, swivelling her third glass of wine, drunkenness tinting her cheeks red.

The question makes him stop for a moment, as he ponders the answer. When he was still young, stupid, firmly in the closet and convinced he could make it work with a woman, if he just tried hard enough, he’d hoped the white picket fence dream could be his future. Maybe he would’ve even liked taking care of another person, doing anything to see them growing up happy and content.

“I considered it, when I was younger, but now–” He sighs a little wearily. So much has changed since then. “I think I’m content with spoiling your little sister.”

Nudging Chris in the side, he winks at him mischievously. Old and jaded as he is now, he dreads the prospect of it. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and asks himself if he ever truly had the chance to escape turning out like his father. He’d picked up the alcoholism well enough, so maybe it was a good thing he’d never had a family of his own.

“I’m sure she appreciates your coddling.” Chris bumps his shoulder playfully, a thumb swiping momentarily over the tensed line of his brow.

The contact is sudden and unexpected, though Leon’s instinct to flinch away doesn’t perk up at it, rather he finds himself relaxing into his hand, his expression loosening again, as he abruptly notices how hard he must’ve furrowed his brows. The thought of Sherry, hangs over his head like a leaden weight, closing up his throat with years of quiet guilt.

“What about you?” He tries to distract, fixing Mrs. Lazar with piercing blue eyes. “Do you have children?”

She shakes her head, grinning to herself. “Nuh-uh I don’t, but I’ve got enough step-children to compensate.” Her eyes wander to glint at her husband, who’s sipping on his glass of wine instead of acknowledging the subtle jibe.

“How old are they?” Chris inquires.

Compulsively, he takes a sip of his water, the bubbles fizzing, as he sets it down again, though it doesn’t get rid of the burn in his throat, the itch under his skin, like insects crawling through him. The waiter has come around to ask them, if they still refrain from trying some wine, on three occasions now. Every time, they recline, though it doesn’t mean the thought of it isn’t still nagging at him. He hasn’t realized that his eyes have fixed themselves on Mr. Lazar’s glass, until the man raises his bassy voice to be heard over the enthusiastic chatter filling the interior of the restaurant.

“The oldest should be twenty four by now, the two middle ones are–”

Tuning him out again, Leon grasps for his water to slip a half melted ice-cube in his mouth, while his other hand balls around the coin. The freezing cold shoots through the roots of his teeth, as he bites down on it, grinding his molars onto the ice. It hurts, but it distracts him enough to get a clear head again, enabling him to tear his eyes away from the alcohol. He won’t drink, he knows that, but the urge to give in is omnipresent right now, slowly driving him insane.

“Would you like dessert?” Someone addresses them, as they gather up their empty plates.

All Leon wants right now, is to lock himself in a room long enough for him not to feel like scratching his own skin off, but instead he hears himself murmur an affirmative, if only to appease their company.

The dinner drags on further, Mrs. and Mr. Lazar growing more talkative with every additional glass of wine, as Leon picks at some sort of pudding Chris had gotten for them to share. He mulls over what to say, to get them to let something slip, but it’s hard to focus, with the alcohol infused breath of Mr. Lazar wafting over every once and again. Trying to distract himself he sticks another spoonful of pudding into his mouth, letting the rich taste of chocolate spread on his tongue.

“You’ve been a little quiet, pisi.”

Eyes racking over him, Mrs. Lazar, has propped her chin on the back of her hand. As he forces his brain back into the present, he swallows his mouthful of dessert.

“I’m just a little tired, is all.” The attempt to excuse himself is half-hearted and uninspired.

It’s not untrue, but he’s been tired for so long, he’s forgotten it could be any different, no need to mention, if it’s just become a state of being for him. Mrs. Lazar tuts her tongue disapprovingly at his response, shaking her head like she’s scolding a child.

“Now that’s no way to enjoy the evening, it’s barely even midnight.”

Indicating the window, Leon follows the line of her palm to stare into the dark exterior, lit up with candles and fairy lights, glowing yellow from round light bulbs. Just beyond the high wall of the small courtyard, the dark blue of night stretches over the sky, a few stars twinkling above. Self-consciously, Leon bites his lip, a knot of unease building in his stomach at the dismissal.

“I think we’ve just been on and about for too long today.”

The scent of Chris’ cologne, mixed with the slight hints of sweat, slams into his senses, as soon as the other leans over to him, entangling their hands beneath the table, squeezing hard enough to tether him again. A wave of gratitude washes through him, that Leon only lets escape to show on his features in the tiny uptick of his mouth, as he twists his body towards Chris’.

“Have you?” She drawls, her lipstick leaving another imprint on the rim of her glass, as she tips it back. Leon watches the red liquid swoosh and drain, leaving the bottom stained but otherwise empty.

“Mr. Koch had been showing us the castle and we thought we wanted to go see the gardens, maybe that was a little much.”

The line of Chris’ body is solid, as Leon squeezes himself closer, cocking his head to the side, to put on more of a show, now that the buzzing under his skin has simmered down to a low drone. Without Chris, Leon knows, he wouldn’t even have made it through the flight, but for once he’s not on his own, so maybe it’ll turn out fine in the end, despite his rotten luck.

“Oh yes, they are beautiful this time of the year.”

She cups her cheek and watches them some more, Chris and Leon nodding at each other over the image of the blooming flowers and the ripe fruit on the trees, how the maze had looked from up in the tower and the small, intimate moment that passed them way too quickly.

“You know this place well?” Leon asks, because he has a job to do. Also, he suspects the two are just drunk enough to want to boast some more.

Mrs. Lazar laughs with her fingertips covering the row of perfectly straight, white teeth, which reflect the lights from above. “Sure thing, we’ve been coming here for–” She halts, looking at her husband questioningly. “How long is it again?”

He hums at her, his mustache moving from side to side, as he purses his lips. “At that time, the H.C.F hadn’t been dismantled yet.” Answering at last, he takes another sip from his glass of wine. “So, since 2000 maybe?”

H.C.F. had been led by Albert Wesker, a paramilitary group working together with elusive organizations developing the next big BOWs. They had been dismantled years ago, at latest with Wesker’s death, though the ripples of his legacy still haunt them. Especially Jill and Chris.

Leon has to strain not to whip his head around, to make sure Chris is keeping his expression in check. The man beside him is suddenly stiff, muscles rigid and unmoving, if it weren’t so loud in here, he’s sure he could hear him hold his breath. 

“Were they investors for PRISM too?” Trying to distract from themselves, Leon throws the question in the room, without much care.

The hand lying in Chris’ palm tenses, to jerk him out of whatever scenario he’s running through his head right now. The other flexes his fingers in response, almost crushing Leon’s own, in an iron hold.

“Oh no, they were… how do you say it? ‘Vendors’ of some sort, offered products mainly, sometimes useful little services, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Mr. Lazar waves them off, wholly disinterested in recounting the story. Despite the pain pulsing through the strained joints, Chris is spasmodically squeezing beneath the table, Leon lets his head drop on the other’s shoulder, nodding tiredly at their company.

“The kind that PRISM offers now?”

He asks innocently, as his other hand runs up and down the inside of Chris’ arm. Minutely, he can feel the other relax into his touch, coming down rather quickly from the surge of panic but he just continues his slow caresses anyway, knowing how fickle that kind of relief can be. After another moment, he risks a glance at Chris’ face, features having relaxed again, except for the hard line of his pressed lips, the grind of his teeth audible from how close Leon is.

“Similar. We’ve never gotten too involved with them though. Paramilitary isn’t really our thing.”

Mr. Lazar answers him again, scrunching up his nose, at the mention of H.C.F., like the thought alone offends him. Then he lifts his wine back to his lips. Leon’s eyes stick to it, unwillingly, like he’s a starving dog watching someone chew on a piece of meat, hoping to get the scraps.

“What is your thing then?”

The low vibration of Chris’ voice makes him lift his head from his shoulder again, diverting his attention back to Mrs. Lazar who has started speaking.

“It varies,” She says, shaking her wrist at them leisurely, before she continues. “Information for one.” 

Leon leans forward to catch the rest of her sentence, gaze glued to her painted lips, as she begins:

“Without us, The Connections would’ve never found–”

Suddenly, her husband spills the remaining contents of his glass, Leon being too close to the splatter zone for his liking, as the wine splashes in his direction. The crimson liquid runs quickly over the stretch of table between them, soaking both of their napkins, as the glass clunks on the surface and starts to roll towards the edge. In a flash, Leon has extended his arm to catch the thin stem, before it can hit the floor, suddenly finding the whole weight of it in his hand, as cold droplets of wine dampen the fabric of his trousers.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Mr. Lazar fusses, grabbing his wife’s napkin to dab at the liquid still spreading across the wood. It sends a ripple through the blotch having made its way to Leon, more wine tipping over the edge, down onto his leg. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just lifts the sticky glass to hover above the table’s surface, before he sets it down gingerly.

“It’s not a problem.” He forces out, simultaneously trying to convince himself he is absolutely not losing it.

Moving slowly, he reaches for Chris’ napkin, still clean and dry, using it to wipe his hands first, before dabbing at the wet spot on his pants with it. When he looks up again, the couple is wholly distracted with themselves, as a waiter hurries to get more napkins and a wet towel. Meanwhile Chris is eyeing him, like he’s watching someone barrelling towards a cliffside. It stings just a little bit, to see the distrust so plainly on his face, as he expects Leon to slip at the slightest stumble. Though it hurts more to know he’s right, because he’d told Hunnigan he wasn’t ready for this, because it’s been Chris who had dragged his ass back to rehab after he’d fucked up and ruined three months of sobriety.

“It’s not a problem.”

He echoes, stuck on the smell of booze, the buzzing in his skull getting increasingly louder the longer he sits still. When he shifts, his limbs feel jerky, hard to control, as everything inside him is coiled up tight to flee.

“I can see that.”

Chris stills the hand that has begun digging a nail into a scabbed over scratch on his knuckles. He’s unsure when he’s started doing it but it’s hard to stop once he’s aware of it.

“Should we leave?”

Chris asks, but it really doesn’t sound like a question at all. He already has decided for them and is only expecting Leon to give his approval. Not wanting to upset him even more, Leon relents, submitting himself to be ordered around by him for now.

“Yes, sure.”

When he gets up from his chair, it’s like he’s forgotten how to steer his own body, every move stilted and uncoordinated. His hands shake and shake and shake, like they haven’t since he’s gotten sober. It’s so pronounced, he shoves them into his pockets, where he bumps into the sobriety coin rolling uselessly between the fabric.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, I hope it’s okay if me and my husband take our leave, but I think we should sleep off the jetlag some more.” Chris’ voice drones in the background.

The palms of his hands itch, the sounds of the restaurant grating against his ears, as all he can think about is how badly he wants to drink. Just this once, just to take the edge off, just to soothe his nerves, just so he can sleep through the night. Instead he shakes Mrs. Lazar’s hand before they part, smiles and thanks them for the company, then he trails Chris out of the establishment and into an empty hallway.

They walk in silence for a while, the odd guest, or staff member crossing their path back to the flight of stairs that’ll eventually take them up to their floor. In the back of his mind, he is going through all the ways he can get his hands on a drink, even considering downing a cap of Chris’ mouthwash, if it means the horrible itching need will loosen its hold just long enough for Leon to think straight.

Once the silence has stretched on for too long, Chris says:

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“I need to shower.”

What he really needs is for someone to break his skull open and cut out all the bad shit telling him to pour his progress down the drain but he doesn’t say that, doubts it is what Chris wants to hear.

“I don’t think being alone is a good idea right now.”

Leon bites his cheek hard, in order not to spit something at Chris’ face he would regret later. If he’d been drunk he probably would’ve said it anyway, but Leon hasn’t been buzzed for a long time now, for reasons that are hard to conceptualize, when he feels this desperate.

When he drank, he never liked himself very much, being bitter and angry, numbing anything else which could’ve come back to haunt him. It’s different now, there’s still the numbness, the anger but also other things, pain he’d rather like to forget.

Leon isn’t so sure he likes himself sober either.

“I can decide for myself, you don’t need to act like you have to babysit me.” He jeers, face going hard and unreadable.

Once they reach the stairs, Leon takes two steps at once, hurrying to just get to their room already, so he can rid himself of his wine-soaked clothes. It’s not much, barely a stain but Leon could swear he can still smell it, the memories of too many nights spent with a bottle of liquor for comfort vivid in his mind.

– The mission’s been bad. Real bad. Too many casualties, too many dead bodies. Leon has lost count of the victims at this point, the only reason he even made it out alive, being the group of BSAA soldiers investigating the same location at the time. With the sparse communication between his agency and their’s, it’s no surprise anymore they’d be stumbling upon each other in the field, now and again, though Leon would prefer not being aimed at every single time they accidentally cross paths.

Normally, he’d be on his way back to Washington DC right now, the siren sound of the DSO beckoning him to return, but as his luck had it, Chris had swept in prepared, metaphorically grabbing him by scruff, to drag him to medical. While the paramedics assessed the damage, he booked him a hotel room, ensuring Leon felt in debt enough to stay the night.

Turns out he broke a few ribs again, the rest of his body similarly bruised black and blue, though nothing warranting an overnight stay for observation. Which leaves him alone in a random hotel in Canada, prescription painkillers on the coffee table and the mini bar in his periphery, like it’s challenging him.

It’s not a game he can win in any way.

The promise to stay abstinent, had slipped down the drain three weeks ago, with what had started as an exception, just a harmless drink at a bar, his colleagues pestering him about, why he hadn’t ordered anything yet. From there on, all of his progress had fallen apart, because Leon never knew when to fucking stop. So he’s back where he started, alone, drunk, desperate to make the pain stop.

He can’t sleep, everytime he closes his eyes, the vivid images of those countless mangled bodies return, their gaping mouths screaming for him to help them but there’s just the Silver Ghost in his hand and he only has so many bullets to spare and–

Leon takes another long drag straight from the bottle, the glass he’d had before, laying shattered somewhere on the floor. The burn of it spreads warm down his throat, curling in his otherwise empty stomach. He loathes himself for what he’s doing, hates himself even more, for continuing.

The empty bottle clunks on the carpet, rolling beneath the coffee table with a sonorous rumbling sound. It brings Leon back to himself momentarily, confusion brimming at the edges of his thoughts about when he has even drunk the rest of the whiskey, the memories of the past few hours only a hazy blur.

His vision swims, the entire room spinning around him, like he’s on a ship in the middle of a storm. Even his legs won’t hold him up steady, as he attempts to follow the knocking at the door, knees folding under his weight to bring him down harshly. Distantly, he recognizes the tearing cut of glass at his elbow, as gravity pulls him to roll onto his back.

There’s more banging coming from above him, Leon’s glassy eyes staring blindly up at the ceiling. It’s dark and vast, even when his lids fall closed, the screaming in his head finally silenced. 

Maybe he can sleep now.

Maybe he’ll get to have some semblance of peace.

Leon takes a deep breath, or at least tries to, before he’s disrupted by the mouthful of vomit rushing back up his throat, choking him, as his useless fingers claw at the floor to curl on his side. He can’t though, his muscles not working right and his mind too sluggish to really register what is happening to him. More sick is expelled from his irritated stomach, the liquid running from the corners of his mouth, down his face, to stain his already dirty hair. Meanwhile, all Leon can do is just lie there, snapping in and out of consciousness.

Air rushes back into his lungs, once he feels himself getting lifted into an upright position, the vomit spilling from his lips, as he hiccups with the panicked attempt to breathe. For a second his alcohol-addled brain imagines himself somewhere else, the man holding him intent on beating the disobedience out of him, before he recognizes Chris’ cologne under the stench of his own puke.

“I didn’t mean to,” He slurs, slumping in the other’s arms. “I’m sorry–”

The nausea returns tenfold, making Leon bend forward to throw up in his lap, nothing but bile and whiskey dribbling from his chin, as he groans in pain. Chris huffs, angry maybe, or just exasperated.

“If you really were sorry, I wouldn’t have to be here.” 

– Hands still restless, he fumbles with the key at the door, as he bites back the frustration at his own incompetence. Behind him, Chris is closing the distance put between them, his shoes thumping heavy as ever on the expensive carpet in the hallway. Having him in his vicinity right now is unbearable, dread and shame thrumming in his veins, at the thought of Chris seeing him struggle to keep his head above water. At last, the door to their room clicks open, before the other can get another word in. 

Finally inside, Leon beelines straight for the bedroom, beginning to roughly pull the suit jacket from his shoulders, before he squeezes out of the button up like it has personally offended him. The drag of the fabric feels like sandpaper on his oversensitive skin, while Leon fights to reign in the insurmountable anger that has gripped him so suddenly. Who he’s angry at, he isn’t sure, just knowing he will explode eventually.

“Would you wait a second?”

Chris appears in the doorframe of their gaudy, shared bedroom, right as Leon is fumbling with the hem of his undershirt to untuck the long stretch of fabric from his pants. Gaze snapping from Leon struggling with the undergarment, to the clothes thoughtlessly tossed on the floor, he looks at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. It makes him feel pathetic, the embarrassment like acid burning through his throat.

“Just fucking–” He chokes on his own breathlessness, not having realized how upset he is, until Chris paused him in his frenzied endeavor. “Let me do this.” He finishes, because he needs to be alone, he needs time to think, needs to fucking not be looked at like that.

“Leon, slow down, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Chris talks low and steady, stepping towards him like he’s a spooked animal, while Leon finally yanks the top over his head. Almost barking an ugly laugh at the irony of it all, he begins to fumble with his belt buckle next. Dignity be damned, Chris has certainly seen more of him already.

“Do not patronize me.” He warns, turning away to not look at him.

He shouldn’t be as upset as he is, but by now his entire body has begun to shake and Leon really doesn’t know how to stop himself from spiraling. Self-destruction is a familiar escape for him, leaving Chris to worry about something else, while he bribes the next bartender he can find to look away when he inevitably overindulges. The plans are all there, the excuses he has to make, to throw Chris off his trail, are on the tip of his tongue, because Leon’s a practiced alcoholic and has done this a thousand times, but as hard as he tries to push the other away, while Chris increasingly crowds his personal space, he can’t bring himself to do it.

Beneath the overwhelming screaming voice urging him to give in and trust in old habits, is a small whisper, wanting for anyone to just stop him.

He doesn’t fight it, when the other puts his hands on Leon’s wrists and pulls them away from his belt, lets him guide the leather through the loops, tossing it to the rest of his clothes.

“I thought we'd talked about this. Let me help.”

Nodding instead, Leon says nothing, because his chest is so tight, he doesn’t know what will come out if he opens his mouth. His breath hitches, when he feels Chris’ fingers opening his pants, sliding the fabric down his legs so carefully, he almost thinks there might be other implications going on, but instead of turning the undressing into something else entirely, the man in front of him just directs him to step out of the mess at his ankles and opens the bathroom door for him.

Inside, he sits him down on the lid of the toilet, wetting a washcloth under the sink and pouring a bit of shower gel onto it, before he crouches down in front of Leon. He takes his left palm first, running the soapy fabric over it in circular motions, then he turns his hand and gently dabs at the skin there, keeping the pressure light enough not to hurt. After both of his hands are cleaned, he moves on to his arms, avoiding the bandage on the left one, as he lets the warm water slowly pull Leon back into a more calm state.

Where the anger had been, grief sits now, a leaden weight, burdening his shoulders. Chris lets the washcloth dampen them too, re-wets it to run it from the nape of his neck down his spine and back up. Flexing his hands anxiously, Leon can feel each ridge and groove of the scars there, expecting Chris to ask him about them, but the other says nothing, just moves his hands towards his chest instead. When he grazes his old bullet wound, his touch goes impossibly light.

Their eyes catch for a moment, the look on Chris' face pulling him apart in an instant. Feeling his brows twitch to furrow, he goes tense, tightly wound like a spring, because he's never wanted this: Someone else having to put his broken pieces back together.

“Chris–" His voice comes out bad, worse than he'd expected. "Why did I stop? Why didn’t you let me–?”

He can't finish it, the other having halted in wringing out the washcloth by the sink. Staring at him, he just stands there for a while. Then Chris sets into motion once more, lets the piece of fabric dangle from the edge of the basin, turns towards the door and leaves. For a moment, Leon thinks he, again, said the wrong thing, bared too much of himself at once and repulsed him for good but the bathroom door remains open, having Chris return after only a few seconds. He passes by the sink and takes the washcloth, before he kneels down in front of him, holding out his deep blue coin.

"You wanted this too, remember?"

Taking his clean palm, he presses the coated metal into his hand, Leon's fingers curling around it almost automatically.

"I'm not sure. Sometimes I'm really not sure."

It's hard to hang onto all the different reasons when he's like this, the quick fix, if not permanent, still more desirable than being trapped in his skin. Chris wraps both of his hands around his singular one, enveloping it with the coin in his grasp.

"Remember Sherry? Remember what we told you back then?"

Sucking in a pained breath, he holds it in his lungs until it burns. Ever since Simmons was dead and had no hold over them both anymore, they had tried to build the relationship they might've had without him. His addiction had almost ruined that too, thinking he had it under control, thinking she wouldn't notice.

"I know but–" He starts, churning through all the reasons why he can't:

Too damaged, too late, too much of a mess to repair himself.  

"You don't have to do it for our sake," Chris interrupts him, before he can finish the thought, "or Sherry's, none of us can ask that of you, but I promise it will get better." 

His tone is firm but not unkind, eyes locked onto his own from below. Leon grimaces, the expression involuntary, as he wants to object but doesn't. 

"It's been six months." He says instead.

It's supposed to get easier and still he struggles. After withdrawal, the drop off the pink cloud, after slips, and a relapse, and starting SSRIs. Sometimes it feels just the same as before, while he waits for 'better' to arrive. 

"I know."

Chris' hands wander from his wrists upwards, grazing the bandage on his arm. Leon averts his eyes to look at the weave of the fabric, thinking about the wounds beneath. 

"What should I do?"

He asks, a little lost. The healing scabs pulse and throb, though Leon avoids giving it much consideration on most days. 

"Try to get some sleep for one, we'll figure out the rest tomorrow, okay?"

The gentleness with which Chris touches him, almost hurts. The directive is easy to acquiesce to, as he lets the other run the cool piece of fabric over his skin once again.

"Okay." 

Eyes dropping shut, Leon focuses on the sensation of the rough washcloth scrubbing down his chest. The buzzing in his skull quiets down with each pass of Chris' hands, until it is nothing more but the silent hum he's used to. Moving from his stomach to his legs, Chris lets the rivulets of water run down the backs of his thighs, as his fingertips travel across the skin. A thumb brushes over a spot on the inside of it, scar tissue pulling at the edges. 

"How'd you get it?"

Comes Chris' voice, chasing goosebumps up his legs where he's touching the raised cut from so long ago. A little dazed, Leon blinks his eyes open, being greeted by the sight of the other man, kneeling between his thighs, as he inspects the white scar gouged deep into the skin. Leon swallows a mouthful of saliva.

"Krauser, he was my–"

Hesitating, he struggles to find the right words for what they were exactly. Jack had never been eager to put a label to it and Leon hadn't felt like it'd been his place to question him. To this day, he isn't even sure if what Krauser had felt for him, had actually been love, or lust, or if it'd all been some power play Leon was too inexperienced to understand.

"my instructor when I was trained for USSTRATCOM."

Concern tugging the corners of his mouth downwards, Chris furrows his brows at him. 

His heart sitting heavy in his chest, Leon lets out a quiet breath, deflating infinitesimally at the memory. "He made a reappearance in Spain, was working for Saddler and his cult." 

Chris nods in understanding, sparing him the other question of 'What happened?'. 

Instead, he lowers his face back to the meat of his thighs, continuing the roaming of washcloth and hands. After a moment, he stops again, touch hovering just above Leon's left knee, where a set of old burn marks sits, slight indentations with jarred edges, making them look almost star-like. They are so faded, one almost misses them from afar but as close as they are right now, there's no chance for Chris to overlook. The other swallows heavily, throat clicking with trepidation, then: 

"And these?" 

Leon tenses up, when Chris moves to touch them, muscles flexing in preparation for a pain that doesn't come. At the sudden shift in body language, Chris halts, lowering both hands to rest in his own lap, fingers tangled around the wet fabric.

"It was an accident." The excuse falls from his lips, before he can stop himself. "Don't worry about it."

Leon averts his gaze, unable to bear looking at Chris any longer, as he starts to shift uncomfortably on the spot. 

Chris touches his ankle. "Leon, you don't need to–" 

"I'm sorry."

He blurts out suddenly, twisting his body to put distance between them again, as he slides off the lid of the toilet. The other follows him, rising from his knees back to standing

"That was stupid, I-I think I'm fine now." Leon laughs though the sound of it is hollow. 

He wants to say thank you, wants the other to know his efforts didn't go unappreciated but the words get stuck in his throat, between the apology and the self-deprecation, so Leon just ends up standing there, trying not to look at Chris. 

"It's okay."

He says, a little confused, dropping the washcloth on the edge of the oversized bathtub and swiping his damp hands down the fabric of his pants. Leon's skin bristles with a confusing array of emotions, he doesn't know what to do with.

Some things are better left buried and this– He doesn't want to ever touch these memories. He just can't.

"You should get changed too."

He nods at Chris, still fully clothed, while he’s almost completely bare, his arms coming up to cross in front of his chest. The other looks a bit stunned at the sudden shift, gaping at Leon, like he’s not computing the situation right.

“I mean yes, but–” Chris stutters, shakes his head and takes a step forward, hands reaching out as if to stop him, should he try to bail. “Leon, are you sure you’re okay?”

Something draws uncomfortably tight in his chest, fingers wrapping around the edge of the band-aid, subconsciously checking if it’s still in place.

He’s alright, he’s going to be alright.

“I’m fine, Chris.” He forces a smile and with that leaves the room.

***

Later that night, Leon dreams again, it’s an unusual one, blurred by the age of the memories replaying in his head. He hears, before he sees anything, angry voices arguing, screaming, saying things he can’t quite make out, as the patterned covers of the double sized bed he sits on, swims into focus, while he picks at the fur of the stuffed animal in his grasp. He’s nosy though, which is why he strains his ears, when the noise suddenly picks up. A dreadful kind of feeling looms in the back of his mind in the motionless moments he sits there, knowing on instinct, something is going to happen. A yell cuts through the chaotic mess of broken sentences, the sound quickly followed by skin hitting skin and then the door to the room bursts open, his mother coming to rush inside, slamming it shut behind her and turning the key just in time, as someone starts banging on the wood.

“You better come out right now!” He understands, the muffled voice on the other side clearly belonging to his father.

Watching as his mother heaves in a shuddering breath, Leon is frozen to the spot, the ball of her hand pressed to one side of her face, where skin slowly begins to bloom in blues and violets, despite her trying to hide it.

For a moment, he thinks she’s going to cry.

“What is wrong, mom?” His voice squeaks, Leon feeling tiny, when she finally registers his presence.

The banging from outside grows louder, both of them flinching away, before his mother grabs him roughly, pulling him off the bed and towards the wooden closet in the corner of the room. She yanks the door open. On the inside they keep all her pretty dresses and dad’s good suits in a neat row. As she shoves him inside, the smell of mothballs and untreated wood is pungent. Leon yelps more out of surprise than pain, not understanding what is going on, scared something bad will happen.

“Do not come out, until I tell you to.” She says sternly, her face hard, devoid of emotion.

Then the door clicks shut.

Feeling his heart beat wildly, Leon hugs the fuzzy bear close to his chest, the thrum of it pounding against his ribs. It's dark, the only light coming through the gaps in the door, though sitting between dusty button ups and unused summer dresses, he can't really make out anything, except for the noise on the outside. 

When he hears the bedroom door unlock again, Leon holds himself dead still. The footfalls of his father are heavy, as he stomps inside, while his mother tries to placate, begging him to calm down.

Leon spends hours there, clinging to his naked arms, as all he can do is listen. His mother is crying out, screaming, his eardrums droning with it, even after it has ceased.

Outside the rain falls softly onto the asphalt.

The nightmare lingers even after Leon's eyes have shot open to stare into the hazy darkness of their room. The sound of his mother's voice echoes in his head, begging, begging, begging.

Pleading had never saved anyone though, neither his mother, nor later, himself. He’d learned that the hard way. Leon blinks, vacant stare transfixed onto the ceiling shrouded in black shadow, his chest strains, as he draws in one slow breath after another. From outside a cool draft of air rustles the curtains, carrying the smell of cigarettes into the room. His vision blurs and the first tears slide down Leon’s temples, as he begins to drift.

Chapter Text

Throughout the night, Leon is restless. As he lays in bed next to the man, so is Chris, turning again to try and find some sleep. He’s unused to the soft mattress, the down blankets and fluffy pillows, having spent so many nights in field beds, or upright against the nearest wall, that this feels uncomfortably luxurious. It’s not like he’d complain though, because unlike his other missions, nothing has tried to rip their throats out yet and even if the situation arose, the BSAA has left them a sizable countermeasure.

Despite it all, Chris can't sleep. He can handle the usual paranoia, the unease coming with too quiet rooms and the darkness of night, but what really keeps him awake is how utterly odd Leon's been acting. Chris usually knows him as that calm and collected agent, he’s seen defy impossible odds so many times but the last few days there’d been little left of it. The anti-depressants, the suspicious bandage, the constant anxiety, it all slowly adds up to something Chris isn’t sure he’ll like. Prior to the mission, Hunnigan had warned him, though he gets the feeling, he might have underestimated the situation after all.

On the other side of the mattress, Leon stirs again, his breath laboured, as his lips form around a soundless word in his sleep. For a moment, he watches him, tracking the furrow of his brow, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, as he curls around his middle protectively.

With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Chris ultimately decides to ditch his attempt at catching a full night’s rest in favour of lumbering towards the double set doors of their balcony. Behind him, Leon gives a sad sound, barely audible if Chris wasn’t listening for it, preparing himself to wake him, should it get worse.

Before he can think more about it, Chris slides the glass doors open and steps into the cooling night air. The smell of late summer and city surrounds him, clears his head for a moment, in which the breeze picks up, washing over his bare chest. Looking up, he sees a cloudless night sky, light pollution not quite strong enough to drown the stars out completely. As they blink overhead of him, the crescent shape of the moon looms high on the firmament, its silver only a thin sliver in the black of night. 

It's a peaceful moment, quiet and solitary, with enough time for him to think their situation through. The sensation of Leon’s skin lingers on his, the shape of his scars, as he’d run his hands over them, embedded in his memory. He’d been scared Leon would bail on him today, after their dinner. The look on his face, when they left their table, had been deeply unsettled, like an animal searching for a way out of its cage. It was all he could do, to keep him close, somehow convince him to let Chris help for once, if only for a little while.

In the process, he got a closer look at the many scars littering the other's body, some obvious injuries from their work, others less distinct.

The lines on his back are one thing, methodically placed to avoid his kidneys, layered over each other in a crisscross pattern, differing in age. It looks like torture, the marks similar to what a whip leaves, or a belt, if the person executing the beating is brutal enough. Stuff like that can happen in their line of work, god knows Chris has seen his fair share, when they brought Jill back but the fact Leon has never even mentioned it, leaves him anxious about the possibility of even more festering secrets.

The burn marks on the other hand, he doesn’t have to guess, to know what they’re from. When he asked about them, he’d hoped Leon would want to talk about it. The way he reacted though, had been enough to turn him off the attempt. Obviously, the other was still struggling with the memories, no matter how he got the scars.

It didn’t surprise Chris, as much as it should have, the scars had looked old, probably healed for decades by now, which meant whoever had pressed a cigarette to Leon’s skin back then, had done it while he’d still been very young. 

While he fiddles with his own pack of cigarettes, he has brought outside, Chris’ hands begin to shake. He’d suppressed his shocked realization in the bathroom but now that he’s alone with his thoughts, the emotions come back full force. Chris is angry, not only at whoever must’ve abused Leon but also at all the other countless reasons his body looks like a memorial of pain. All the stories he doesn’t know about, because Leon loves keeping his secrets and Chris has never asked.

That is, what leaves him more upset than anything, the feeling of somehow having failed the other, even though he knows, rationally, it isn’t his fault. Trying to get anything out of the man is like getting blood from a stone, and yet, he wishes sometimes he could’ve tried harder.

Smoking being a vice of his own, he’s been wanting to quit for a few years now, but struggled to let go of it every single time, there always seems to be something coming up, making it so much more difficult. Even with the shape of the circular scars burned into his memory, Chris still yearns to have a smoke, unable to relax and go to bed without it.

Quietly to himself, he wonders for a second, if Hunnigan made the right decision by asking him to keep Leon safe.

Ultimately he sticks the filter between his lips anyway and flicks his lighter on.

***

Waking up, Chris is alone again, which shouldn't surprise him with how late he's gone to bed, though he does wonder why Leon never takes the chance to sleep in for once. After he drags himself from the comfort of the sheets, he's entangled in and meanders into the living space, he finds Leon already up and about, fully dressed with a laptop balanced on his knees, as his hands fly over the keyboard. 

Chris stretches with a deep yawn, flexing the muscles in his shoulders to loosen them up, which earns him a hum of recognition from Leon's side. 

"You up?" He asks distractedly, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.

"Same as you. Have you been working all morning?" 

Chris trots over to linger at the back of the couch where he can peer over Leon's shoulder, the screen showing several opened documents the other is skimming through, while simultaneously typing up one of his own. He can catch key-words every once in a while, giving him a good idea of Leon’s work.

“Uh-hu, tried to do some more research but without access to the DSO’s databases-” He pauses, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips, as he thinks. ”It's challenging.”

Chris hums in understanding, rounding the couch to pick up the empty cup of coffee that’s balanced on the edge of the table, next to Leon’s socked feet.

“You found anything yet?”

Bringing the dirty dishware over to their kitchen counter, he draws another clean one from the cabinet and rummages through the collection of coffee tabs, until he finds one that speaks to him.

“Not a lot but I did look into Sofia Diavatis, turns out her resume is incredibly hard to get a hold of, though she did publish a paper back in 2008, mentioning her research being funded by Tricell. I assume she was working for them at the time.”

The coffee-machine begins to rumble loudly, while Chris turns back towards Leon, who is staring fixedly at the computer screen, brows drawn tightly. He’s going to give himself wrinkles like that, not that Chris minds, but still, he’s always so tense, even when he doesn’t need to be.

“You think she has connections to it now?”

Leon shakes his head, blinking twice, before he swivels his head around to fix Chris with those stormy blue’s of his. “No, there’s nothing left of Tricell but I do think PRISM had a good reason to hire her, before she could go down with the ship.”

“So what you’re saying is, she’s dangerous?” Chris inquires seriously. 

They've been surrounded by people used to too much money and little discomfort so far, picking out the ones who actually knew how to put their fortunes where their mouths are would be vital in figuring out which of them to poke and prod for information. 

“Most definitely. I’d be surprised if she weren’t.” Leon agrees with a lop-sided grin, before turning back to his laptop. 

Behind him, the coffee machine gives a happy chime to indicate it's done, Chris turning around to slide the cup out from under the nozzle and cracking open a tab of creamer. The dark liquid turns an agreeable shade of caramel brown, as he stirs. 

"Did you have breakfast yet?" He asks, when his own stomach begins to rumble, nipping at his coffee, consequently burning the tip of his tongue. 

"Not much yet, they've planned a brunch in a few hours, so I figured I'd wait."

Chris eyes the tray still sitting on the couch table, a single plate placed in its middle, some breadcrumbs littered on the porcelain and the remnants of butter clinging to the edge of the knife balanced across it.

“You know, you could’ve woken me up.” He mumbles, as he walks over to plop down on the loveseat opposite him.

“I don’t mind.” Leon shrugs. “Can get some work in like this.”

Saying nothing more, Chris huffs a breath against the surface of his steaming coffee, as he just watches Leon incredulously. He acts like his company is a burden or something. Chris doesn’t get it, it’s not like anyone’s forced him to be here.

“How are you feeling?”

Taking a deep sip from his cup, he ignores the sudden tension to Leon’s shoulders, the way his deft fingers stop moving across the keyboard. It’s a simple question and yet the other clamps up, like Chris has just asked him if he’d murdered someone.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

One hand of his lifts towards his earlobe, pushing the silver piercing there back and forth, while Leon avoids eye-contact, suddenly very interested in his research. It’s only then Chris perks up at the sight of the jewelry, blood rising in his cheeks, as the more rudimentary part of his brain fixates on the tiny piece of metal.

"Are you sure, yesterday was–" 

"Yesterday was a slip up, I–" Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, as If he's trying to stave off a headache. "It won't happen again."

There's irritation clear in his voice, barely hiding the emotion brimming beneath, like a dam ready to spill. Chris decides to leave it alone then, not wanting to aggravate him, when he doesn't need to. Momentarily his eyes drop to the surface of the table, Leon's propped up feet, crossed at the ankle, next to them, the prescription drug lying opened.

It sobers Chris up a little. Leon's trying, in more ways than one, so maybe they can leave Colorado and everything that came after, in the past.

They've both fallen quiet for a bit too long, Leon having begun to close his laptop, to sit upright on the couch again. Chris watches him rub at a spot on his lower back, while he sips on his coffee once more. 

"I didn't know you had piercings." He nods to the silver barbells in Leon's earlobes, trying to pivot the conversation.

The other throws him a look, like he hadn't expected for him to even notice, eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"They suit you." Chris smiles, after he watches Leon's expression tick into anxiousness more and more.

"I don't get around to wearing them often." He turns his face away, twisting the button on his sleeve instead, suddenly flustered. 

“I thought about it when I was younger too, never got the courage to actually go through with it though.” Chris chuckles, then says: "When did you get them?"

He expects it to be recent, some decision he has forgotten to mention in the few instances the two of them get to spend enough time together to actually talk, because Chris could swear he has never seen Leon with any kind of earrings before, which is why he is wholly unprepared when he answers with:

“Fourteen years ago maybe? I practically did it right after being allowed to leave base. Was kind of a heat-of-the-moment thing, looking back at it now.”

Fourteen years. Chris fights not to gape at the other like a fish on land, as he tries to process how long he’s been missing out on the sight.

“I’ve never seen you with them, or any other earrings.” He notes, hiding his face behind the rim of his cup, as he feels more blood creep up his neck to pool in his cheeks.

“I don’t know how the BSAA handles these things, but USSTRATCOM was pissed at me, they were enough trouble to heal in the first place, so I stopped putting them in too often.”

Leon’s fumbling again, rolling the metal ball between his index and thumb, as he carefully skirts around the truth. He doesn’t need to say it though, the lack of details being enough to give him a good idea of how people back then must’ve reacted.

Unlike Chris, Leon’s more on the pretty side of things, the long hair he’s so intent on keeping, not doing him any favours either, which is why he has a good fucking idea of the treatment a set of earrings got him. Even these days, he can sometimes catch subordinates of his shittalking Leon's looks, before he puts them back in their place. When confronted with those stories, he never knows whether to be sad or angry, deciding more often than not, to be neither.

“That’s rough.” He responds instead, uselessly.

Leon doesn’t look at him still, just drops his hands in his lap and shakes his head.

“It’s fine, old news by now and besides,” A smile starts to tentatively spread on his lips. “You can’t be sitting around here half-naked all day, we’ve got stuff to do.”

Chris rolls his eyes playfully, mumbling “Killjoy.” before begrudgingly getting up to dump his empty mug in the sink and make his way back into the bedroom.

As he’s sifting through his selection of clothes, he yells for Leon once more. 

“I swear to god Leon, if you’re wearing a dress shirt again, I will go through your shit and get rid of them, it’s 85 degrees outside.”

***

Begrudgingly, Leon decides to acquiesce to Chris’ threats and takes the extra layer off, before they head down to their scheduled brunch. The formal gathering goes over smoothly, the usual nausea blessedly absent for once, which more than makes up for the fact that they already serve prosecco at this hour. Leon stays away from the alcohol and they both get to indulge in the rich breakfast, while they try to chat up a twenty-something entrepreneur with too much hair-gel plastering his bangs to the side.

The younger man doesn’t seem to be overly interested in their company though, which leaves him for most of the breakfast, to repeatedly nudge Chris in the side, stopping him from wolfing down his food, like he’s a starving animal. It only results in some pitiful looks from the other, like he has just snatched a bone from a stray dog, so Leon relents, sinking a bit further into his chair to hide his second-hand embarrassment.

Afterwards they announce the groups for their trip to the city, instructing them to meet at the parterre in front of the castle. Chris and him get paired with another couple once more, the both of them introducing themselves as Mrs. and Mr. Taam. Following them like a shadow, is a young woman, who doesn’t offer up her own name but wears a PRISM tag on her lapel, her black hair tied into a neat high ponytail, contributing to the aloof exterior she’s presenting.

Mr. Koch follows them too. The limousine already waiting next to countless others, all rowed up into a neat line of sleek black Mercedes cars, which are utterly indistinguishable from the outside. Nevertheless the chauffeur opens the door for them, as soon as they arrive at the car and all of them climb inside to take their seats on the cushioned bench curving towards the back of it. Their chaperones end up kind of awkwardly next to each other, dividing them from Mrs. and Mr. Taam, with Koch spreading his legs wide enough to bump into Leon’s knees more than once. After they settled and buckled up, the first thing Leon takes note of is the minibar directly opposite of them, perfectly cut whiskey glasses already sitting atop of it. Before he can say anything though, he feels Chris’ hand lightly coming to rest on his thigh, the touch hesitant and unsure, until Leon grasps it back to interlace their fingers.

“Can I get anyone a drink?” Mr. Koch asks, expectantly looking between the Taam’s and them.

Noone says anything for a long moment, before the woman beside him starts to talk in what Leon recognizes as cantonese. She exchanges a few words with the other couple, then turns back to Mr. Koch.

“On the ride back maybe.” She smiles politely.

Mr. Koch shrugs, turning to see if Chris and him are more amenable. “No, thank you.” Leon shakes his head and watches how Koch leans forward to pick a tumbler of liquor anyway.

Cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck, as he watches him pour two fingers of brandy into one of the crystalline glasses, before leaning back in his seat, forgoing the seatbelt entirely. He scoots closer to Chris, turning his head to avoid the sharp smell of the spirit. Yesterday was enough of a close call, for Leon to not want to be around alcohol today, the breakfast itself already hard enough to sit through. He may feel a bit better than usual, the effects of his SSRIs steadily taking hold, but if anything’s worse than having to watch someone else drink, it’s the smell of it.

The fumes dizzy his senses and remind him of how absolutely everything had reeked of it, when his addiction had hit its peak.

The car’s moving now, engine purring softly in the background, as the radio starts to play, a man speaking in a forced cheerful tone, the words of which Leon can’t quite understand. It’s not enough of a distraction though, neither is the view of the outside, tinted dark by the mirrored windows, or the unyielding blue coin working painful blisters into his fingers.

Only when he lets his head drop slowly onto Chris’ broad shoulder, the other pressing his palm reassuringly against the nape of his neck, that Leon can tear his mind off the liquor. The scent of Chris’ aftershave drowns out everything else, thick and cloying, like pine-needles and tobacco.

The drive takes them almost three quarters of an hour, one of which is spent maneuvering the oversized vehicle through a parking garage definitely not built with this particular model of car in mind.

Once the driver has steered the limousine into the rented space for it, Koch climbs out of the car first and opens the door for them. He leaves his dirty glass on the sleek wooden surface of the minibar, the barest hint of a leftover drop of brandy pooling at the bottom like smoothed amber.

They exit, Leon taking a deep breath of the stale parking-garage air, the smell of motor oil and fumes enveloping the bare concrete interior. Even now, out of the car, Chris lingers close, their shoulders brushing more than once, as they follow their group towards the outside. It’s just an act, Leon knows, but his traitorous heart had still revelled in the soothing hand on his neck, skipping a beat even now, as Chris interlocks their arms once more.

“You’ve ever been here before?” Koch asks, while they follow him out of the parking garage and onto a busy sidewalk, before they climb another set of stairs towards a red-bricked building.

“Not yet.” Chris answers for them both, while Leon just shakes his head.

“Well good thing we’re here now, yeah? Can’t say it’s much of a comparison to New York, or Washington DC but it has its own charm.” Koch gestures in front of him, right as they crest the top of the stairs.

Once their line of sight clears, the humble entrance to a museum becomes visible, quickly paling in comparison to the giant cathedral towering over the flat plaza they’ve arrived at. Between low standing walls and flocks of other tourists, armed with cameras and bulking backpacks, they need to weave their way through,as the group of them rounds the high towering building and comes onto the plaza proper.

The gothic cathedral is easily 500 feet tall, its exterior an intricate masonry of ogives, jamb statues of saints and stained rose windows, every aspect of it stretching towards the bright blue sky, as the arch buttresses barely hold the hulking weight of the two towers framing the main archway.

“Can’t say it’s not impressive.” Chris mumbles next to him, neck cranked to take in the entire height of it.

Koch smiles a little self-satisfied, as he goes on to explain:

“It’s called Kölner Dom, the Cologne Cathedral, the venue we’re staying at has been built in such a way that you should be able to see its towers in clear weather, you two got the perfect suite for it too.”

At that, Chris and him momentarily exchange a glance, the meaning of the gold plate at their door finally sinking in. Then his gaze wanders back to the building behind Koch, who has started to elaborate.

“The cathedral was built over the span of 632 years, with a hiatus of about 300 years between the sixteenth to nineteenth century. Today the cathedral is still under continuous restoration work, as the sandstone used to build it is being worn away by the acidic rain.”

He clocks the shift in hue all over the building, the new sections still a light yellow-brown, while the older stone has gone almost black. There’s scaffolding against some parts of it, holding up the sections of it in need of repairs, while a giant tapestry with a picture of the original masonry, obscures what’s being worked on. The cathedral is crumbling under the weather, its material chosen 600 years ago, not made to withstand the changing rain and yet it’s being rebuilt with the same sandstone over and over again.

Koch mentions something about monument preservation and state restrictions, giving them the run of the mill tourist speech, while groups of people file into the cathedral behind him, passing old men in scarlet red robes, as they usher them inside.

“I don’t want to bore you for too long though.” The man grins. “If you’re interested to see the inside, you can come back after mass, otherwise I can give you some recommendations on other places worth seeing.”

The sudden change in plans, takes Leon a bit aback, the booklet sitting in his pocket clearly stating they’d be having a guided tour of the city and yet this seemed like Koch is trying to ditch them just after their arrival.

“You’re not staying?” Leon tries not to sound as suspicious as he is.

He wouldn’t even be bothered by the fact of having to maneuver a new city by himself but right now, he’s witnessing their investigative plans going down the drain too.

“Not if you don’t want me to, we usually offer guided tours for patrons with more of a speech barrier, or who don’t feel comfortable exploring by themselves, but I figured you two would be fine, either way.” He explains, tucking his hands leisurely into his pockets, the usual straight-backed posture slacking a bit.

Leon shifts on his feet a little, looking towards Chris in hopes of silently communicating how to handle the spontaneous shift. Their eyes meet for a fraction, the furrow of Chris’ brow clearly showing his own confusion, before Leon gives him an indecisive shrug, as he glances behind his shoulder to see the other couple already wandering away with their chaperone, leaving them behind on the tiled courtyard.

“I think we’ll manage on our own.” He turns towards Koch, the wind which continuously blows over the open area whipping his hair into his face with one strong gust.

While Leon desperately tries to fix his hair enough to see what’s in front of him, they exchange their goodbyes, agreeing to meet at the parking garage in the evening. Subsequently, Chris and him are suddenly off on their own, walking down the stone floored platform surrounding the cathedral towards the nearest pedestrian mall. They take a few random turns, making sure they are out of sight from Koch, should he have followed them, while they find a nook out of the way of most other people headed down the street, to stop and reconvene.

“So what now?” Chris asks first, his broad frame obscuring the crowds moving through the shopping street, loudly chattering all the while.

Leon shrugs a little helplessly, unused to going from walking on eggshells, to getting to decide for himself what he wants to do.

“Well, our only lead has just vanished to god-knows-where and the other is probably more preoccupied with finding another drink than giving up any info.” His lips press into a grim line, muddling through the options they have left, while they are stuck here for the next few hours.

“Sounds like we can only do one more thing.”

Chris smiles, his whole face overtaken by the expression, the crows feet around his eyes standing out even more than usual. There’s a hint of mischievousness in his look, making his whole face look warm and friendly and with a startle, Leon realizes how awfully close they’ve been standing this entire time, huddled in their corner like they’re conspiring, or maybe they’re about to–

“And that would be what?” He rolls his eyes, looking towards the bustling mass of people idly strolling down the street.

“Make the best of it and maybe have fun for once?”

Chris states it like a question, though Leon can hear the humour in his voice, as he tracks the sour expression on his face, not looking forward to squeezing himself through crowded streets, while trying not to end up in the next tourist trap. With a sigh, he relents though, resolutely interlocking their elbows, as Chris drags him out of the shaded corner they’re occupied and into the bright sunlight.

“I don’t think I’m capable of having fun.”

He grumbles to himself, pressing closer to Chris, when a group of teenagers brush up against his shoulder. The suit he’s wearing seems awfully much, now that they’re not mostly surrounded by pretentious billionaires and Leon misses his trusty leather jacket to be his barrier between him and the rest of the world.

“We’ll see about that.” Chris chuckles, combing his other hand through the wild tousle of Leon’s bangs, before dragging him forward to follow the direction of the foot traffic.

Leon doesn’t remember when he last had time to just go and explore a place, not even having had the chance to see Washington DC, apart from commuting to work and back to his flat. As far as he knows, he could’ve had the chance to just be a tourist in Colorado, but back then the prospect of trying to drink himself to death in the hotel he’d picked, seemed more preferable. Not like that plan had held up for long either. Now though, Chris and him are let loose on the city, the weather pleasantly warm, with no rain cloud in sight and endless possibilities at their fingertips.

They begin to wander around a bit aimlessly, distracting themselves by looking at the different storefronts they pass. Some of them are familiar, brands he knows from the US, which have expanded all over the world, others are oddly specific. A small store filled to the brim with leatherworks, another specialized on antique pipes and tobacco, or exclusively selling socks with funny prints.

Momentarily, they get distracted by a sales assistant ambushing them with a small plastic package of moisturizer and urging them to follow her into the perfumery behind her. Leon tries to give the face cream back to her, politely explaining to her, they are not interested but she insists he keep it and instead hands him a commercial flyer on top, before they manage to back out of the small store.

After the disruptive encounter, they decide they’re done with window shopping, picking the next convenient side-street to get a breath in, or at least Leon does, while Chris watches him with barely concealed amusement on his face.

“I’ve never seen you that awkward before.” He notes, crossing his arms in front of his chest, while Leon stuffs the coated sheet of paper in the pocket of his dress pants. “You know you could’ve just turned her down, right?”

“I’ve tried.” Rubbing one hand over his face, he tries not to groan in agitation.

He’s not good with people in general, even worse when he doesn’t know what mask to wear, which is another reason for him to avoid civilian life altogether. It didn’t help either that Chris was just mutely standing behind him, watching Leon embarrass himself. 

“Did you? Because I gotta tell you man, you suck at saying ‘no’.” Chris laughs, bumping their shoulders, before taking his hand again, urging him to walk along.

“I’ve got other qualities.” Leon shrugs, avoiding Chris’ gaze, to not show how he struggles to reign in his expression.

Unknowingly, Chris had hit the truth on its head with this one, a heavy lump settling in his throat, which he doesn’t want to think about too closely. Of course articulating his needs is hard, it’s not like he’s had much freedom to do so the past two decades, the job he does holding him on a short leash on the better days. The secret desires sitting somewhere inside him, stirring under his breastbone every once in a while, like molten iron, are better left alone, most of them having gone ignored for so long they’ve become indecipherable.

Except maybe for the overwhelming urge to–

get out, get out, get out. Make it stop!

Leon tries not to linger too much on those thoughts these days. 

"Oh, I know." The smile on Chris’ face is fond, almost too much for Leon to look at, a blush creeping onto his cheeks, definitely only caused by the summer heat.

When they round another corner, they enter quite a busy street again, cars and trolleys sharing the space, as they rush past quickly turning traffic lights and metal railways, tires screeching where they need to hit the brakes. The sidewalk is small, gets even smaller with the amount of pedestrians who hurry across the streets and in the opposite direction they are headed, but Chris and him push on, interlocked at their hands, already damp with sweat, as they push towards the shopping mall on the corner of the street.

The building stands a bit higher than the ones surrounding it, though it doesn’t compare to the hulking skyscrapers Leon is used to from DC. What does stand out though, is the giant ice-cream cone, built to sit right on top of the corner of the glass facade. The waffle part points diagonally towards the sky, while the plastic vanilla scoop appears to be dripping down the exterior windows. Leon stares up at it for one astonished moment, before they move to slip inside the bookstore nestled right at the bottom of the building.

The ground floor is bustling, people swarming for the register, while maneuvering around various round tables advertising someone’s biography, or the latest psychological thriller. Chris and him pass the overcrowded floor to the escalator, moving them to the more quiet part of the book shop.

Once they have the opportunity to look around, they find most of the literature is in german though, which makes browsing a bit harder than anticipated. For a while Leon is more than content with just looking at the covers but eventually they do find the international section, occupying one or two shelves of the three story building. Lucky for them, the area it’s in is mostly silent, the majority of the people here sitting quietly in cushioned chairs, as they leaf through their acquired reading material. It’s a welcome change of pace, in comparison to the busy city outside, giving Leon enough room to take a deep breath and relax the set of his shoulders, his neck already beginning to twinge from the strain.

“Do you mind if I look around?” Chris touches his shoulder gently, moving around him to have a look at the collection of books. Somehow, he’s always reaching out for Leon, keeping them physically connected, even when there’s noone around to watch them.

“Sure, you’re already done with the book you’ve brought?”

He steps away from the lingering fingertips, diverting his attention to the classics section, all the literature he’s been required to read for school all those years back, now repackaged in artfully crafted dust jackets with coloured edges and silken book marks.

“Not yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a back-up for the flight.” Chris loops around to him again, pulling a thin paper-back from the shelf, the portrait of a young man on the front. He holds it out to him expectantly. “You’ve ever read Oscar Wilde?” 

‘The picture of Dorian Gray’ The title reads, Leon taking the book in his hands, before he can think better of it.

“I meant to, never get a lot of reading done though.” He shakes his head, turning the book over to skim through the blurb. “Is it good?”

Chris shrugs, “Still sits on my bedside table, I’ve started it a few times now but I just can’t get used to his writing style.”

Then he sighs wistfully, a grin spreading on his face before he continues:

“Maybe I should finally give up on my ambition to become a dandy?”

Leon snorts unbidden, the imagery startling him out of the sentence he’s been trying to decipher. “I could’ve told you that years ago.” He says, eyes still fixed onto the back-cover of the book.

A book about a young man enraptured by the pleasures of life, casting virtue aside to follow his raw desires and thus contributing to his own damnation. A work of aesthetics and what hides beneath them.

“Way to flatter your husband.”

Chris bumps his shoulder enough for Leon to look back up at him, the rugged handsomeness of his face a sight he can never get enough of. 

Is this indulgence already?

He has to ask himself, because while Leon’s heart may still be his own, the rest of him has been conscripted to the DSO and as long as there’s breath in him, they’ll keep it that way. 

“I’m just saying, you’d need to work on your flamboyance.” Leon gives him a sly smile, just one corner of his mouth drawn upward, as he cocks his head cheekily.

“And here I thought my bisexuality would make up for that.” Shaking his head, Chris goes back to browsing the shelf, sliding a few hard-covers out, to intently investigate their dust-jackets.

The words almost get stuck in his throat, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest, like it’s trying to claw itself free from his ribs. His brain short-circuits, running through any appropriate responses, not contributing to him looking like a total idiot right now.

“Not with the macho behavior you’ve got going on, it won’t.”

He settles for at last, being snarky and sarcastic better than blurting out ‘I am gay’ in the middle of a bookshop like he’s fourteen and more stupid than he is tall.

Despite his best efforts, he turns away from Chris, feeling his cheeks heat up with the blood rushing to his face to certainly make him appear, like he’s getting a nasty rash all over his body, his bangs hopefully covering most of the blotchy red mess. 

“ ‘My dear Basil, that is not even a compliment.’ ” He laughs again, loud and clear and beautiful.

Leon recognizes the quote, has read it before so long ago, he’s not sure if he remembers it right. 

‘It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession.’

“Shut up and pick a book, Redfield.” Is what he says instead.

They manage to exit the bookshop eventually, Leon’s brain miraculously not having deep-fried itself in the time it took for Chris to choose and buy a copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ , while he faked interest in a medical encyclopedia about neuroscience. While on their way to the tram station, Leon bemoans Chris’ horrible taste in literature.

“It's so cheesy!”

“It's witty.” Chris retaliates, the brown paper bag dangling from the crook of his elbow, looking comically small on his broad frame.

Leon groans again, both of his hands rubbing down his face in exasperation. It's not like he has any dislike for the books, he just thinks it's fun to nag Chris about reading period romance like an elderly lady. 

"You could've picked anything, Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, even Shakespeare for fucks sake and you pick–" 

"A romance book?" He has the audacity to interrupt him. "I'm sorry to say this but I really don't need more horror in my life right now."

"Shakespeare's not horror." Leon points out, before trying not to eat shit, as he stumbles on the edge of the curb.

They are walking over a cobblestone plaza, the occasional tree standing lonesome at the edges, their leaves already going yellow at the tips. Car tires rumble loudly over the asphalt and the shrill ring of the tram bell almost drowns Chris' response out.

"Shakespeare's hard. I didn't know you hated romance that much." He almost laments, crossing his arms in front of his chest to give him the best rendition of his kicked puppy look.

Choosing to ignore him, Leon tries to read the glowing display board, listing their next connection. They have plenty of time left to kill, so they're in no rush to get anywhere, though he still quietly weighs their options, despite not being too sure himself of what's worth seeing. 

"I don't 'hate romance' , those kinds of books are just rarely realistic." Shrugging, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and mentally picks the next best train stopping at their platform. 

"Oh but your noir movies are?"

"That's different."

Leon mumbles a little disgruntled. The inside of the cart is crowded already, as they step inside, the smell of the air familiarly alike to what he's used to from the Washington subway. Which is to say, it's anything but pleasant. They now stand almost pressed chest to chest, holding on to the pole overhead, as they squeeze themselves in between the other passengers.

"Hey, I don't judge, as long as you let me read my tearjerker novels." Chris cranks his neck to look at him, eye-contact challenging with barely any room between them.

As the cart begins to accelerate, rumbling over the uneven train tracks, the uneasiness caused by the close proximity to so many strangers begins to increase, the crawling feeling of danger stirring in his spine once again. Shifting on his feet, he can feel his chest slowly going tight, the humid air and the weight of someone else against his back making breathing harder by the minute. In an effort to distract himself, Leon turns his head to stare at the cityscape passing them by, the car they’re in rattling loudly, as it drives along its path. Multistory buildings pass them by, brick walled, or with big glass panels covering most of their outside, the sun reflecting harshly on the material. Cars honk and flit by, people hurrying over streets and down sidewalks distracted by their own business. It’s loud and chaotic, as cities usually are, something Leon has to prepare himself for more often than not, so he doesn’t feel perpetually on edge.

When they eventually dip down beneath the ground, there’s just a dark tunnel to look at, graffiti barely legible with how fast they’re passing by. The person behind him stumbles backwards, bumping into him and sending a sharp sensation through the rest of his body. He swallows, licks his dry lips nervously, as he tries to ignore the overwhelming unease lodging itself in his throat.

The ride doesn’t take them too long, yet at every stop more people seem to try and insert themselves in the already overcrowded train. If Chris and him weren’t standing on the opposite side of the doors he would’ve just left at this point, but it takes them until central station for the amount of people to ease enough, so they can exit without too much trouble.

In the meantime, Chris has wordlessly drawn him closer, one hand flat on his lower back to hold him steady while his chin rests propped on Leon’s head, keeping a light pressure there. The position isn’t something he’s used to, but it almost feels like Chris is shielding him from the touch of the other passengers and whether intentional or not, he appreciates the momentary relief.

After they finally get out of the subway, they somehow find their way to the riverside wandering through the main station and around the cathedral until they come to a row of stairs leading them across a small park area and onto an asphalt walkway right next to an iron railing separating them from the Rhine. The water is a dark, greenish-blue, as they stop to rest for a minute, to watch the currents. Small waves ripple through the river, curling and uncurling with the wind. It’s impossible to see past the surface, the reflection of the sun and the deep blue tint, obscuring what might lurk below.

Observing the view, they can hear cyclists ring their bells behind them to shoo the other passersby in various sports gear out of their way, while the pigeons picking at the ground flutter back onto the cool grass. Leon has his forearms resting on the railing, looking over the water, as he watches a ferry swim idly downstream. Next to him, Chris takes off his suit jacket, draping it over the crook of his elbow, before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Do you want to go look at the lockets?” He asks almost out of the blue, after they’ve been quiet for a while.

“What lockets?”

Leon turns his head to see the man still staring out onto the water, the soft glow of the sun through the treetops illuminating him in warm light. Chris’ eyes are amber now, the colour of a sunset right before dusk.

“You know about lovelockets right? They’re attached to the bridge nearby.”

He remembers some vague concept of their common use, though he’s never cared much for them until now, which makes Chris’ sudden interest even more confounding.

“I’ve heard about it?” He ultimately lands on, tone questioning, not being too sure of himself.

“So?”

Chris smiles patiently, waiting for him to weigh their other options, as Leon’s gaze wanders back to the river ahead. It’s easier to think that way, when he doesn’t have to watch other people’s faces to try and glean how they expect him to respond.

“I mean, I don’t mind, as long as we don’t have to take the train again.”

If that is what Chris wants to do, he’ll gladly go along with it, not having anything better in mind. And maybe he’ll find some appreciation for trivial romanticism on the way, who knows?

“Just need to do some walking, I think we’ll be fine.” He assures him, laughing lightheartedly.

“Alright then.”

Leon nods, the both of them falling quiet again, just watching the water undulate, as pigeons coo and the constant white noise of the city washes over them. It’s almost tranquil, waiting for the other to straighten up to leave first, while basking in the moment for just a bit longer. For once, they’re in no rush to be anywhere, no one breathing down their neck, or eyeing their every move like hungry vultures.

“Leon?” Chris speaks into their bubble of comfortable silence, his tone carrying a weight to it that has the ever present pressure settling back into his core.

“Yeah?” He says.

“Since when have you been taking antidepressants?”

In the corner of his eye, he can see furrowed brows, worried eyes still shining bright in the sun, the colour of honey and redwood. The question isn’t easy to answer, being one of those many things, Leon prefers not to think about too closely.

“Not long. Since rehab maybe, but I had to switch medication a bunch, so I don’t know for sure.” He replies anyway.

After he got out of the hospital, having been completely sober for the first time in years, the world had dulled beyond the numbness of alcohol. Without the addiction keeping all the fucked up shit inside of him, bottled up, Leon stood alone against the reemergence of his depression. At the time, he’d barely even gotten out of bed, could hardly eat, or sleep, even if he had wanted to drink, there was just no energy left to let him leave the house. The dark persisted for a long time, cloying and heavy, as if it would never let go of him again.

“Did they get you a psychiatrist at the clinic?” Chris wonders out loud, tracking his face like he’s looking for something. The truth maybe?

Drawing on for too long, the silence between them becomes deafening, as Leon struggles to find the right words.

“You know the DSO is careful about third parties.” He relents.

It’s vague, but already more honest than Leon wants to be. Anything he gives away about the predicament of his employment is dangerous knowledge. They had no reservations about threatening the life of a twelve year old girl, to get him to do their bidding, there would be nothing holding them back from coming for his friends too, if they so please.

“Then where–?” 

“I am not self-medicating, if that is what you’re worried about.” Leon cuts Chris off, a bit of annoyance slipping into his tone. Under his breath, he adds: “Sure as hell would pick something more fun.”

“I don’t think it’s legal for the DSO to bar you from medical services.” Chris explains, ever helpful.

Sighing heavily, Leon drops his gaze onto the sleeves of his suit, as he begins to pick at the soft weave of the bandages, peeking out from beneath the shirt cuff. With everything Benford and all who followed in his footsteps did, the resignation dug its roots deep. Paralyzingly so. There’s exactly one way out for him and he’s known it since they’ve pushed their fingers into the bullet wound, just to hear him scream.

"I couldn’t tell you for sure, I know I’ve asked often enough but–” He shakes his head, doesn’t know what lie will keep Chris from asking questions, he can’t honestly answer. “It's just complicated.”

“Is it?” It doesn’t sound like he believes him.

“Yes!” He exclaims, exasperated. “I just– I–” 

Swallowing, he attempts to dampen the memories threatening to pull him under, schooling his expression into careful neutrality. There’s something ticking deep in his mind, making it hard to think clearly. He knows he needs to pull himself back from the precipice, knows he should stop talking about it, until it’s too late to return.

The training, the threats, the violence. It was all designed to break him down, make him promise his complete obedience, just to make the pain stop.

And Leon did.

“If I got treated long-term, I wouldn’t be cleared for field work.” Is what he settles on, the excuse coming easy, not wholly untrue, even if inapplicable to his own specific predicament.

The pinky of Chris’ right hand nudges at his own, hooking around his finger to pull them away from fidgeting with the wound dressing. Even though the touch is minimal, barely there, it’s grounding. In response, his head drops into his hands, raking through his hair to comb it out of his face.

“Would that be so bad? I know I thought about retiring and maybe I would’ve too, if Piers hadn’t–” Chris trails off, gaze fixed far away across the river, seeing something else on the shoreline.

“I know.” Leon leans into the other, temple resting lightly on the top of his shoulder, as he wraps his fingers firm around the other’s biceps. It’s not often Chris talks about his former Lieutenant, his death being one of those stories too difficult to put into words. All Leon can really do is offer up his comfort, insufficient as it may be. “He would’ve done good, I’m sure.”

“Yeah.”

Due to some unforeseen circumstances, Leon had been able to attend Piers’ funeral back then, witnessing first-hand how much of a mess Lanshiang had left Chris. None of them had been doing exceptionally well, but he–

He’d received more than one worried phone call from Claire during that time.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be, I mean can you imagine growing old with what we do?” The chuckle he gives is dry, devoid of much joy, as the bitter truth behind it shines through.

“It’s odd to think about, with everything that happened,” Chris agrees, before tugging Leon close in turn, the pads of his fingers pressing into the ball of his shoulder. “but if I don’t have to do it alone, I might just get there.”

“I was made to be an agent, I wouldn’t even know what to do with all that time on my hands.”

There’s a smile on his face but it feels empty. The world lays tilted on its side, hair falling in front of his eyes, with no intention of moving away from Chris’ embrace.

“You’re more than just a soldier, Leon.” The other states in a soft tone, almost like he’s surprised by Leon’s claim.

But as ‘The President’s Sword’, Leon has been forged for his purpose, through fire and steel. If he can’t live up to the extrinsically imposed role, then what has all the pain been good for?

“I’ll let the DSO know.” He forces out a choked laugh, feeling his throat close up again with the wave of emotion, threatening to swallow him up.

Giving a displeased hum, Chris and him fall quiet again, ruminating in their own heads, while, whether subconsciously, or deliberately, the other moves his palm up and down Leon’s arm, lingering close.

“Hunnigan’s been trying to help, she’s not a psychiatrist but if it gets the job done, it can’t be that bad, right?”

The contact drops away, as Chris leans back to inspect the uncertain twitch of his face beneath the shadow of trees draping over them. Hunching his shoulders some more, Leon flicks his eyes between Chris’ intense stare and the bottom of his chin, until the other says:

“She’s handling your medication?”

The tone Chris uses sounds more disbelieving than upset. Nonetheless, Leon can only nod, knowing full well what he and Hunnigan have been doing, is anything but safe.

“I don’t like the thought of that.” Chris shakes his head, expression conflicted, as he scratches at his beard, like the man often does, when he feels out of his depths.

“None of us do, but it’s my best option at the moment.” Once again, Leon can do nothing more than sigh in defeat, having long arrived at his wit’s end.

“You know, you worry me sometimes.”

Chris bumps their shoulders lightly, voice rumbling deep in his chest. It tugs at his heart, makes him feel guilty, before Leon turns to face the river mumbling a quiet:

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just–” A weary sigh, his broad palm easing Leon’s nervous fingers away from the edge of the bandage. “Don’t keep all of it bottled up.”

Leon has started to unravel the threads at his wrist, before Chris intertwines their fingers and says: 

“Come on, let’s go count some padlocks.”

He pushes off the railing, turning to head down the pathway to their left, before urging Leon along, tugging at their joined hands. Letting himself be guided, he falls into lock-step with him, one hand sliding back in his pocket.

“Whatever you say.” He smiles, more earnest now.

***

Strolling past the endless amount of various locks attached to the fencing of the bridge takes his mind off things for a while, the wind whipping around them, as they make it halfway across, before deciding to turn around again.

They encounter a couple on the way back, picking a suitable place for their own padlock, even though the space is already overladen with hundreds of them. It doesn’t seem to bother the lovebirds too much though, as they click it closed together and chuck the key into the river beneath.

The rest of the day is a slow draw, leaving them with enough time to have a walk through the park and pick somewhere to eat. The food is fine and Leon actually feels hungry this time, the side effects of his medication blessedly absent for the day. Before they return to their meeting point, they make some detours too, trying to stay away from the prospect of having to put on a show again. But even without the eyes on them, Chris still reaches out for him, like he’s seen him do with Claire, or Jill a thousand times before. A warm hand on his back, the ghost of fingers carding through his messy hair, his palm in his own, steady and strong, not letting go.

They separate only for about half an hour, in which Chris disappears to somewhere he’s reluctant to disclose, while Leon occupies himself by flipping through an endless collection of vinyl records. It’s a small store, off the main street, in a small alley-way. Looking around, he finds some stuff popular in his youth, mostly recognizing the cover art from when his highschool friends would swap their CDs at lunch break.

He leaves them be though, in favour of searching for something to present to Chris, when he comes back. As far as Leon remembers, the other at least has an old record player at home, unlike Leon, who has settled for more, or less legal downloads. It’s not much but he shows the other his findings anyway, especially proud of the ‘Made in Heaven’ vinyl he’s discovered. Chris laughs when he sees it, telling him about the matching leather jackets he and Claire used to wear, to which Leon just reminds him of how much zombie gore they had to scrub out of Claire’s, to make it wearable again.

In the end, they don’t buy anything, much to the disgruntlement of the owner, who they thank for his time anyway when leaving. Leon tries to prod for where Chris has been, as they eventually make their way back to the cathedral, though the other just shrugs at him and says: ‘around’ , before changing the subject again. It’s not a mystery Leon is too set on trying to solve, so he lets him have it, contentedly entangling their fingers once more.

They meet up with Mr. Koch and the other couple again, to set off back to their hotel, Leon luckily ending up on one of the outer edges, where he’s being mostly left alone, as he very intently stares at their joined hands on Chris’ thigh.

Coming back presents them with a bustle of people, more PRISM employees filling the halls than they’ve seen since they arrived, as they cut a clear path to and from the same location.

“Sorry about the chaos, we’re setting everything up for the convention tomorrow.” Koch mentions, as he sees him and Chris stop for a second after entering.

“Seems like you’ve got a lot of work on your hands.” Leon laughs, following Koch towards the elevator to their floor.

“Of course. We have to make preparations for the shipment of specimens tomorrow, ensure it’s all up to standard.” He waves it off casually, while the blood in Leon’s face runs ice-cold all of a sudden.

“So it’ll be quite a show, I assume.” The smile freezes on his face.

“Always is, though we will be offering something new this year too. Even our other patrons haven’t been privy to it yet.” Koch beams with pride, the haughty kind of arrogance, which so many of these BOW maniacs possess, shining through more than usual.

They stop at the elevator doors, none of them moving to press it, as he feels Chris’ gaze wandering to the set of stairs leading upwards, the other eternally wary of taking the lift.

“We’ll be very interested to see what that will entail.” Leon nods.

A nervous flutter sits in his stomach, as they say their goodbyes to Koch, the other enthusiastically shaking their hands, reminding them of the planned schedule tomorrow. When they take the stairs to their floor, Leon’s head already mills the possibilities through, of what kind of specimen they’ll be presented with tomorrow, if any of it will still be alive.

Chris and him discuss their strategy for the coming day over coffee, instead of going straight to bed, sitting around Leon’s laptop  and the few handwritten notes they put together for hours. They don’t have much to go off of after only two days but they both agree that sticking together for now will serve them best, laying off any risk-taking for the auction later in the week.

It’s only when the stars have been up outside their window for a long while and the rest of the world has fallen still in the depth of night, they eventually head to bed themselves.

Chapter Text

Leon doesn’t dream that night, sleep coming easy and staying that way for a full eight hours. It’s restful and soft. When he wakes up, there’s still Chris in the bed beside him, chest exposed to the cool morning air, as he lays on his side and drools into his pillow. Without really meaning to, he watches him quietly, his ribcage moving in a low rhythm beneath packed muscle, as Chris’ face is slack with relaxation, deep in sleep. He looks peaceful like this, unburdened by the usual worry following his steps like a second shadow.

It almost makes Leon want to reach out, to run the pad of his thumb over the smooth line of his brow, tracing down a path to his cheekbone and jaw. For a long while, he imagines what it would be like to touch Chris’ naked skin, feeling the coarse chest hair glide between his fingers and the warm glow of his soft stomach, the other touching him in return, not minding the ugly scars, he hides beneath sweaters and heavy leather jackets.

The tender fantasies entertain him, until his mind is awake enough for reality to catch up with him again, which is when Leon decides he has lain around too long already, forcing himself to leave the comfortable cloud of his blanket.

Ordering breakfast for them both, he takes care of his medication, making coffee and getting dressed even before the other has a chance to wake up. For once, Leon feels lighter than usual, still relaxed from the previous day, thinking maybe this mission won’t turn out as bad as he’d anticipated.

Chris joins him eventually, dress-shirt unbuttoned, while he nurses his coffee with a pleased hum. Meanwhile Leon is trying to hide how much he enjoys the view, having that bear of a man sitting sleep-ruffled and chest exposed, across from him, as he’s utterly consumed by the breakfast, Leon has slid over on its tray.

Private thoughts coursing through his conscience once again, Leon startles, when there’s a sudden cough from Chris’ side, the other clearing his throat, as if to alert his attention.

“My eyes are up here, if you don’t mind.” The smirk in his voice is so obvious, Leon doesn’t even have to lift his gaze to catch it. 

Abruptly noticing he’s been unabashedly staring at the upmost button straining against Chris’ firm muscles, he reacts in a rush. If it weren’t for the bit of self-control, Leon’s neglected libido can still muster up, he’d certainly be drooling already, an embarrassing amount of saliva having gathered beneath his tongue in the interim. Hurriedly, he swallows it down, so he can talk his way out of eyeing up his friend.

“Sorry, I was distracted.” He mumbles, pinching his earlobe with two fingers, as he tugs lightly at the soft flesh.

It’s already hard enough being on this mission with Chris, he doesn’t need to make it even more complicated by so plainly lusting after the man.

“No harm done.”

Having ceased to wolf down his breakfast, Chris sets down the plate he’s been cradling in one palm, before getting up to raise his arms in a languid stretch, vertebrae cracking one after another. The bottom of the shirt frees itself from his waistband, tanned skin peeking from the small gap, drawing Leon’s eye almost automatically. A bit of fat rounds out Chris’ outline, covering the tightly packed muscle, to spill over the cinch of his belt, a soft smattering of dark hair hinting at the remaining love trail hiding beneath the shirt.

When Chris eventually lets his arms drop again, yawning heartily, Leon instead fixes onto the dark brown liquid in his mug, biting his lip guiltily, as he tracks the reflection dancing atop the surface. 

“That reminds me,” Chris picks up their thready conversation again, already ambling towards the bedroom door. “I got us a little something yesterday.”

There’s no chance for Leon to get a word in, before the other has already disappeared into the adjoining room, returning only moments later with a small paper envelope balanced between two fingers. He scoots close beside him, disregarding Leon’s well-protected personal space, to present him with his souvenir. Carefully, Leon straightens up, setting his cup onto the coffee table, as he inquires:

“What’s that?”

“I got it yesterday, thought you might like it.” He gestures to the packet, urging Leon to take it.

“Oh, okay. Uhm–” The paper crackles in his hold, feeling smooth and delicate. Unsure what to say, he digs in his mind for the last time he’d received a gift, coming up empty. “Thank you.”

Is what he ultimately lands on, tone stilted and awkward, just holding the weight of the present in his palms for another moment.

“Do you want to look inside?”

“Right, yes, of course.”

Fumbling for a second, Leon regains his bearings, as he tentatively peels back the sellotape to unfold the flaps of the packaging. Drawing it forth, he finds a small, red padlock inside, its key still attached at the bottom. It looks tiny and unassuming in his hold, Leon regarding the polished metal, like it's precious gold.

“Is this–?” The words run dry, as realization slowly dawns on him, turning the item over to reveal an artful engraving carved in silver onto the front.

It’s just their names. 

‘Leon + Chris’

No romantic messaging, or cheesy decoration, only two simple words but even those cause Leon’s heart to lose its rhythm, pounding so loud, he can hear the blood getting pumped past his eardrums.

“Too much?” Chris asks at his hesitation, brows furrowed with thought.

They’re friends, nothing but good friends. This could mean anything.

Leon reminds himself, swallowing around his dry tongue, as he turns the present in his fingers, the red shining in the morning light.

“Not at all. Thank you, it’s sweet.”

Eyes downcast, he runs his thumb over the etching, tracing the letters. His hair falls in front of his eyes, obfuscating the light blush he can feel, warm, on his cheeks. Absently, there’s the question of expectation, which might be attached to the gesture but Leon chooses to ignore it for now, maybe even willing to fulfill them if the other asked.

“I know we're supposed to hang it up somewhere but I thought it would make a good key chain. If you want to.”

Chris suggests, at which Leon reaches inside his pant’s pocket to retrieve the bundle of keys, he keeps on his person. Opening the padlock, he slides the metal loop through the ring holding his set together, before clicking it shut again.

“Can’t promise you that I won’t lose it at some point.” He laughs, regarding the thing locked in place now, more or less permanently attached to the rest of his keys.

Something in his chest flutters at the sight, though Leon’s unsure if it’s anxiety, or excitement. Being bound to something, someone, has not always treated him well and if the wrong people find out about his affections–

“I won’t blame you. I lost more than just my keys to a BOW's maw, on more than one occasion.” Chris gives him a lopsided grin, shaking himself demonstrably, as he seems to remember a particularly close call with some undead amalgamation.

“Guess we’re lucky to still have all of our limbs?” A quiet chuckle escapes him, as he smiles back at the other, fingers still entangled with his clanking keys. 

“Or our heads.” He counters, causing them both to laugh momentarily, despite the morbid humour.

Fiddling with the padlock once more, Leon’s nervous hands remove the key from the lock, turning the small metal thing in his hand, like he’s unsure what to do with it.

“So, where do I put the key now? Keeping it with the lock seems kind of pointless.” He states, more to himself than the man still sitting awfully close at his side, emanating a comfortable warmth, even through his clothes.

After a small lapse of silence, Chris ducks his head, attempting to look past the curtain of hair shielding Leon’s eyes. Simultaneously, he reaches out to slide the pads of his fingers past Leon’s wrist and up his scarred palm, curled loosely around the key.

“I suppose I could take it off your hands.” He offers gently, like he’s doing Leon a favour.

Giving it to him is a purely symbolic act, he's well aware, nothing tethering him to the thing beyond the extent to which he allows it. If Leon would want to get rid of it, he could at any time.

Nevertheless, it’s allowing the other access to their bond,

to Leon’s heart.

“I wouldn’t mind that.” He smiles, shyly.

Losing himself in the loving touch, the key is slipped from his grasp, before Chris slides it onto his own keyring and seals their unspoken pact. 

After the odd moment of unforeseen intimacy passes, they continue their meal, both proceeding to ready themselves for the day thereafter. Leon buttons up his black vest with silver accents over its matching shirts, as Chris grumbles about his own suit being unbearable to wear in the late summer heat, which is making its first appearance in their sunlight-flooded bedroom.

He talks him into putting on his tie anyway, having to adjust the knot once Chris lets him fiddle with his collar. In the end, they’re both good to go, Chris in his black suit jacket with his red and gold tie, the Desert Eagle back in its holster and Leon shrugging on his own blazer, where he hides the combat knife in the lining, before they head down to breakfast once more.

Today they’re having English tea, complete with baked goods and sandwiches, most of the others sitting in little groups around the round tables, which fill the dining hall, leaving Chris and Leon to choose their own unoccupied space for the time being. The breakfast is a slow trickle though, most guests arriving at a later hour to catch some more precious sleep.

Right when Chris and Leon had just decided they’d be done eating for now, Ann and Theresa come to sit with them for a chat, only to talk them into sharing a pot of Earl Grey. The longer they sit around doing nothing, the more nervous Leon gets, bouncing his leg beneath the table, as he keeps wondering about what will await them in just over an hour.

“I really hope they’ll keep the introductory section short this time.” Theresa mentions at some point, stirring milk into her tea.

Closing her eyes, as she lifts the cup to her lips, Ann smiles, like her wife has just told an amusing joke. 

“You know it will probably be the same as every year my dear, no matter how often we complain to the organizers.” She waves her hand in a loose circle, her golden bracelets shifting on her arm with a quiet jingle. 

“It’s a waste of our time at this point,” She shakes her head in response. “I’m still saying we should just skip the speeches.”

Leon follows the exchange intently, glancing back and forth between the pair and his own cup of tea. The liquid still tastes faintly bitter, when he takes another sip. 

“Now that would be awfully rude, besides a little birdy told me, they might be finally presenting something new.” Ann winks at her, though Theresa just raises a questioning brow, the rest of her face an impenetrable mask.

Expecting them to weigh in on the discussion, Leon feels the attention of the two shift towards Chris and him. Setting down his cup again, he offers his own contribution:

“Mr. Koch mentioned something similar yesterday, do you have any idea what that might be?”

His tone is coloured in innocent curiosity, as Leon consciously softens the hard set of his face, unclenching his jaw from where he’d been grinding his teeth in anxious anticipation. 

“I think most of us have a pretty good idea, yes, but I’m not one to spoil the surprise.”

Ann’s eyes glint at them from above the rim of her glasses, while she soaks a biscuit in her cup. On his seat, Leon shifts, his fingers tracing the porcelain handle of his own mug, the steaming heat seeping through to burn his fingertips.

“Of course.” He smiles.

“Though I must say, I did think you two would have already gotten it out of Mr. and Mrs. Lazar, after the dinner on Monday.” Ann mentions as if in passing, her eyes lowered on the crumbling cookie.

Crossing his legs, Leon forces himself to stay relaxed, as he leans back in his chair. It’s weird Ann knows who they’ve been having dinner with and it’s not like the elderly woman is unaware of it, which leaves Leon to wonder if their act hasn’t been selling as well as he thought.

“I think they were similarly fond of keeping up the tension.”

He cocks his head to the side, with a broad smile, the smooth strands of his combed hair falling in front of his face. Below the table he’s sneaking his hand onto Chris’ thigh to lightly tap it, communicating something might be off here. 

Noisily, Ann giggles, while trying to swallow the rest of her biscuit. “I’m surprised they didn’t boast about it for the whole meal to be honest, but then again, maybe they lacked the proper incentive.”

She leans forward, sharing a meaningful look with her wife, who seems as equally amused as she is. 

“With incentive you mean–?” Chris’ voice rumbles beside him, pleasantly deep, as it’s always been.

“Alcohol my dear. ‘In vinum veritas’ .” She quotes cheekily, dropping another sugar cube in her cup, stirring in a way that has her spoon hit the inside of the ceramic with every rotation.

Without another word, Leon nods curtly, before resuming to drink his own tea. He’s sure most of the people here have a taste for overindulging and if he hadn’t freaked out then, they might’ve even gotten more out of them. Though besides the honesty, more often than not, drunk confessions do tend to lack the proper details.

The hour passes quickly after that, PRISM employees herding most of the guests through the castle, towards a room looking almost like it once was meant to function as an antechamber. Instead of preserving the historical flair of the building though, all of the heavy curtains have been drawn tightly shut.

The room is lit only by the glaring overhead lights, their bright white cones, drowning out the giant chandelier dangling above them. At the back of the room, in front of rows upon rows of cushioned chairs, a stage has been put up, complete with an orator’s podium and an empty whiteboard. On the opposite wall to where they’ve entered, another set of double doors leads into the adjoining space, though for now, they remain firmly shut, security personnel stationed at its sides in front of a red rope spanned between two golden poles.

A little lost at first, Chris and Leon linger at the back of the hall for a while, watching the other guests find their seats, before Mr. Koch severs himself from another group to show them where to sit. The man seems to be distracted by the numerous other patrons bustling around them, which is why Leon doesn’t mention his hand wrapping around his elbow to guide them through the room, even though the unwelcome touch crawls under his skin, like there’s insects burrowing into him.

They take their seats in a middle row, bracketed on both sides by more chairs with folded name-cards sitting neatly on the cushions. Leon and Chris pluck up their own, cramming them in the pockets of their pants, together with the guide book Leon has used to keep short notes for now.

Eventually, an older gentleman settles next to Leon, his left eye’s pupil a milky white, obviously having lost his vision, as the man has to turn his entire head to get a good look at Leon, before he greets him with practiced politeness. Chris gets a young woman seated next to him, her almost white bleached hair tied into a high ponytail, while she fixes the drape of her skirt compulsively, as she sits down.

Once everyone is settled and the entrance doors have been shut, the lights dim incrementally, until the chatter starts to die down with it. In front of them, someone climbs the stairs to the hardwood stage, the woman’s heels clicking loudly on the flooring, until she positions herself behind the podium, quickly righting the line of her pants suit.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” She says, her words echoing through the entire room. “Welcome to PRISM’s annual convention for pharmaceutical goods and services. I know you are waiting for my dear colleague, Dr. Diavatis, to announce this year's newest developments but allow me a short introduction for those of you, who might be participating for the first time.”

She employs a pregnant pause to let everyone steep in her words for a while, her lips curving into a smile so fake, Leon’s taken aback by how uncanny it looks.

“As per usual, Dr. Diavatis will be showcasing PRISM's own exclusive services in just a moment, giving you an impression of our many successes throughout the history of our company, after which everyone will be free to enter the convention area to have a look at the offers of our vetted business partners, as well as our own of course.”

She gives an unnatural wink, the move carefully practiced, just like the rest of her performance.

“But now, may I introduce to you, our esteemed head researcher, Dr. Sofia Diavatis.” She gestures for the set of stairs, where the woman they’ve met at the reception strides up the steps elegantly, the white lab coat fitting her frame perfectly.

The room fills with the sound of clapping, as the people around them give their applause. Chris and Leon join in, the nameless person at the podium stepping back, to let Diavatis settle in her place and disappearing down to the side of the stage unnoticed. The doctor now stands and waits until the noise eventually dies down.

"Well, thank you for the warm welcome." She begins, picking up a small remote. With a flash of light, the canvas behind her illuminates, showing the beamer projection of the company's logo.

The slide show she presents them with, takes her about three quarters of an hour to get through.

All the while Leon is fumbling for the right words to describe what they're seeing. On a loose piece of paper, stuffed between the pages of their booklet, he’s trying to keep track by scrawling in his horribly butchered version of shorthand. Though there’s barely time to glance down to see if any of it is even legible. He doesn’t think he’ll need them though, sure he'll remember, as he fights down the first rush of nausea.

“The virus has been engineered to inhibit any perception of bodily needs, while simultaneously slowing the metabolism. The cognitive function of the subject lowers over time, though they can still be used for simple tasks. Their level of obedience is especially exceptional.”

The People in the video she’s showing look dead on their feet, eyes sunken into their sockets, as they stare forward, following their given tasks. There’s none of the aggression BOWs usually exhibit, just absolute silence, as the empty husks of what once were people keep working, despite the way they’re obviously wasting away where they stand.

Someone in the video collapses, not a sound leaving their throat, as they drop to the ground and move no more. Noone reacts, someone steps over the corpse, like it’s not even there.

“Kept properly, the subjects can perform at peak productivity for about a year, before they need to be replaced.”

It goes on like this, video footage of all of PRISM’s 'successes' playing in the background, as the doctor explains the advantages of deploying their artificially engineered solutions, like they’re not burning through lifes at rapid speed.

A virus for increasing meat production, causing muscle growth so immense it kills the host in a matter of hours, before falling apart itself.

Addictive substances to keep people in line, their withdrawal symptoms unbearable to go through. 

Specifically mutated virus strains to grow into golgotha-like BOWs used in fighting rings.

It only gets worse the longer he listens, his hands shaking so bad, he can barely hold the pencil steady enough to note down the next atrocity. He doesn’t dare to move his eyes from the whiteboard, doubting that if he did, he could make himself look up again.

Despite everything, despite the violence, the countless near-apocalypses and the horrible crimes he watched his own government commit, Leon still can’t find it in himself to be indifferent to human suffering.

A lot of the people working at the DSO practice their lack of empathy like a well worn path but he’d never been able to kill this bud of compassion entirely, forever causing him to take stupid risks, going as far as to disobey thoughtlessly, if it means there’s one more life he can save. 

Which is why it takes everything in Leon to keep sitting still and listen, instead of burning the whole place to the ground right then and there.

The projector image changes again, Leon steeling himself for the next nightmare, when Dr. Diavatis pauses in her speech.

"I am certain you've all been curious, as to the development of our most recent project and I am overjoyed to announce that we'll now be able to present some promising results."

The sound of the remote clicking resounds in the dead silent room, everyone holding their breath for what's coming next.

"With our partners from The Connections we've been working with the black mold samples on finding a way to keep the spores concentrated and contained by bonding it to other biological matter." 

The slideshow depicts several graphs, which Leon is almost certain are just there to look pretty, before moving on to a documentation of some black matter in different stages of development, until the amorphous shape moving inside a petri dish changes into something terrifyingly human looking, suspended in a nutrient solution.

"In short, we've created a new form of intelligent life with yet undiscovered potential." She says.

What she means though, appears moments later in the shape of a small human child, sitting in an empty observation room, more akin to a cell. She can't be older than four years old, so much younger than Sherry, when– 

Her black hair hangs in her eyes, as she rocks softly back and forth, self-soothing.

‘Experiment #52, potential use of E-002 as a bio-organic weapon’

A voice off camera says, as the door in the child's cell is opened shortly to allow a panicked looking man to be pushed inside. Leon's mouth goes dry as he watches, transfixed. The man is yelling for someone outside, banging against the door, as the girl behind him slowly rises to her feet.

‘You're not my mommy.’ Her voice rings high, as she reaches out with one tiny hand, her face pale and round with baby fat.

‘Get away from me, you freak!’ The man cringes away from her touch, shouting at her with burning ire in his eyes.

The girl, though, just stares at him for a moment, blinking like she doesn't understand what he's saying.

‘Can we play together?’

She touches him, the man crumpling to the ground instantaneously with a choked off scream. They all watch as the time-stamp in the corner of the video ticks by, while the black mold spreading from where the girl grazed his skin eats away at him, the man twisting and winding in agony.

The little girl on the other hand just crouches down in her white dress, knees tucked close to her body, watching curiously. For some reason, they are spared the noise, until the man finally stops moving with a sudden spray of blood and dark mucus, his shape almost entirely engrossed with a pulsing black mass. It almost seems like the child isn't bothered by the grime sullying her clothes at all, blood smearing down her face, as a broad grin spreads on her lips.

Then, slowly, the molded stirs back to life.

At some point, the pencil in Leon's hand disappears, having stopped its writing without his say-so. Vaguely, he registers a pressure wrapping around his palm, though he is too distracted with fighting down the overwhelming urge to vomit, to acknowledge it.

When Diavatis finally closes her speech, the projector going dark again, the room around them erupts into applause, the noise jarring where there was nothing but the doctor’s voice before.

He swallows once, twice, then his body starts moving on his own and he claps too.

It's a little bit like he isn't entirely tethered anymore, his limbs feeling leaden, as he rises to his feet again with the rest of the crowd. He's just about to maneuver himself out of their seating arrangement, towards the now opened double door at his right, when someone halts him gently. They move to face him, hands applying the barest amount of pressure and it takes Leon a concerning amount of time to recognize Chris, sizing him up and down with a deep furrow carved between his brows.

"Should we take a break?" He asks, after a long moment, Leon having trouble keeping his eyes focused on the other man, the flashing images of the videos burned into the forefront of his mind.

He shakes his head, shakes off the stupor freezing him in place, saying:

"No, I'm fine. Let's go."

Chris doesn't look well either, he realizes, his skin drained of its usual colour, restless hands searching for something to hold on to, before they wrap around Leon's fingers and wrist. Going easily with the pull of Chris' body, the flow of the crowd guides them into the next room, as he lets himself float in that inbetween state of disconnect, hoping Chris can hold on long enough for them to get through this. 

The convention area is huge, the marble walls impossibly high and the size of the room reminiscent only of warehouses, or empty museums. Except, this one is filled with even more people, dressed in their company's colours, manning the various booths and stages, to advertise their gruesome research. There are more businesses like PRISM, some names familiar to Leon, while some of which he’s never heard of before. Then there are the booths with no official names attached, the ones they're just supposed to know , or be introduced to, words like 'The Family', or 'The Connections' floating through the room, followed by an aura of uneasiness, as it's made more than apparent, no one does business with them on a whim.

They manage to get closer to one such endeavor once, Mr. Lazar still feeling bad enough about the botched dinner, to force conversation between them and a group of mercenaries, mainly operating in Romania, though they depart rather quickly after Lazar is gone with only a nondescript calling card to show for it.

Apart from gathering more intel, he circles the convention area a few more times, if only to avoid the live, or dead exhibits at the far back of the room. But no matter where he positions himself, it seems like there's no escape from the skittering feeling of danger, nestling in its usual nook, with the practice of too many missions gone awry.

It's like a magnetic pull, the glass cases and iron cages drawing him in again and again, as if he's drifting on a wave pulling him farther and farther from the shore, out on the vast, unforgiving sea.

One moment Chris and him are still side by side, turning down another sales-pitch from the newest up-and-coming virologists, the next, Leon's alone, lost in a flood of people pushing him forward. When he turns to look for him, he's already out of sight, so he keeps walking, like nothing is amiss, his legs carrying him of their own accord. All the while he's scanning the room for–

The exhibits are big, towering over him, elevated by stages and plinths, like they're pieces of art. His head buzzes with the muffled sounds coming from behind the plexi-glass. Groaning, screeching, chittering, flesh squelching, wings fluttering. It's a cacophony of nightmares.

His heart beats wildly in his chest, as he stares into dead eyes and rotting faces, some BOWs mutated beyond recognition from the human once inside, with festering wounds, or gas leaking from oversized pores. Itching for a gun, his hand wanders to his thigh instinctively, only to come up empty.

He panics, almost draws the knife from the lining of his jacket, when his eyes land on another exhibit.

There’s nothing he can do but to step closer, the burning pain in his sternum urging him forwards. In a glass encasement sits, unmoving, the bloody corpse of a Las Plagas infected. Their head is half torn apart by the emerging parasite exploding from their throat, to open in a meaty, four petaled flower, spiked with teeth and a serrated sucker in its middle. The top half of the BOW hangs suspended from wires and hooks, holding the intricate parts of the Plaga aloft, while the rest of their body is a crumpled mess, exposed skin lined deep by the black veins, Leon is so intimately familiar with.

Leon knows he killed Saddler, knows there's no part of the Plaga left inside him, has the scar on his sternum to attest for it, but still– 

There's something crawling under his skin, pushing outward, the parasite webbing through his lungs, digging into his spine with serrated limbs. Blood sticks to the roof of his mouth, his back is set aflame, as the infestation digs its claws deeper into the nerve endings, forcing his muscles to seize under its command. 

‘Sacrificial lamb, you will receive our most sacred body.’

A disembodied voice echoes through his skull. He’s back in Spain.

Rain starts to fall from the clouded sky.

***

Leon and him don't exactly get separated, it's more that Chris is distracted for just a moment, letting go of his arm shortly and the other wanders off. He's irritated at first, the convention being hard enough to traverse, without having to keep an eye on his mission partner, though when he eventually finds him again, something is seriously wrong.  

They're in between display cases and steel cages, housing the 'specimen' Koch had mentioned the day before and Leon is staring wide-eyed at a mangled corpse, laying collapsed behind a layer of glass. Surrounding them are BOWs of all variety, spanning way back to the earliest G-Virus infected, categorized and equipped with a price tag, should anyone desire a sample, yet the thing which had stopped Leon in his tracks, is barely out of the ordinary, let alone alive.

"There you are." Chris tries tentatively, hoping Leon's still with him enough to react.

When he doesn't answer, his gaze trails back to the corpse, studying the mutation to deduce which virus might have caused it. It's only when he notices the black lines marring its skin, that he finally understands.

One of Leon's hands presses against his sternum, the incision scar certainly sitting at the same spot. Very carefully, Chris touches the back of it, to pull it away, before he wraps his own palms around the other’s.

"Hey Leon, are you alright?" He asks in a low voice, barely loud enough to carry farther than their little circle. 

It takes him a concerningly long time to tear his eyes away from the display and look at Chris, his whole body tense, shoulders set in a rigid line. When he eventually does, his expression is nothing short of haunted, gaze clouded, seeming far away. He blinks a few times, swatting at his bangs distractedly, like the sensation of hair touching his skin is bothering him, before answering in a quavering voice.

"Can you feel the rain too?"

At the confusing question, Chris is pretty sure his eyebrows must be doing something funny, losing control over his facial expression for a second, before he reels in the sudden overwhelming dread washing through him. Leon is calm in a way trapped animals are, when they eventually resign themselves to their fate. It’s utterly unnerving, because Chris has an inkling, this state of mind won’t last for very long.

“Leon, love,” He tries carefully, pulling the other man closer to him, positioning his own body between his mission partner and the rest of the room, like that’s enough to shield him from danger coming their way. “Should we leave?”

Still slow on the uptake, Leon’s brain mulls through the words sluggishly, as the man sways in his grip, legs unsteady and eyes glazed over. His lips part after a while, everything about him screaming that he wants to agree, yet his eyebrows draw tight with some sort of inner turmoil.

“We can’t, we have to–” He shakes his head, distress crossing his features. “I need to save Ashley.”

Running his thumbs over Leon’s upper arms, Chris hopes it works in grounding the other enough, to draw him back out of this nightmare but Leon just looks incrementally more panicked, as – what Chris suspects is a flashback – intensifies.

“I know,” He says sympathetically, troubled by his own inability to figure out the right thing to do here. “Let me help you, okay?”

Leon looks at him, like Chris has just handed him the world, some of the anxiety easing out of his muscles. He nods, blinking heavily, before he draws in another shuddering breath, pain flitting over his features momentarily.

“Chris, Something is wrong–”

The next intake of air is a gasp, hand shooting back up to clench around the fabric at his chest, the tie and shirt crumpling in his grip. Taking another step closer, Chris cups his face in his palms to turn it back upwards, Leon’s expression slowly breaking from the mask he’s usually so good at upholding, as pure horror begins to shine through the cracks.

“Don’t worry about it for now.” He smooths out the tense wrinkles beneath his eye, feeling the twitch in Leon’s cheek at the movement. “You trust me, don’t you?” Chris adds then, just to make sure.

Leon’s eyes flutter closed, already giving him enough of an answer, as he leaves himself open and vulnerable in Chris’ grasp. Then he swallows, leans just so, into his touch, before he says:

“Yes, I trust you. I trust you.”

When they turn to depart, Leon is pliant in his grasp, saying nothing, while Chris slings his arm around the other’s waist to hold him steady.

As he leads them past the exhibits, back into the main area though, Chris catches sight of something unusual, placed among the mostly undead subjects, which makes him pause for a moment.

Enthroned on a high plinth, inside another glass case, a glob of black amorphous goo slithers in circles, like it’s trying to find the exit of its translucent prison. Below the specimen, a metal badge gives a name to the new disease, which Chris has, thus far, only seen in the video footage.

‘Molded sample, taken from left hand, retained limited motor function (23.7.2016)’

Something tight, coils around his chest at the sight, as the realization finally sinks in, what the stakes of this mission are and that, despite not having to shoot their way out like usual, they cannot fail either way. If they don’t manage to procure a sample of this new BOW, their chances of preventing another major outbreak will be low, the moment one of those rich maniacs decides on what to do with it.

For now though, Chris silently passes the display, focused on taking care of Leon first and foremost, who has fallen completely silent, as his eyes fixate on the floor, mind somewhere else. They dodge most of the other nosy attendees, who look at them like they’re just another one of the exhibits and almost make it back to the antechamber, before an unfortunate encounter forces them to stop in their tracks.

When Koch suddenly turns around the corner, striding through the double doors, Chris barely manages to avoid colliding with him. At the sight of the other man, he wraps his fingers more solidly around Leon’s middle, tugging him to press against his side.

Possessive.

Chris thinks uncomfortably, though Leon goes willingly at his insistence, not seeming to mind his groping much, as he barely acknowledges both him, or Mr. Koch. In truth though, Chris isn’t sure if he’s being overbearing, or protective. The way Koch has been looking at Leon, having rubbed him the wrong way ever since they’ve been in that limousine together.

“Mr. Carpenter, are you already leaving?” The man asks, his five o’ clock shadow adding a bit more ruggedness to the hard angles of his face, its features never softening, no matter how much he smiles and fawns.

Chris nods, building himself up to his full height, as he shifts to put himself fully between Leon and him. “I’m afraid so, my husband hasn’t been feeling too well and we thought we could catch a bit of fresh air.”

The other hums understandingly, eyebrows curving in mock concern, as his gaze rakes over Leon, like he’s trying to catch them in their lie. 

“How unfortunate, is he sick?” Koch asks, smoothing two fingers over the short blonde hair at his own temple to push the stray piece back behind his ear. 

“Oh no, he probably just had a bit too much to drink, even though I told him it’d be a bad idea this early in the day.”

Chris tells him the memory of Leon limply hanging from his shoulder, after picking him off the curb in the worst part of town, doing enough for him to make it sound honest. Incidentally, he prays to whichever gods there are, to never have to do it again.

“Well, can’t blame a guy for indulging every once in a while.” Koch shrugs dismissively. “But if you’d like, I can take it from here and accompany him to your room, so you can stay and enjoy our convention a bit longer.”

His hands reach out towards Leon expectantly, the latter giving a low noise of distress, before shuffling backwards. Chris follows the movement, side-stepping Koch and maneuvering them right under the doorframe. Even the idea of leaving Leon alone with Koch makes his hackles rise, suddenly very uncomfortable, especially considering the state the other is currently in. 

“No, thank you.” Chris waves him off, adding: “He’s my husband after all, I guess I’m kinda stuck with him.”

Even though he doesn’t feel like it, at all, he forces himself to laugh in an attempt to ease the tension.

“Of course.” Koch barks right back, a huge grin on his face, while stuffing his empty hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting three-piece. “The convention room will be accessible until dinner, if you both want to join again at a later time.” He continues, reverting back to the practiced courtesies. 

“We will.” Chris adds briefly, before he rounds Koch’s broad frame completely, trying not to look too much like he needs to drag Leon with him.

***

Leon doesn’t know where he is, having lost track of his surroundings. Voices drone in the background, giving him a headache, as time passes him by either in a rush, or a too slow crawl. No matter what, he’s disoriented, nauseous and scared. Someone’s holding on to his body, the warm pressure steady, as his legs follow wherever they’re taking him. They said they’re going to help him, something about their voice easing the building anxiety in his chest for a little while. Though Leon’s still too wary to let himself relax. The incessant crawl of the parasite through his chest cavity is setting his body aflame, spine burning with every jarring step, the pain so overwhelming, he struggles to reel it all in, to not let it show, even though he's sure he's actively dying by now.

He stumbles up a flight of stairs, carpet muffling the sound of his steps. Then there's the creak of a door, a lock sliding in place, barely audible beneath the all encompassing drum of rain surrounding him. At once, he gasps for air, skin soaked from his own sweat, or the unrelenting downpour that's just suddenly been there . 

When he goes down, it's not a hard fall, the ground cool and smooth, as his legs give out at last. The new position has him dizzy, his head wobbling from side to side, unsure where up, or down is. Though he doesn't know if it even matters, when the thing festering inside him is bound to turn him into one of those monsters eventually, splitting his head into a rose of flesh and gore and teeth.

But there's no time to rest for him, he still needs to save Ashley, find Luis' lab, get the parasites out, to do his godforsaken job, before he's allowed to die in peace. So he reaches for something to hold onto, as he fights to get his feet back under him, the shaking in his limbs making him clumsy and weak. Managing to grasp some metal piping, he heaves himself upwards, as he traps a pained groan behind clenched teeth.

Everything hurts, his sternum an explosion of pins and needles, lungs constricting so tight, he can barely get a full breath in. The room around him is blurry, as he just about manages to stand upright, it’s bright, too warm, the collar of his shirt cutting into his throat, while his stomach twists. Something isn’t right, he knows that, his surroundings too unfamiliar, the hands reaching for him to tug him back down, nothing he can remember from Spain either.

“Leon, stop.”

The voice is far away, deep and bassy. He has to think of Krauser for a second, though that doesn’t feel quite right. It lacks the usual edge, the Major warning him to cut out the whining, or else–

When the hands touch him more firmly though, he still flinches, only going with the too strong pull because his muscles aren’t working as they should.

“I need to–” He tries, air running out quickly. “Ashley, I have to save Ashley.”

They hold him fast, fingers circling his wrists, as he tries to scoot back, getting more distance between himself and whoever’s with him right now. It doesn’t feel threatening, but Leon’s too out of it to know for sure, the wraithlike shadow distorting in front of his eyes, with how violently he’s shaking by now.

“It’s over Leon, you’re not in Spain anymore, you hear me?”

The words rush through him but do not stick, not when his head is droning so loud. He can barely hear his own thoughts, the pain being so present and real and all-encompassing, he can’t help but curl forward, jerking, as a sudden cramp hits him. It sends him coughing, a whimper escaping his parched lips, before he finds the strength to free one hand to dig his fingernails back into his breastbone. There, nestled between his sinews, he can feel something moving, squirming, slithering through his flesh. More sweat breaks out on his forehead, another bout of vertigo having the room spin, until it lists around him.

“Get it out, get it out, get it–”

Spain again. He’s kneeling at the stone altar, in front of Ashley's dying body, Saddler reaching with his writhing scepter for the parasite inside him. It's reaching back, a hot molting pain lancing up his vertebrae, filling his head, until there's nothing else. He's rendered useless, unable to stop Saddler now, with the sheer agony paralyzing him. Leon will die in this cave and when the Plagas is unleashed onto the rest of the world, it'll be his fault alone.

He needs to rip it back out, or at least try while there's still time left.

His hand is forced away from his sternum, leaving the Plaga to burrow deeper into him. Despair swallows him whole, as Leon chokes on a half-aborted sob. “Please, let me–”

It's too much.

The thought appears for a fraction of a second and then the contents of his stomach spill out of his mouth.

Falling forward, his elbows give out under his weight, a thick arm wrapping around his middle to hold him upright instead. He expects the taste of blood, though the most he gets up is acidic and grainy, like barely digested bread. They shift him enough to heave into the toilet bowl, his hands shakily grasping the sides of it, as he groans against the next wave of nausea.

A hand moves soothingly up and down his back, as he continues to throw up most of his breakfast, the unexpected gentleness of the gesture slowly dampening the blinding anxiety blaring like strobing lights in his head. His spasming muscles ease up gradually with the ministrations, aching from the strain. When his stomach ceases to cramp, Leon can only sigh exhaustedly, as it stops turning long enough for him to swallow thickly. There’s still a skittering under his skin, though for now, he pushes it away, trying to orient himself first.

The room he's in is bright, the tiling of the floor clean and white. There's no sound of rain, or the buzzing of insects far away, just quiet, save for two sets of breaths.

"Chris." He forces out, voice still shaking despite his efforts.

The hand on his back stills, the other leaning into his field of view, a grim expression marring his features.

"How are you feeling? Back with me?"

Chris asks too many questions. His body is numb and his brain is a mess, pinpointing just what he feels is an impossible task in and of itself. 

“Where am I?” He retorts, fumbling through his hazy memory to regather his wits.

“We’re on a mission in Germany. We’re back in our hotel room, the door is locked and there’s just you and me here, no one else can get in.”

Despite himself, the tension suddenly bleeds from his body at Chris' answer, Chris' voice alone. He avoids thinking about the implications, partially because Leon’s so wrung out, he can barely sit up straight, so he lets himself relax for just a moment.

“There was–” He starts, squeezing his eyes shut, before blinking them back open to keep himself focused. “Los Illuminados, the Plaga.”

He touches his sternum, the spot tender and torn from how hard he dug into it, though luckily still shy of bleeding. When Chris speaks again, he can’t bring himself to look at the other man, his tone full of pity.

“Leon, there’s nothing there. The exhibit was dead and you’re not infected either, I promise.”

"Okay."

His hand spasms, voice uncertain, as a bone deep shake travels through him. The slight jostle irritates his stomach enough, he has to bow over the toilet again, to spit out more stringy bile. Slowly, the memories come back, details blurring the more he tries to make sense of them.

The convention, the videos, a girl killing a grown man with another horrid disease, BOWs rowed up and chained to their cages.

His head is pounding with the onslaught of impressions. Maybe he should be used to it by now. After decades of working against bio-terrorism, nothing should unsettle him anymore but–

Some of those people looked so young, even younger than Leon was back in Raccoon City. They’re all dead now, wasted away for someone else’s gain, like they’re just cogs keeping the machine running. If organizations like PRISM keep working to undo his efforts at containing the horrors Leon's been fighting, for almost two decades, how could he claim to ever have done good? Has he made a change at all in his life?

"We need to go back, our mission–" He coughs out, feeling tired and sick, before Chris interrupts him again. 

"Our mission will have to wait, Leon, you need to rest.” He says sternly, the heavy hand on his shoulder keeping him seated on the hard floor, even when Leon starts to squirm impatiently to get up.

“I’m fine. ”

There’s still the taste of vomit lingering on his tongue, the stench of sickness in the air, as his trembling hands grip at the fabric of his suit, like he’s going to drift off into space if he lets go. Chris sighs heavily in response, one hand rubbing down his face, as he searches for words, obviously fed up with insistence.

“I’ve just watched you have a major flashback, you can’t tell me this is normal.”

Leon tries not to flinch at the words, shame burning hot on his cheeks, eyes dropping to Chris’ knees, the stains of his sick sullying the expensive outfit. It only makes him feel more pathetic but he can’t muster up a response to convince Chris otherwise either, so instead Leon stays quiet, withdrawing inward.

It’s normal for him, has been getting worse with every new mission he’s sent on, his ability to compartmentalize being a sinking ship, but he usually manages to at least keep it away from prying eyes, lock himself away from anyone to see and wait until he comes back up to the surface. 

“Leon, no offense but you look like shit and if we go back down like this, all we’d do is blow our own cover.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes, earnestness carrying in his voice, as he slowly resigns himself to his fate. Chris is right, they’ve already drawn enough attention to themselves by leaving early, if they return, with Leon looking like he’s just seen a ghost, it’ll only lower their chances at gathering evidence.

Resigning himself, Leon nods, laughing grimly, as he finally rises back to his feet and says:

“Put that on the list of reasons to divorce me.”

A tentative smile creeps on Chris’ face, looking up at him, from his spot on the floor. Leon takes a fleeting once over at the messy floor, cringing internally at the memory of him spewing his guts out onto the other, then he offers his palm for Chris to take. 

“What happened to ‘in sickness and in health’ ?” Chris grunts slightly, his knees popping noisily.

Leon just shakes his head, fighting the smile spreading on his lips. “Trust me when I say, you don’t want this. ” He gestures vaguely at the entirety of himself, before turning to the sink to splash his dirty face with water.

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

When he lifts his head again, their eyes meet in the mirror, Chris standing behind him at the sink with a look in his eyes that utterly stuns him. For a second, Leon can’t breathe, a fluttering feeling in his stomach bringing back the nausea, while blood rushes towards his pallid face. He shakes it off quickly, turning to grab for a hand towel instead. 

“And I think you need to raise your standards.” His mouth works quicker than his mind, quashing the barely-there compliment, so he doesn’t have to feel how much he wants to believe it’s meant genuinely. “Now go get changed, so I can clean this up.”

“Call me if you need help.” Chris brushes his hand down his arm, thumb lingering on his knuckles.

It’s only when Leon nods reassuringly that he withdraws his touch again, turning to leave him alone in the bathroom. After the door has fallen shut, he has to swallow against the lump closing up his throat, pushing down the well of emotion starting to rise in his chest.

He cleans up the floor and they change their clothes, Leon going as far as brushing his teeth while he’s at it, cause he honestly feels disgusting. No matter how long he stalls, by the end of it, Chris is still insistent, bullying him into at least laying down. As much as Leon would love to put up a fight though, he is too exhausted to do much more than complain, before he drops himself onto the comforter, limbs leaden and eyelids drooping. To his surprise Chris settles next to him, sitting up at the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles, as he opens the book from his nightstand. Suspiciously, Leon only squints at him, too lazy to lift his head to properly pester him.

“You don’t need to babysit me.” He pouts.

“Hush, I can’t read, when you’re talking.” 

Chris doesn’t even spare him an annoyed glance, fixating on the pages in front of him. Obeying the other’s command, Leon shuts his mouth, observing Chris as he feigns interest in his book, even when it’s becoming obvious he’s just staring at the ink. Watching Chris, sends him into dreamland faster than he realizes, exhaustion on top of constant sleep-deprivation knocking him out cold between one blink and the next.

***

Hours later, he comes to, when the sun has already passed its zenith, golden hour slowly approaching instead. Next to him, the bed is empty again, the rumpled duvet and the slight dip on the comforter the only signs Chris had been there at all. Still a bit groggy, Leon pushes himself to sit up, a thin blanket falling from his shoulders, into his lap. He blinks at the fleece cover a little confused, then he looks around for any sign of Chris’ whereabouts, before spotting a handwritten note atop the paper back cover of his book.

Turns out the other had been off to do some scheming of his own, explaining Leon’s absence with some vague allusions to chronic migraines, as well as being a bit too fond of red wine. One way or another, Leon doesn’t mind the brief break, before Chris comes back with some bits of useful information.

They don’t do much of note for the rest of the day, showing their faces at dinner briefly, as they try not to stick around for too long. Afterwards they wander through the halls of the castle some more, to get a better sense of the layout, heads stuck together conspiratorially, as they go over their next steps.

Chris informs him about the black mold sample he’s seen displayed with the other creatures and that he’s overheard people speculating about some of the exhibits being kept on site.

“So you’re saying they could be storing the samples inside the castle?”

Leon inquires, alarmed at the certain implication of various safety violations. Those delusional scientists can’t keep their creations inside their labs on a good day, nonetheless in a place like this.

“They did mention an auction at the end of the week, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d want the purchasable items close by.”

The other man hums grimly, hand clasped tightly around Leon’s, his thumb drawing distracted circles on his knuckles, like he’s too used to touching Leon to think much about it. 

“Well, that would match up with the amount of rooms they’ve booked but it still doesn’t fit the layout of the castle.” He wonders, mentally going through the blueprint again but coming up empty once more.

Chris is quiet for a while, their shoes clicking rhythmically on the marble tiles, as they round another corner past endless rows of workshop rooms. When he looks back up there’s a kind of realization glinting in his eyes, which Leon knows they both have been skirting around, but were too wary to voice it.

“You think it’d be too much of a leap to assume this place has any secret passages?” His smile is almost apologetic, as he suggests it, like he is speaking it into existence.

Leon groans, frustrated but trying to make light of the situation. “With our luck? Fuck yes it does.”

Which is how they end up in the middle of the night, stalking through roped-off passageways, ducking away from flashlight cones behind shaded walls and oversized furniture, as they spy on the procession of PRISM staff carting their subjects back out of the castle. Leon can barely see what’s inside the cages, huge lumps of flesh twitching minutely against the heavy dosage of sedatives they must’ve certainly shot them up with, because never in his life has he heard a BOW being that quiet around their prey.

They follow them for a bit, the parade of horrors leading them deeper inside the castle, as they watch for anyone straying from the route, any odd employee taking a different turn than the steady stream of people. It’s hard though, especially when the corridors get longer and longer, with barely any nooks to wedge themselves in. Leon alone might’ve been able to take cover more easily, used to creeping through the shadows, staying in the darkest corners he can find and making a ghost of himself, Chris though…

As much as he likes the BSAA Captain, he has not been trained for discretion, his heavy steps grating on his ears, as he drags him behind.

They’re lucky the floor is carpeted here, while they follow a younger employee, nervously pushing a cart in front of him, the contents of it rattling dangerously, wheels bumping over every groove in the carpet. He’s been separated from his coworkers for a bit now, his nervous demeanor either hinting at him being lost, or the hazardousness of his goods. Leon’s betting on the second one.

When the young man suddenly whips his head around to check his surroundings, Leon barely manages to duck back behind the corner they’ve just rounded, yanking Chris with him, who gives a quiet ‘oomph’ sound, at the rough handling. He holds his breath, waiting for the rattling of the cart to resume. With the hallway ahead being too long and barren for them to hide in and the windows to their left flooding the interior in pale moon light, they have no chance of keeping up now, leaving them with no other choice but to wait it out.

Keeping himself dead-still, Leon closes his eyes to better concentrate, as he listens to the repetitive sound of the metal wheels, counting. When he finally hears a door open, the man huffing a breath of relief, as he pushes the trolley over the threshold, he stops, whispering the number he’s arrived at to himself.

“Let’s go, we’re done here.” He whispers.

Cementing the number in his memory, he turns to Chris, urging him to leave and for once the other goes without a word, too focused on keeping quiet to argue with him.

Tomorrow they can find their way back here to investigate in relative safety.

Chapter Text

When Leon comes home the stench of cigarettes is almost suffocating, plumes of smoke hanging in the air, curling upwards from where his father sits on the couch. The quiet mumbling that accompanies the sound of the TV playing in the background is enough to let him know, he'd be better off sneaking into his bedroom and hoping his dad forgets he exists.

Ever since his mom left, things had changed, his father had had to take care of Leon alone now, bringing him to elementary school every morning, putting food on the table, getting him new clothes to wear, when he inevitably grew out of the ones he had and talking to his teachers when he got himself in trouble with one of the other boys.

It was a lot. Leon was a lot to handle.

His father had started drinking in the afternoons too at some point.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" His voice raises loud enough for Leon to be sure he's addressing him.

Shoes clenched in his right hand, and jacket in his left, he stops in his tracks. Fear knots his stomach, his entire body tensing under his father’s gaze. The man’s eyes are clouded, lids heavy, the tips of his ears and nose reddened, obviously already deep in the bottle. Leon swallows down the lump in his throat, scrambling for the right thing to say.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother you.” The pitch of his words comes out high, his voice break still a few years away.

“Come and sit down, Leon.” There's an edge to his voice when he says his name, causing the hair on his bare arms to bristle.

But Leon wants to be good, he doesn’t want to give his dad another reason to hurt him, so maybe if he just does as he’s told–?

Setting down his backpack with the rest of his stuff by the nearest wall, he wanders over to the couch, keeping his distance, as he sinks down on the cushion. His father takes a long look at him, before balancing his burning cigarette on the rim of the ashtray and blowing out a lungful of smoke. His eyes stick to the ashen tip of the glowing bud warily, unable to tear themselves away from it, as his hands start twisting into knots.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

The command leaves no room for discussion, Leon snaps his head back upwards, everything inside himself coiled tight to bounce up and flee at the drop of a pin.

“Do you think I’ll let you disrespect me like that in my own home?”

There’s some narrow path here, he just needs to learn how to navigate, some correct answer that is expected of him. A way to get out of this unharmed.

Leon can be good, he knows he can, he just needs to figure out what his father wants from him.

“I’m sorry.” Is what tumbles clumsily out of his mouth.

His father is a large man, especially now, Leon just having crested thirteen and sometimes, he even wishes he’d grow up to be just like him, but in moments like these, all the love he has for the man who’s kept him alive for so long, is lost in the fear of him and Leon can’t help but think: 

He never wants to scare someone this badly.

What happens next, is a blur, overlapping memories washing through his head. There’s screaming, his father’s voice booming, making the walls shake and Leon tremble, as he spits endless accusations at him, holding him in a bruising grip, shaking him mindlessly. The moment at which he zeroes back in, is when the flat hand of his father connects with his face.

Hot pain shoots up his cheek, sure to bruise in the morning. His ears ring, vision struggling to focus.

“Look what you made me do!” His father screams, yanking him forward to throw him flat onto the carpeted floor. “If you weren’t such an ungrateful brat, I wouldn’t even need to do this.”

A knee comes down between his shoulders, pressing him into the short threads. Leon yelps in a panic, gasping for enough air to talk him down, but all he gets out is a choked off whimper, as his father twists around to grasp for the cigarette again.

The scream tearing from his throat is ugly, when the hot ember makes contact with the thin skin of his hip. He twists beneath the searing sensation, in a desperate attempt to throw the weight on his back off and scramble away, but all he manages to do is anger his father more, who is now digging his other hand into his leg to hold him still.

“Please– Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He begs, hands searching for something to hold on to, only to be beaten away. 

"Keep your fucking mouth shut!" 

Is what he yells, as he continues to burn holes into Leon's skin, twisting the filter between his fingers as he grinds the bud deeper into him.

Leon sobs, bucking against his father's bruising grip. The burning pain travels further up his back, as he lights and relights the half-smoked cigarette.

‘teaching him a lesson’

It’s the eternal reasoning, when his father snaps and makes Leon the target of his violence. Because Leon’s a bad child and needs to be corrected. Whatever he does though, is never good enough, like there’s something rotten at the core of him, something causing him to be fundamentally unlovable.

It takes many years for him to come to the realization that, maybe, there is no right way to behave, that his father just hits him, because he wants to hit him.

His fists are clenched tightly, nails digging into the meat of his palms, as he tells himself to man up and endure the pain, his side aflame with the endless throb of dead, or damaged skin. 

The lighter flicks once more.

Leon flinches, squirming uselessly under the crushing weight on his back. A whine escapes his throat, muffled through the rough fabric of the carpet:

“Dad, stop, please–”

***

The night only gets worse from there on in.

After their little trip through the castle, Leon basically knocks out cold, the moment he hits the pillows, leaving Chris to sit alone on the balcony once again, sleepless and fumbling with a cigarette between his fingers, as he mulls things over.

If he hadn't found Leon when he did, they could've been in serious trouble. He presumes Koch might already be suspicious of their act, Leon's fickle mental state not helping their cause. Which leaves him with the question of what the hell the DSO is thinking, sending one of their agents on a mission, in a state like this? And what is Hunnigan thinking that she is confident enough in assuming Chris can handle the complications alone? One way, or another Leon shouldn't be working, this much is obvious. Definitely not when he has flashbacks this severe.

He was lucky today, who says he'll be as lucky again when Chris isn't around?

He sighs dejectedly, putting the cigarette away to drop his head in his hands, fingers carding through the short strands of his hair. Seeing him like this hurts in the same way it had back in Colorado. Leon's at a rock bottom, Chris is all too familiar with. The drinking had been one thing, an issue where Chris had falsely believed he'd just need to yell some sense back into him but after losing Piers–

It's like a switch had been flipped in his head. He hadn't been himself anymore, nightmares keeping him awake, transitioning into flashbacks, leaving him stunned and disoriented. In the end it took both Jill and Claire to get him out of his downward spiral, forcing him to accept the medical leave he so desperately needed, as well as getting him an appointment with a therapist. Back then, he'd scared them pretty bad, the self-blame causing him to push every concerned soul away.

How could they stand him, if he couldn't even stand himself?

It's better now, not perfect but more than just bearable. The life that had felt so barren after he'd lost Piers and his team, had begun to grow again and Chris didn't feel like he was living on scorched earth anymore. Nevertheless, it had taken him a long time to get back to his feet, even with all of the support he'd had. 

He's not sure if Leon can bounce back like that though, they’re not the same person after all, even with their shared trauma, there’s too much still lurking beneath the surface, the other being too eager to drown himself in his own well of secrets. To say Chris is concerned, would be an understatement, the flashbacks and the nightmares he’s seen so far, should have Leon in therapy, not half-across the world leading a mission that could explode in their faces at any moment. Chris would like nothing more than to give the people holding Leon’s contract a piece of his mind someday but until then they’ll have to muddle through as best they can.

Resigned to their unfortunate situation, Chris gives in, tucking the cigarette between his lips.  

Screw his good resolutions.

He flicks his lighter on.

There’s an agonized whine from inside the bedroom, the open balcony doors letting the sound travel outside. Halting in his attempt to light his cigarette, Chris perks up, his ever protective tendencies shining through once more, as he leans forward on the garden chair to peer into the darkness. He can barely see the tangled shadow lying between the sheets, legs knotted into the comforter.

For a moment, he waits, watching Leon’s unconscious body stir periodically, the distressed noises he makes, picking up in intensity, the longer he listens. It’s another nightmare, he’s sure, after today it’s almost to be expected, though it doesn’t mean Chris is any less concerned. Leon would have almost scratched his own chest bloody this afternoon, if he hadn’t stepped in. Who knows if he’d do anything worse, while half asleep?

Suddenly he remembers the Desert Eagle on his nightstand, its safety on and with the magazine stored inside the drawer but still in reach should Leon wake up. The thought is enough to rouse him to his feet, if only to tuck the gun away but Chris has never been good at sneaking around, his steps always too heavy, body robust, yet unwieldy at times.

The moment he’s reached the foot of the bed, Leon snaps awake at once, scream cut off in his throat. His eyes are wide, gleaming in the twilight cast through the balcony doors, they stare right at him, through him, for a fraction of a second, before Leon kicks himself backwards struggling to put distance between them, as his legs catch in the tangle of bedsheets. Chris has no time to react to his panicked scramble, the other tipping over the edge of the mattress and crashing down onto the carpeted floor. He hears bone hitting wood, only a painful sounding thump indicating Leon has hit the bedside table on his way to the ground.

Taking a step towards him, his hands reach out automatically, afraid he has seriously hurt himself, though Chris is fully unprepared to witness the full body flinch jerking through the man in front of him, the moment Leon sees him move.

"No!" He chokes on the syllable, voice rough and breathless. 

Abruptly, Chris stops, shocked to see Leon so scared.

Scared of him.

His head supplies unhelpfully. Hands dropping back to his sides, he flexes them nervously, the urge to do something skittering through him. Instead, Chris slowly lowers himself to the ground, bringing them both to eye-level, as his bad knee gives a dangerous sounding creak.

"Leon, look at me please." The voice he uses is gentle, barely more than a whisper, as he tries to calm him down. 

The other doesn't seem to register him though, cringing further backwards, pushing himself into the narrow gap between the bedside table and the wall, as he ducks his head behind protectively raised hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He cries out brokenly, eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if he expects something to come for him without warning. Between terrified whimpering, Leon chokes on his speech a few times, before he stutters through a quiet:

“I-I'll be good, I swear.”

Chris blinks for a long moment, dots connecting in his brain, until he feels the weight of it settle like lead in his chest cavity. Leon looks so small, like a child trying to make themselves less of a target. The cigarette burn marks on his leg come back in perfect detail, the identical scars along his waist too. There’s no need to say where they came from, not with how Leon looks at him and it’s breaking Chris’ heart clean in two.

“You’re having a nightmare, love, I promise no one's here to hurt you.” The crack in his voice comes unbidden. It leaves him biting down hard on his lip, just to keep himself in check, even with how much he just wants to wipe all those old wounds away.

Leon trembles in the dark, one hand now clamped over his own mouth to stifle the obvious sobs wracking his frame, as he fights to stay silent, squeezed into the corner of the room. Shifting where he crouches, Chris eases himself to sit fully on the floor, not missing the jerk and flinch travelling through Leon’s limbs, like he’s preparing to run any second now.

“Can you look at me, please?” He repeats, back resting against the wooden plank of the bed frame, face half-turned towards Leon in the corner, as Chris tries to appear relaxed, non-threatening.

His eyes lift, two shimmering dots in the dark, fixing onto Chris’ form like he’s a lighthouse and Leon a ship lost at sea.

You’re supposed to steer away from lighthouses though.

“I know you’re scared but Leon, I swear, I am never going to hurt you.” He tries again, tracking Leon’s every move, while he attempts to peer through the shadows, checking for injuries on him.

The other blinks away droplets of tears, letting them roll down his already wet cheeks, as he looks, really looks, at Chris for the first time since he woke up. His chest is still moving too fast, breaths stuttering through his throat in jerky gasps but when Chris lifts his hand to offer his palm to Leon and the other doesn’t wince again, he counts it as a win nonetheless.

“Can I touch you?” He asks, hoping the other will allow it, if only because Chris is best at soothing through physical contact, though with the mindset Leon’s currently in, he’s unsure if touching wouldn’t do more harm than good.

Leon observes him for a long while, curled into himself with his arms crossed in front of his stomach, shoulders hitched high. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he gnaws on the soft, pillowy flesh with too much force, as he considers things, a complicated expression crossing over his features, creasing his face back into barely concealed distress.

“I didn’t mean to–” His mouth opens and closes repeatedly, teeth clicking loudly when he snaps them shut, as if to cut himself off. “I’m trying to be good, I promise I’ll be good . ”

His body unfurls ever so slightly, fingers clenched in his shirt twisting the fabric between nervous hands but at least not shielding himself from imagined danger anymore. 

“Love, you didn’t do anything wrong, you hear me?”

Leon's still somewhere else, stuck in a memory, or a nightmare. It’s not easy, gleaning how to pull him out of this mindset, when Chris is simultaneously scared to only worsen the situation but judging by the other’s reaction, maybe they're getting there, slowly but steady. He dares to move closer again, just an inch or two, just enough for them to touch if Leon were to reach out. Meanwhile the other's gaze drifts off, sliding from his face, over the bottom of his chin, to just above Chris' left shoulder, his glassy stare fixed on the doorframe of the balcony. Behind him, he can hear the first drops of rain fall and patter on the tiles.

"Didn't I?" The question is raw, honest, pleading with Chris for reassurance.

"No, you're doing great. I'll be here, okay? Until you're ready."

Holding his arm outstretched, Chris waits for him to either shy away, or take the offer. No matter the answer though, he knows he'll stay. It's the least he can do for the man he's been in love with for the past decade.

The Initial touch is hesitant, unsure, but Chris takes care to not draw Leon in too suddenly, guiding the other's hand gingerly to rest on Chris' breastbone, right above his heart, beating strong and slow. At first there's the tremble, like an invisible quake shuddering through Leon's very bones, as it incrementally eases out into nothingness, before the remaining muscles start relaxing and the other grows sluggish and pliant in Chris' hands.

He tugs him closer, close enough to hold him against his chest, legs slung across his lap and Leon lets him, dropping his head to listen to the continuous thrum under his ribs. Having him like this, Chris takes the chance to do a once-over, cranking his neck to make sure Leon isn’t bleeding, or otherwise injured. Lucky for him though, he hasn’t hit himself too bad, the only trace of the rough tumble being a big splotch of bruising skin above his elbow. Finding nothing else, except for the bandage covering Leon’s wounds from a previous mission, Chris allows himself to let a bit of the anxiety pass.

"Chris, I'm so sorry, you shouldn't have to–" 

There's clarity in his voice again, which is reassurance enough for Chris to drop a bit of the caution himself, feeling like Leon is at least partially back with him again. 

He strokes a palm down his spine, says: “It's okay, you're good.”

His words are enough to drain the last of Leon's fight, soothing him back into exhaustion, body going lax and heavy, where Chris holds him upright, head lolling, before dipping to lay in the hollow of his throat.

"'m good." He slurs absentmindedly, which Chris takes as his cue to coax him to stand up, to get back into bed, picking the abandoned blanket off the floor and covering him, after Leon’s eyelids have already fluttered closed again, unbothered by the lack of sheets.

With him resting peacefully, Chris’ own exhaustion overwhelms him at once, the stress of handling both the mission and the other’s sudden episodes taking a toll, now that he only has a few hours of sleep to look forward to. At his curt glance at the clock, Chris gives up on indulging in his bad habits, seeing as the intensity of the rain outside has picked up too. Instead, he closes the glass doors to the balcony, before joining Leon in bed as well, praying the night will be easier from now on.

It turns out to be a mess.

Despite his hopes, they get startled awake only a few hours later, the light rain having turned into a proper thunderstorm, rumbling above their heads. It takes Chris a few moments himself, to not jump to attention, to ready the gun already firmly in his hand but by the time he zones back in, Leon is having a full blown panic attack, having shot up straight in bed and stared right into the bolt of lightning striking across the sky.

This one is about Tall Oaks, another city the government had bombed to hell and back, another instance in which Leon was one of the few survivors. He mumbles something about needing to help someone, about it being his fault, before his speech becomes too slurred for Chris to keep track of. 

Time drags seemingly endless, keeping Leon trapped inside his nightmares, as Chris hopelessly tries to console him enough to at least get a little bit of rest but the only thing which helps in the end, is when Chris’ sleep-fogged mind decides to wrap his arms around the tossing man beside him and holds him fast. Already half-asleep again, he hears Leon give a low distressed whine, his muscles tensing momentarily, before his face burrows into Chris' shoulder, Like he's trying to hide there, falling still at last.

Chris gives a deep sigh, angling his face to press it against the top of Leon's head, his smooth hair moving like silk, tickling his nose. It's nice, despite the late summer warmth being almost oppressively humid and the dried tears sticking to Leon's skin. The glowing heat in his chest though, still feels incredibly right.

Maybe Chris should finally come clean, tell Leon how he feels before it's too late.

Maybe after their mission is over.

***

When Leon wakes up, his hand curls into the empty sheets like it's grasping for something, the shape of a body pressed into the wrinkles but noone there to match them, mattress gone long cold, as he slowly comes back to awareness. It isn’t early morning, like he’s so used to, but somewhere around midday. His head drones from the exhaustion still dragging down his limbs, the crushing heaviness tying him to the bed in a very familiar way, as vague memories of the night resurface.

He tries not to dwell on it, especially not on the shame that comes, when he remembers how Chris’ silhouette had swam into focus through blurred images conjured up by his anxious brain, how he had asked to touch him without intention of forcing him, if need be and held him without making him feel trapped, until sleep came once more.

Nightmares like these are not frequent in Leon’s books, he tries his best not to revisit particularly old hurts but when they do occasionally make a reappearance, it utterly takes him apart. It’s not a pretty sight, he knows and maybe he shouldn’t even let them affect him to this degree, though even after so long he’s always unprepared, always falls back into old patterns, which is why he usually prefers to sleep alone, so he can avoid having to answer questions, once come morning.

Talking about what happened back then– He never did that before, not sure if he’d have words for it, even if he might owe them to Chris.

At the moment though, Leon is by himself, fatigued, his persistent urge to sleep nagging him to keep lying down, maybe close his eyes again for five more minutes, maybe never get up and wait until he starts rotting right here. His medication isn’t working right, him having missed his dosage this morning not helping either and Leon can sense the fog creeping back in at the edges. The thoughts it carries with it scare him, suffocate him with their intensity. Leon’s had to learn to separate his moods from who he is, knows now that even if he thinks he wants to die, it doesn’t mean his reasoning of why is sound.

Clinical depression is what the doctor had called it at the hospital.

Post traumatic stress disorder, is what the emergency psychiatrist had noted in his report. 

They all advised him to seek treatment, only letting him leave, because Hunnigan reassured them she would handle it. They both knew the DSO wouldn’t allow him to see a therapist, unwilling to risk ‘their best weapon’ to be suspended from active duty. So medication it was, for now at least. He’s stopped planning farther than that, knowing what would come of it, if he did.

Eventually, he gets up anyway, peeling his aching body off the mattress, desperately clinging to him and drags himself out of the bedroom. It’s sweet, how Chris has left him a tray with breakfast on the coffee table, even absent as he is now, so Leon would be able to take his time and eat, before joining him at whatever activity is scheduled for the day. Regardless, Leon gets a move on, taking his medication after eating and getting himself ready with well practiced efficiency.

In front of the bathroom mirror, he ultimately hesitates, critical gaze scrutinizing the set of his lapels laying smooth over his waistcoat, checking the concealer to have covered the dark shadows beneath his eyes and righting the expression on his face into something more pleasant. It takes effort to make everything look right, moulding himself into something human, when he feels anything but. Before he turns from his reflection, his hand hovers over his toiletry kit, unsure if he could get away with using the other make-up he brought. In the end, he decides to indulge, if only a little, picking up a pale red lip-gloss.

It's his favourite, if only for its subtlety, the tint almost matching his skin tone perfectly but just off enough to be noticeable if one looks for it. With the job he has, he doesn't get many chances to experiment. The more he appreciates the little freedoms he can take for himself, now with the role of Mr. Carpenter put upon him, hiding a part of himself that’s already been clawing him raw to escape, feels unnecessary.

Leon puts the lip-gloss on and smiles at himself in the mirror.

This feels right.

When he eventually finds Chris, he’s somewhere on the third floor, surrounded by other marveling patrons, who all stare upwards open-mouthed and gaping like fish on land. In the booklet he carries in his pocket, it says, they have another guided tour through the castle scheduled, beginning at the Zanetti hall, where Leon's relieved to still find their group, even though he's a few minutes late.

The double doors are opened wide towards the hallway, giving him a good opportunity to slink inside unnoticed. Beelining straight for his faux husband, it doesn’t take long, before the same spots him, ever observant, even as he takes in the painted ceiling himself. The moment Chris looks at him, something in his face changes, features going soft, adapting a kind of fondness Leon isn’t used to. It stops him in his tracks for a second, the smooth rhythm of his gate stuttering with the beat of his traitorous heart.

He tears his gaze away from Chris’ lit up eyes, sparkling like a dying sunset, as they walk towards each other. Two meteors on collision course, fated for catastrophe.

When they meet, Chris’ hands are on him without a second thought, grasping him by the forearms, as he says in a hushed voice:

“I’m glad you’re up again.”

“Sleeping in helped. Thank you.” He smiles, feeling his own mood lift with Chris by his side.

The room is filled sparsely, a few other patrons idling around quietly, which means they have to keep their own voices low, standing impossibly close just to catch each other’s words. Chris nods contentedly, squeezing his biceps, before withdrawing his touch again. 

“Don’t thank me, you needed it.”

He says, caring gaze searching his face. To everyone else, they must look like lovers, pressed almost chest to chest as they are, whispering into the barely there space between their mouths. The thought makes blood rush to his cheeks, affection brimming beneath his ribs like a boiling pot about to spill. Leon bows his head, fighting the self-deprecating smirk trying to crawl onto his face.

“I could’ve managed, I usually do.” He says.

Looking downwards, he gets a good view of Chris’ broad chest, moving with each breath, the shirt buttons at the very top popped to reveal the attractive curve of his clavicle.

That definitely doesn’t help, at all.

“I know.” His voice rumbles, close to Leon’s ear, before in the next moment, he feels one calloused finger brush the bangs out of his eyes. As he lifts his gaze again, he connects it with Chris’, who smiles solemnly. “You do look rested though.”

Mentally thanking his concealer for having covered the purple bruises beneath his eyes, he nods reassuringly, before taking a closer look at Chris himself, the other man not giving the impression to have slept well either. There are dark circles on his face matching his own, the wrinkles framing his mouth and eyes just slightly more pronounced than usual, as well as the drooping set of his shoulders speaking to the exhaustion he must feel at having been woken up by Leon’s incessant nightmares.

“And you look like you haven’t had a second of it tonight.”

Leon smiles guiltily, already considering insisting on taking the couch, even when the hazy memory of Chris’ strong arms around him flares stubbornly inside him. It had helped to quiet the fear and the overwhelming flood of images drowning him, as soon as he’d closed his eyes. It didn’t make it go away entirely, but Leon had been more grounded nonetheless, with a familiar scent in his nose, in addition to a welcome touch applying just enough pressure to make him feel kept safe.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Even if Chris had any affection for him, beyond their friendship, he doubts anyone could bear to love him for long.

Not when he's like this .

“I’ll catch up on it today, I was more worried about you though.” Chris retorts easily, always too considerate of other people’s needs, which makes Leon feel even worse about having burdened him as he did.

“Let’s not talk about that here.”

He plucks the hand off his shoulder, which has found its way there, as if on instinct, entwining their fingers instead to distract from himself. Then he turns away from Chris to consider the room they’re in, asking:

“So what are we looking at?”

The hall turns out to be a remodeled stairwell, the steps having been removed in favour of creating another room, fitted with tables and chairs upon hardwood floor, carefully crafted into square patterns. What makes it so peculiar though, only reveals itself towards the top, where the usual high reliefs turn almost sculptural, as statues of half naked men and cherubs stand out of the rich ornaments, gazing down on the visitors, as they sit on their pillars. The wall reliefs are already of incredibly intricate craftsmanship, though the statuary is perfectly complemented by the ceiling fresco spanning the low dome of the room.

'Fall of the giants'

is the title of the artwork, painted by Domenico Zanetti, depicting a cloud filled sky scene, in which more barely clad people seem to be falling from the centre of the dome. Their bodies twist with the momentum of the plummet, while a lone figure in the centre, doused in golden sunlight, holds their hand aloft, like they're casting everyone else out of the heavens. It's dramatic and intricate and definitely has some deeper meaning, Leon is just too uneducated to understand.

Something about hierarchy. Displays of power maybe. One above all else. But that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the overly pompous piece of art, completing their equally extravagant venue.

As he traces the edges of the figures, colliding with the white reliefs circling the round ceiling windows, they hear another couple raise their voices behind them.

“I mean I see the appeal but even just for the ceremony, it would’ve been crowded in here.” A British sounding woman complains nasally to her partner.

For a while, Leon eavesdrops on them, listening to the retelling of their wedding, before the couple smoothly sidles up to Chris and him, as they act like they’re terribly interested in the embroidery of the gold curtains.

“So what do you think?” The woman asks nosily, arching a brow at the both of them.

Leon laughs, a little taken aback by the sudden interest in their person, before trying to find his footing again. “I’m not much of an expert of the arts, I fear.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean the artwork.” She flicks a judgmental stare towards the fresco. “I’m talking about the wedding venue, does it hold a candle to your place of choice?”

At that, she moves her hand to imply the room they're standing in. Leon looks around them, regarding the heavy curtains, the warm toned walls and the dark wood, the silver mirror in its decorated frame, hanging opposite of them. It's too much for Leon's taste, the rich decor, of the sweet fortunes surrounding them, tasting bitter in the face of their circumstance.

“Well, we certainly don’t have any authentic castles in the US.” He responds propitiatory, pretending he knows what it's like to have this kind of disposable income.

“I’m certain you still had plenty of options.” 

Her partner buds in, giving them a look Leon is all too familiar with. They’re sizing them up, coming to an internal conclusion and treating them according to their impression. Leon has trouble beating down the instinct to assume parade rest. 

“We did, but at least one of us had a pretty good idea of where they wanted to tie the knot.” Thankfully it's Chris who speaks up, nudging him, as he tangles their fingers, his ring pressing against the worn skin of Leon's hand.

He turns to Chris, grinning broadly. 

“As much as I would’ve liked marrying on one of your boats, my side of the family would’ve not appreciated it.”

Chris rolls his eyes at him in response, smiling back like they've had this conversation often enough, it turned into an inside joke. Holding the cheeky smile, as he bumps their shoulders together, Leon plays into it. 

"Where did you have the ceremony then?" She pushes for an answer, her hand elegantly poised at her chin.

It doesn’t take Leon long to come up with a suitable story, though he still draws out the tension anyway, looking between their conversation partners and his husband, like he’s searching for reassurance.

"By the sea. We rented a beach house – with an ocean view of course – big enough to accommodate everyone."

He finally states, conjuring up the daydream again of being able to marry the man he loves. For him, it wouldn’t matter where they’d elope, not needing expensive venues, or many guests, as long as he’d get to be with someone he loves, someone who truly loves him back. 

"Oh that just sounds lovely."

She wraps her long fingers around Leon’s arm, ripping him back out of his phantasies, as she pats his biceps. Pins and needles race up his arm at the unwanted contact, the hair on his neck bristling from his overactive nervous system sending adrenaline through his veins but Leon just keeps his body still. There’s no reason for him to despise unexpected touch this much, which is why he just swallows down his discomfort every time it does happen.

"Yes, it was and the sun set during the vows, it was beautiful to look at." He lies, forcing himself to relax until the woman has withdrawn her hand again. 

Beside him, Chris leans in, moving slow, as he gingerly brushes his bangs to the side.

"But not as beautiful as my husband was that day."

Suddenly they're having eye-contact. The earnestness in his voice, the soft look on his face, the palm cupping his cheek to angle his chin upwards, it almost makes Leon believe him, almost makes the breath stop in his lungs, before all he can do, is hide the pure panic on his features, as the other brushes his lips over the highpoint of his cheekbone in a soft fluttering of a kiss.

This is the moment Leon knows he's doomed for sure.

The woman laughs.

"You're too sweet, the two of you." 

Leon, who's still caught in the warm gaze of Chris' oak brown eyes, has to consciously decide to focus back on their company, mourning the loss of being the other's sole focal point the moment they settle back shoulder to shoulder.

The conversation drags on through useless smalltalk, mostly wasting their time, rather than giving them any new insights into the going ons of the event, before their guide leads them back out of the Zanetti hall, walking them to their next destination. On the trek there, Chris, who’s already pressed flush to his shoulder, leans even closer whispering:

“Was that okay? You looked uncomfortable.”

Leon shakes his head mutely, closing his eyes momentarily, before he answers.

“I don’t mind.” He keeps his gaze focused forward, not daring to witness the expression on Chris’ face.

What if he finds rejection there, or worse yet, reciprocation?

For most of his life, Leon has lived with a gaping lack inside of him, longing to be close to another person. A burning need, he never knew how to properly quench. He’s tried many times, with anyone who was willing, taking anything he was given, be it the highschool-sweetheart he’s dated before Raccoon City, the countless lonely hook-ups, or even Major Krauser.

He hadn’t cared if it hurt, as long as he felt some human connection. Leon can deal with being used. In part, it's been all he's been doing for the past two decades, but with a life like his, he fears, in the end he couldn’t bear truly being loved.

As he ruminates, they take a few more turns, their guide prattling on about the architecture, until they round a corner that Leon immediately recognizes. They’ve been here the night before, their backs pressed to the cool wallpaper, as Leon listened to the rattle of a cart being pushed over thick carpet. The windows to their right face one of the outer edges of the castle grounds, letting in plenty of sunlight to illuminate the long hallway. On their left the wall stretches endlessly, interspersed by more doors leading into unknown rooms, while the stone itself is decorated with large paintings in ornate gold frames.

Slowing his step a little, Leon squeezes Chris’ arm to suggest his intent, as he tries to inconspicuously search for the bumps in the carpet. Following his lead, they fall back, the group chattering cheerfully, while they pass and ignore the guide’s lecture. 

“Are we–?”

He breathes, barely audible, before Leon just nods, looking around to check if they’re being watched, as he slides the smooth sole of his dress shoe over the carmine coloured rug. Finding what he’s looking for fairly quickly, he can make out the slightly uneven texture of a tack strip, fixing the rug to the floor and leaving an almost imperceptible bump.

“I can probably estimate what room they used, but I need to start from the end of the hall.” He whispers, tugging on Chris’ sleeve to follow him away from their group.

They pretend to be terribly interested in the array of still life paintings lining the walls, as Leon counts the wooden tack strips hidden beneath the thick fabric of the runner. When walking down the corridor, one would normally not notice the fixtures, but a heavy cart, loaded with commodities, might just exert enough pressure to nudge against their edges. From a few feet away the voice of their guide carries over, creating a steady drone of noise, to drown out their own conversation.

“Are you sure this will work?” Chris asks, as they face a painting of two dead birds arranged between the stock of a hunting rifle and a bouquet of flowers.

The leg of the larger bird sticks up into the air, tied to the gun. Its plumage speckled in a vibrant blue between the brown feathers. Beside it, the smaller white chick lays belly up, chest bloody. According to their guide, most of the artworks collected here are part of Jan Weenix' ‘Hunting Scenes’ , made specifically to furnish the walls of the former hunting château. 

Grinding the ball of his foot into the rug, Leon leans his head from side to side in a vague gesture. “I’m not, but it’s the best shot we have right now.”

Chris hums, idling behind him, once he finally moves on to find the next fixture.

Most of the artworks displayed here depict an array of dead animals, rowed up, or staged intricately, like the trophies they are so obviously supposed to be. They look at a stag tied to the bare branches of a tree with one hoof, the rest of its once powerful body spread out between dead hares and hogs, as its tongue lolls out of the antler-crowned head. Hunting dogs bustle about the slain animals, while the castle sits enthroned in the distance, above the remaining landscape.

“Are we being watched?” Leon asks, not daring to move his head to look for himself.

“Surprisingly no, they’re all distracted.” Chris takes a careful glance and shrugs, one of his palms squeezing his arm reassuringly.

When Leon stops counting, they halt in front of a canvas depicting a white peacock, similarly posed as the other motifs, with smaller bird carcasses laying on the ground surrounding it, one of them only a tiny robin. Once again, Leon has to wonder if he’s missing some context to truly appreciate the artworks here, because all he can think of, when looking at the array of once beautiful animals, is a vague sense of dread.

“Are you enjoying your stay so far?” A voice raises somewhere behind them.

His heart jumping in his chest, Leon has to stop himself from whipping around. Instead when he turns slowly, it reveals the person having addressed them, to be Mr. Koch, grinning in that sly and unsettling way, which has been setting Leon at unease ever since they first met.

The man in front of them is unchanged to the days prior, still dressed in the same modest suit most PRISM employees wear around here, his light hair meticulously slicked back. This time, he even seems to be mostly sober. Chris tugs him a little closer anyway, whether because he’s creeped out by Koch as well, or just out of instinct. One way, or another it makes it easier for Leon to fake the friendly facade.

“Yes we do, it’s been very informative.” He says, a relaxed smile on his face.

“I thought so,” Koch’s expression takes on a hint of satisfaction. “though it’s a shame you had to leave the convention early yesterday.”

The gaze with which Koch fixes him, feels almost invasive, like he’s searching for a crack in his mask, proof for the lie they’ve fabricated. Leon takes it as his cue to step up his acting, lifting one of his hands to tug nervously on the small round piercing in his earlobe, as he feigns a sheepish blush.

“Oh please don’t remind me, I already feel horribly embarrassed about the whole thing.” He lets his hair fall in front of his eye, gestures flippantly with one hand and cocks his head to the side with a smile.

“Don’t worry, it happens to the best of us.” He says.

The act seemingly works a little too well, because Koch takes it as his prompt to clamp a heavy hand on Leon’s shoulder unasked. In response, he just laughs, making an effort to hide his discomfort, before Chris takes a wordless half-step forward. A clear display of uncharacteristic possessiveness. With an expression of distaste, the other withdraws his hand again, eyes flitting back to Chris, like he’s just now noticed his presence. 

“I hope you still found something to your tastes.” Koch drawls.

Chris’ arm wanders from where they’ve been interlocked to wrap around his waist, electricity shooting through his nerves at the smooth slide of his touch. The other has brushed the light fabric of his suit jacket aside, the cotton of his button up thin enough that he can feel every individual finger pressing into the curve of his hip. Their warmth bleeds through the fabric and straight into the very marrow of his bones.

“We’re still weighing our options but we certainly have some things in mind already.” Chris gives his reassurance to Koch, squeezing Leon fondly and pressing their hips together.

His hand digs further into Leon's soft flesh, the warmth turning into heat, rushing straight to his stomach. Reminding himself of their mission arrangement is getting increasingly more difficult, especially when Chris never actually stops acting like he cares about him, no matter if they’re in company, or not. He’s been attentive and understanding, affectionate, even when he doesn’t have to be, especially because Leon is making this whole ordeal more difficult than necessary.

“Good. If I can be of any help, please do let me know.” Koch interrupts his quiet musings.

Getting his thoughts back on track, he seizes the opportunity to carefully prod for the thing they’ve come here for. Next to the painting of the dead peacock is a door, carved from dark oak, upon which a metal plate is fixed, the artfully curved letters spelling the word ‘Bibliothek’. 

Leon’s German might be lacking in many aspects but having skimmed the booklet they’ve been given and with the thorough research they did beforehand, he recognizes the word easily. The room in which the lone PRISM employee had brought his cart of samples the night before, had been the castle’s library. A square shaped space, filled to the brim with almost five thousand antique books, each of the four walls lined with shelves reaching from floor to ceiling, which coincidentally might be the perfect place to hide any secret passageways.

“Actually, I wanted to ask if it might be possible to visit the library here?” Leon gestures at the entrance they’re standing at. “I’ve only ever heard about their collection but we’d love to have a look inside, before we have to travel back to the US.”

He brings the tips of his fingers up to rest gingerly at the edge of his lips, as he curves them back into a sweet smile. Almost instantaneously he can observe as Koch’s gaze snaps from the eye-contact he’s been insistent on holding, to the rose gloss of his lips and back, getting too distracted by the minute detail to keep his careful watch of their every move. If he isn’t sure how Chris feels about him, he certainly knows what Jason Koch is thinking, the poorly concealed hunger on his face more than familiar.

“We should have that room available for visitation most of the day, though I believe it gets locked after 10 PM.” He explains, as he draws forth a set of keys from his pocket, showcasing the bundle of cards, electronic and metal keys, jangling from the ring holding the collection together.

“Perfect, that should be enough time for us to take a peek.” Leon brushes his fringe to the side, letting the hair curtain his cheek, as he turns to look up at Chris, who nods back in agreement.

“I’m sure you’ll find a free spot in your schedule.” Koch says and with a zip from the elastic connecting the set to his belt loop, the bundle flits back into his pocket.

As he goes, heading down the hallway away from their group, Leon waits, staring at the man’s back for a bit, watching the movement of his limbs, the way he holds himself like people do, who had their good posture drilled into them the hard way. Together with his build and the raw look in his eyes, it all reminds him of Krauser just a bit too much.

***

“Get up, Kennedy.” the Major demands.

Leon lays in the cold, wet mud on the training grounds, chest heaving against the stinging pain in his lungs. From above the unrelenting downpour is soaking through his clothes right to his bones. The frigid temperature only worsens the pain he’s in. They’ve been going through hand to hand movements for hours now, Krauser picking him for demonstration to a degree where Leon is sure, the other is just doing it to put him in his place. The last blow of his, a combination of swiping the feet out under him, and swinging his fist towards his torso, had been placed exactly on the near-fresh scar of his gunshot wound. For a quick flash, Leon hadn’t known where he was, plummeting towards the unforgiving ground, as his shoulder screamed in agony like the bullet had only just hit him. 

None of the injury had healed well, not with the continuous strain he’d been forced to put on it and the consequent infection, the wound having closed and reopened countless times, until the fever had hit in earnest.

Before sending him to boot camp, the doctors had told the people in charge of him about how Leon still needed time to recover, but Benford didn’t leave much room for discussion, reminding them and Leon about the contract he’d signed willingly. He was property of the United States of America now and property didn’t complain about how it got used.

Which left him now, to try and push himself back up again, biting his tongue all the while, so as to not verbalize the fresh pain spiking through the muscles in his shoulder. As he puts pressure on his left elbow, bracing his flat palm on the moist dirt, he realizes in distant horror, how every part of his body is shaking, straining against the fatigue dragging him back down. The men from his barrack are circling Krauser and him, having been told to watch, while the Major sent him on his ass again and again, in a poor excuse for a demonstration. They’re all older than him and far more experienced, having had to complete basic training, before even being considered for the special forces program, unlike Leon, who’d just been thrown to the wolves with no warning.

“Having performance issues, rookie?” The condescending drawl of Major Krauser filters back in between the raging fire burning through his left shoulder.

He’s unsure what makes him collapse into the mud first, the muscle in his arm giving out after another piercing sting, or the hard sole of the combat boot impacting with his ribs. One way, or another, Leon has to fight to stay present, as he feels the vibration of Krauser’s heavy steps on the ground.

Raccoon City is a constant phantom lingering just out of view, waiting for the next opportunity to swallow him whole. Bootcamp has been enough of a distraction, to keep the memories at bay, but Leon still can’t help the shiver running through him, when Krauser positions himself to loom above, casting a dark shadow over his pallid face.

“Major–” He gasps out, blinking the rain out of his eyes, straining to breathe around the shooting pain suddenly constricting his lungs.

“If I give you an order, Kennedy, you better follow it, understood?” Krauser barks, lips pulled into an angry snarl.

Then, without hesitation, the Major steps on his wounded shoulder, effectively pinning him to the ground. The scream gets stuck in his throat, halfway out of his mouth. The sudden explosion of a hot radiating burn is such a shock, it stuns him for one endless second. 

“Yes, Sir.” He chokes out, muscles seizing beneath the grind of Krauser’s mud caked sole, the pain like a tight coil of barbed wires twisting in his flesh.

His right hand lifts shakily to clutch at Krauser’s shin, nails scrabbling over the fabric for purchase, but the other just increases the pressure of his foot, while Leon lays there, kicking his legs at the slippery ground, as if he’s a rabbit suffocating itself on its snare. 

“I don’t care how much pain you’re in, or if you’d rather be getting your beauty sleep, if I tell you to get up, you get up.”

Spit bubbles at the corners of his mouth, tinged by his own blood, as he tries not to scream, even if he thinks he’ll pass out just due to the unbearable pain, keeping him from breathing properly. His fingers pull uselessly on the camo BDUs, trembling too much for any precise movements, while his other hand lays limp in the dirt, the deep ache encroaching from his bullet wound disabling the otherwise functional muscles, while slowly creeping up the side of his neck too. Nausea slithers up his throat in the mix of it all, the rain suddenly tasting sweet on his lips.

“Yes, Sir.” Leon yelps more than he answers, blinking to chase away the static filling his vision, as Krauser makes no move to ease the pressure he’s put on his shoulder.

“You think what you’re learning here is a joke?”

The Major twists his boot upon the raised tissue of the scar like he’s stomping out a cigarette and Leon could swear he loses consciousness for just a moment. When he has willed the darkness away again, the contours of what he sees are fuzzy, swimming in and out of focus. 

“No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.” His words are barely more than a wheeze, forced out between laboured breaths that do nothing to ease the agony paralyzing his body.

Leon’s still young, inexperienced and naive in ways he won’t come to realize, until many years later but the place he’s in, is one he knows better than himself. Krauser might kiss him in private, touch him with only desire on his lips, though right now he is exercising his power over him, putting him back in place. He knows no amount of begging, or screaming will stop him from punishing Leon, until he is satisfied. It’s all so horribly familiar.

“Just because those pencil pushers pulled some strings for you, doesn’t mean you’ll get special treatment.” Krauser spits, leaning his weight forwards again.

Leon’s stomach contracts, sending him gagging, as a bit of bile rushes up his throat. He swallows it back down hurriedly, his anxious brain trying to formulate any answer that would make Krauser ease his harrowing.

“Understood, Sir.” His voice breaks, saliva running down the corners of his mouth, as Leon interchangeably gets hot and cold, trembling in his rain drenched clothes.

“So if you want to survive just a fraction of what we’re preparing you for, you better learn to swallow that shit down and push through the pain.” He demands, keeping his foot stubbornly placed on Leon’s shoulder. 

The pain is too much, his vision swimming, as he clings onto consciousness with an ever slipping grasp. Nevertheless, he coughs out another: “Yes, Sir.” Even though he doubts Krauser is looking for his confirmation. 

When the other just returns his words with an expectant look, Leon digs the nails of his one hand deeper into Krauser’s leg, trying to get a better grip on him, like it’ll help him throw the other off.

“You’ve got two hands for a reason, rookie. Use them.”

There’s no space for arguments, Krauser standing patiently above him, looking down like he’s enjoying the view. Leon can only gasp in response, the heavy weight of the Major pushing bluntly into the aching wound. The rest of his arm has gone slightly numb by now, panic and pain drowning out any other sensation. Moving it is even worse, the limb not responding as it should to Leon’s prompting. The upward motion is jerky and slow, stiff fingers barely bending enough to hook into the strap of Krauser’s thigh holster, as his other hand fumbles for any pressure points it can reach. It’s not enough to free him from under the Majors boot, barely a worthy attempt at resistance but it keeps Leon conscious long enough for his Major to decide he’s had enough and step back on his own.

“Good enough, now get up, Kennedy.” He grumbles, easing away so he isn’t caging in his hips anymore.

Leon doesn’t respond, just curls around his aching arm, while he claws the other hand into the mud in an attempt to steady himself, as he  attempts to get his feet back under him. Once he’s upright, he wrenches his limbs into parade rest, chest heaving in an uneven pattern, while waves of pain wash through him. He’s absolutely caked in dirt, sogging wet and dizzy from the chronic ache pulsing in his flesh.

“Let this be a learning experience, for all of you.” Krauser yells over the training ground, inspecting the miserable, rain drenched faces of the other recruits. “Noone will drag your sorry asses out of trouble just because you’re too much of a pussy to pull your own weight.”

“Yes, Sir.” They echo back, as Leon tries his best not to turn his head, to check if any of them are looking at him, relishing in the fact it was him who bore the brunt of the Major’s anger, instead of them.

“Dismissed!”

A sinew in Leon’s cheek twitches reflexively, then they all turn and head towards the showers.

Later that night, Krauser catches him in a hallway on his way to turn in to sleep. He orders to follow him, his demeanor cold and dismissive, until he leads him into one of the unused offices. This wing of the base is mostly empty, due to the lacking implementation of their new security system, most of the people living here avoiding the dust filled halls.

The moment the door is locked between them and the rest of the world, Krauser fixes him with that burning need in his eyes, Leon is always too unprepared for. They don’t talk a lot, especially not about the thing between them, Krauser just grabs him and pushes him against the edge of a dusty desk. The wood screeches over the floor from the impact, before he seals their lips in a violent kiss, all rushed and hungry and more teeth than anything else. 

Leon isn’t sure what love feels like, if loving him will always be bound to making him bleed but if he is honest with himself, Leon is starving for anything Krauser is willing to give. If that means he has to suffer through his tough love sometimes, he’ll gladly bear that too.

More than just desperate, Leon kisses back, almost trying to meld into the other’s body moving against him. The heat of every touch leaves him shaking and burning from the inside out. Impatient hands strip him of his shirt, eliciting a small wince, as the rough handling aggravates his sore shoulder. Taking pause, Krauser’s keen gaze fixes on the forming bruise over the unsightly scar tissue, a glimmer of something crossing his expression, before he leans forward to mouth at the tender skin.

Leon buries his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the other man's scent. Gunpowder, cheap soap, sweat. It distracts him enough to keep him from flinching when Krauser bites down on his shoulder. His breathing hitches, mind wandering back to other, darker places, the groaning from rotting throats echoing in his brain, as he clings with two hands to Krauser's shirt, like he's holding on to the only thing keeping him above water.

The blunt teeth give way to rough lips again, nipping at his throat, while large hands grope for his belt. He opens his pants, pushes the fabric to the side and reaches inside his underwear.

The time they spend alone, tucked away in shaded corners and dark rooms, is filled with hurried touches, hands grasping for anything they can get ahold of in the short moments they steal. Stuck in a place, which wouldn’t even want them to exist. It’s intense, chaotic, almost violent, a tiny bit of rebellion amongst the suffocating obedience demanded from him. 

Sometimes he isn’t even sure if Krauser actually likes him, or if he just wants to fuck him, but Leon is too afraid of the answer to ever outright ask, so instead he just lets Krauser take whatever he wants and hopes it’ll be enough to make him stay.

Operation Javier didn’t actually change the man he’s called his mentor but it brought out the worst in him, made it so glaringly obvious, Leon couldn’t deny it any longer. They fell out of what they had, the same way they’d fallen into it, bloody, bruised, with nothing but scars to show for it.

Thinking about whether Krauser had ever really loved him was something Leon tried to avoid entirely, the answer irrelevant now with the man long dead, just another ghost to haunt his waking days.

What did linger, was the persistent ache in his shoulder, a relic from not only Raccoon City but also the time which followed after. It was easier to ignore when he was younger, gritting his teeth and bearing it, numbing himself whenever possible. Pushing through the pain only works for so long though, even Krauser had to eventually learn that himself. He could feel the toll this life had had on his body with every passing year, knowing eventually he’d break under the strain.

***

“Leon? Are you listening?”

He blinks, once, twice. The noise of his surroundings filtering back in: the constant chattering of people, someone rattling off a speech they must’ve recited endlessly, heels scuffing over carpet and clicking on stone, the low baritone of Chris’ voice, as he swims back into focus.

“Sorry,” His mouth moves before he can think of what to say. He must’ve been so lost in thought, he spaced out for a minute. “what did you say?”

He shakes his head in an effort to recentre himself, before he looks back up at Chris who has furrowed his brows at him once again.

“I just said that Koch gives me the ick. He’s a bit too friendly, don’t you think?” He repeats. The visible shudder at his own description, makes Leon laugh, surprised Chris is so open about his distaste.

“He’s involved with PRISM, I’d say none of the people here are especially trustworthy.”

Leon shrugs, downplaying his own discomfort with the man. Chris is not wrong though, Koch had been eager to test boundaries since they’ve arrived, though him mentioning it still takes a bit of weight off his shoulders. This way he won’t have to try and convince the other himself.

“I mean, obviously.” Chris shakes his head, then he says: “Something about him is weird though, kinda creepy.”

The bridge of his nose wrinkles, as he talks, Chris’ face being incredibly expressive without any conscious effort, his aversion to Koch clearly visible. The sight makes Leon chuckle unbidden, some of the tension easing up with the knowledge of him having his back.

“Creepy’s right on the money.” He gives him a lopsided grin. “Let’s just see that we keep sticking together.”

Chris nods emphatically, holding out his palm for Leon to take. “Whatever my husband wants.” He teases.

Embarrassment heats up his cheeks, as Leon groans in mock annoyance. “Do remind me, why did I say yes again?”

“I have absolutely no clue.”

They entangle their fingers once more, the digits sliding over skin, slotting in place like they were made for each other, before Chris and Leon tail their group out of the hallway. Meanwhile inside his chest, his heart is threatening to explode with how fast it hammers against his ribcage, mainly because he can’t get enough of Chris calling him his husband.

***

They decide to come back to the library in the late evening, worming their way out of another arduous and boring dinner date. Both of them are uneager to be stuck with unpleasant company, while they have to pretend like they share their general disregard for human life. Instead they take the chance of everyone likely being at the same place, to actually do their job, hurrying through the oversized building, back to their target location.

When they finally get there, the door is still unlocked, Leon’s wristwatch disclosing it’s just after 9 PM, giving them a rough hour to search the place for anything useful. They check their surroundings one last time for anyone nearby, before Leon carefully pushes the dark wooden door open.

The inside greets them with the dim glow of the ceiling lights, a warm orange dousing the room, falling softly into the dusty crevices of the high bookshelves dominating the space. The odd coffee table and loveseat have been placed on the rug spanning through the room, to give some opportunity for sitting down to read, otherwise though the room is mostly empty, safe for the overwhelming amount of priceless books populating every inch of the walls. The library shelves tower so high that halfway up, a small gallery creates another walkway, accessible only through a wooden step ladder, which looks almost as ancient as the leather bound literature. The air here is stuffy, with no windows around, smelling of varnish, aging paper and moth balls. It reminds him more of an archive rather than a library, if he’s honest, though he doubts anything in here is actually for reading anyway.

“So, where do we start?” Chris asks, looking a little lost, as he swivels his head around to take in all of the little details.

“Well, let’s look for clues first, knowing those assholes, I’m sure we’ll have to solve another goddamn riddle.” He assesses, gaze wandering up the rows upon rows of books towards the painted ceiling and back down to the patterned carpet.

They exchange a brief look of weariness, before Chris sighs in defeat and starts inspecting the first shelf right next to the door, grumbling to himself.

“Wouldn’t be the first and will not be the fucking last.”

Leon takes the opposite side, going through the various spines to figure out some kind of pattern. The books themselves seem to be sorted alphabetically, as far as he can tell, their material varying widely from calico linen, leather and vellum, up to silk and wood. When he pulls out one stack of paper, pressed between two heavy slabs of carved wood he is surprised to find an iron chain dangling from the bottom of the spine, connecting the precious item to the inside of the shelf. Inspecting the book and its requisite nook, he shines his phone’s flashlight into the crevice, pulling experimentally on the chain. The words carved into the cover are set in gothic type, written in what Leon recognizes as Latin but doesn't know how to translate. 

After finding nothing else of interest there, he slides the book back into its place, before moving on. It takes them nearly two full passes of the library, until they eventually discover the clues they need, as Chris, more by chance than choice, pulls out an unassuming leather bound tome, only to have a clicking noise echo through the rest of the room. Looking at the item reveals it to be a dummy, the pages empty, except for the very first one.

It’s the title of a folk song, the words strange to Leon and his limited knowledge of the language.

‘Ein Jäger aus Kurpfalz, Strophe 1’ Is what it’s called, indicating they have only discovered one of several dummies, all part of the same puzzle.

During their search they find out the song has six stanzas in total, each marked with a different symbol on the spines of the books. As they lift their gaze to the intricate mural on the ceiling, they quickly discover the same symbols there, pointing them into the rough direction of where they’ll need to look. It still takes them a while though, until they have gathered all of them, each eliciting a resounding clunk, as they are removed from their usual place.

Pulling the last of the six from the shelf, they hold their breath, waiting for the following silence to be filled with something. Leon grows tense, expecting an alarm to ring out soon enough, announcing their presence and revealing them as the spies that they are. But nothing happens for another minute, until a set of lights flicker to life behind one of the shelfs, with the sound of old neon tubes.

Cold white light pours through the cracks of the wooden planks, the piece of furniture suddenly beginning to shift backwards into the wall, before another lock clicks open and it swings inward to reveal a sterile pathway beyond. Chris and Leon look at each other, bewilderment on their faces, now that they’ve finally solved the riddle after an eternity of meticulous work. Together they round the plush armchair in their way, carefully stepping into the narrow hall, the white tiling starkly reflecting the harsh light from above.

They enter something not quite like a laboratory but close to it, the devices which are present, familiar to the both of them, who have seen too many labs to count in their lifetime. The Storage units are what they can spot first, all locked off behind sturdy doors, secured by an electronic pad asking for a key card. Taking a few turns, they come upon a makeshift office, fitted with a few computers on rickety tables, the chairs there looking stiff and uncomfortable. 

From what Leon supposes, no one's actively sitting at these workstations full time anyway, only keeping track of what goes in and out of the building, who’s buying, or who’s selling what. Curiously, he taps the spacebar on one of the keyboards, the desktop lighting up in the default lock screen. The system they’re running these computers on must have aged a bit though, seeing as the loading screen persists for a while, until the log-in appears, asking for an employee key-card once again.

With a growing nervousness, Leon shuts the screen off, investigating for any stray pieces of evidence they could grab on their way out, but finding the barren room almost picked clean of any trace of human meddling. A look at his wristwatch though, tells him their time is running out, having lingered in the secret passages for way too long already. He turns to Chris, who is peeking beyond an unlabeled steel door, down a set of ominous stairs, leading deeper below the castle building.

“We should leave now.” He fiddles with the clasp of the watch, digging uncomfortably into his wrist.

Chris closes the door quietly again, nodding in his direction. “You’re right, let’s head out.”

The walk to the exit is a short one, accompanied by tense silence, as they strain their ears and eyes for anything unusual. Normally, this would be the point where something goes wrong, one of the creatures escaping their cage, or someone letting loose another virus strain for equally vague reasons but for now, nothing happens, the space almost eerily quiet.

Before they know it, they’re back in the walls of the library. A heavy sigh of relief escapes both of their lips, Leon dropping his grip on the hilt of his knife, while Chris tucks the gun into the holster beneath his arms. The momentary break is soon interrupted though, when in the middle of closing up the secret passage, Leon can catch the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from outside the door.

He shushes Chris vehemently, holding dead still in order to listen more closely, then after a beat, he falls back into action, hurriedly shoving the next book in its place.

“Someone’s coming.” He says under his breath.

“Shit.” Chris exclaims, tossing him another one of the tomes.

They don’t have much time to close off the hall, even less to try and slip out of the room, the floor beyond not providing them with enough cover to sneak off unnoticed, which is why Leon’s brain reels, as he thinks about an alternative way to weasel themselves out of this situation. 

When the shelf finally clicks back into position and the lights flick off, there are only seconds left, before whoever’s outside the door will walk in on them.

Without hesitation, Leon does what is probably the most stupid thing he’s ever come up with. He shoves Chris onto the armchair, conveniently positioned behind him, sparing one last glance towards the exit, before he crowds his pretend husband where he’s seated, one knee shoved resolutely onto the space between Chris’ strong thighs.

He leans in, heart beating in his chest so loudly, he’s surprised Chris doesn’t hear it and prays, as he says:

“Kiss me.”

Chapter Text

”Kiss me.” Leon says in a breathy whisper.

There’s someone trotting down the hallway, most certainly towards them and Leon – gorgeous, fierce, clever Leon – tells Chris to kiss him. It’s not a question at all, not to Chris, not if it’s Leon. He doesn’t skip a single beat, as he grasps him by the neck, to pull him down.

Their lips seal in an open-mouthed kiss, Leon’s lips soft and strangely sticky, as they move in tandem. Chris buries his fingers deeper into Leon’s hair, letting the silk smooth strands slip between them, as he holds the other’s face in his hands, like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever come to possess. Meanwhile, Leon is clutching the front of his shirt like a lifeline, his other palm pressing firmly onto his shoulder, while he bends down closer, opening his mouth farther, farther .

He tastes vanilla on his lips, then he only tastes more of Leon, the inside of his mouth velvety, burning hot, as their tongues meet, deepening the contact. Desire melts through him straight from his core, his heart feeling like it’s swelling in his chest with longing. It hits him then, with undeniable clarity, that this is all Chris has wanted for a long time now. The other man being so close to him, he can never bring himself to let him go again.

Leon’s pulse is rabbiting too, thrumming against the pad of his thumb, while he’s pulling on his hips to bring him even closer, barely containing his own arousal.

They’re both feeling the same here, right? They have to be, else this wouldn’t feel as perfect as it does.  

Chris is just about to inch backwards to ask, or confess something, the admittance long overdue, when the door to the library, swings open with a creak and the first thing they hear is an obnoxiously loud:

“Oh!”

Leon jerks backwards at the sudden noise, both hands leveraged on Chris’ shoulders, as he looks towards whoever walked in on them. In a split second Chris can watch all of the carefully maintained walls slip back onto Leon’s expression with practiced ease, while he’s left to just sit there, dumbfounded and dying to go back to making out with the man he loves.

“Mr. Koch!” Leon blinks at the person in the doorway, which Chris now too, recognizes as their meddlesome chaperon.

“Am I interrupting something?” Koch asks, looking between the two and the position they’re in.

At once, Leon climbs off the loveseat, brushing the wrinkles out of his suit again, as he stands to face Koch. Chris lags a bit behind, but slowly comes to understand the scene the other’s set up, hurrying from the seat to intertwine their hands again, side by side.

“No, sorry, we just forgot to check the time.” Leon turns his wrist around to act like he’s looking at his watch, tone apologetic, as he leans further into Chris.

Relying on his trusty intuition, Chris is wary of Koch already but what sets him off more, is how every time they encounter the man, Leon makes himself placid and small. He doubts it’s a conscious decision but seeing it happen, is unnerving nonetheless, not knowing Leon to be intimidated easily.

“No harm done,” Koch laughs. “You’re lucky the hotel staff didn’t catch you though, they take a bit of an issue with appropriating the library.”

The PRISM employee holds the door open for them, as they exit, his other hand wrapped resolutely around his keyring, as he closes the door and turns back around to them. Chris prays the distaste is not too obvious in his tone,when he replies:

“Don’t worry, we still know how to keep our manners.”

He must not succeed at it though, because Leon pokes his elbow into his side right after.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, I’m just saying that it happened before.” Koch shrugs, apparently unbothered by Chris’ misstep, pushing the key to the library into its lock.

They don’t care to make more conversation with the man, parting with the necessary pleasantries, before turning to unsuspiciously walk back down the hallway. Leon is silent on their way up to their room and Chris worries he might’ve done something wrong, though despite the quiet between them, the other has not withdrawn his hand from Chris’, letting him hold it, until they reach the door to their suite. As he fishes for the key in his pocket, Chris stops him for a moment, tugging on their joint palm to nudge him to turn around.

“Leon–” He starts, unsure what to say, just knowing he wants to feel the other's body press against his own again.

“Chris I–” Leon licks his lips anxiously, the remnants of some sort of lipstick, or gloss smeared messily across the tender flesh. His eyes stick to them, wet and kiss swollen and heavenly against his own. “I’m sorry if I–”

He doesn’t let him get farther than that, swallowing up the apology in another gentle kiss, Leon making a slightly startled sound, before melting into the contact, like he’s never been touched kindly before.

The longer they stand there, leaning against the wallpaper of the hall, the more urgent the kiss becomes, Leon’s hands searching for every inch of Chris’ body, hurriedly tearing at the buttons of his shirt, as if he’s scared Chris will change his mind at any minute. Instead he indulges him, crowds him against the wall more firmly, until they’re lined up head to toe, Chris just holding him in the moment, arms wrapped around his waist, kissing Leon slow and firm.

Leon smells like lemongrass and musk, the scent familiar after all the years they’ve known each other, though he can’t remember ever having been this close to the agent, the other more than used to holding his distance. But now everything feels different, now Leon is open and supple under the contact, humming into his mouth with every pass of Chris’ hands over sides, feeling the stretch of his torso, lean and strong, as Chris wants more, more, more .

When they inevitably part, Leon chases his touch for a fraction of a second, lost in the sensation, as he takes a moment to flutter his eyes open, refocusing himself. His irises are a brilliant, clear blue, even in the dim hallway light, their gazes meeting, fraught with meaning.

“Is this okay?” Chris asks, in the small space between their lips.

“Yes…” He says, almost breathless. “For you?”

Emotion wells up inside him, brimming just below the surface, threatening to spill. It’s so much, Chris doesn’t know what to do with it, wanting to say everything he’s failed to, up until this point. Instead he settles for a nod, a quiet ‘Yes.’   Meant for Leon’s ears only, before leaning down towards the tender column of his throat, leaving moist kisses on the warm skin, one after another, until he can hear the muffled sound of Leon’s laughter, bubbling from his mouth like fresh spring water. Chris thinks this might be the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“Let’s go inside.” Leon suggests, after having coaxed Chris away from trying to give him a hickey.

His hands now rest on Chris’ shoulders, beneath the suit jacket, radiating warmth and sparking electricity through the rest of his body. Eyes having gone half-lidded and dark, Leon is smiling at him, like he’s never seen him before, as he takes in Chris’ own expression, heavy with desire.

“Yes, you’re right.” Chris leans in again to steal another kiss, before digging out his own key to unlock their suite.

Once they’re inside, he lets the door fall into the frame again distractedly, jamming his key into the cylinder to turn it once, too impatient to delay them any longer. When he turns around Leon has already shrugged off his jacket, Chris mourning the opportunity to tear it off of him himself, while simultaneously deciding he won’t pass up on discarding the rest of his clothes.

Easily Leon falls back into his arms, Chris encircling the other, as they go back to kissing in the middle of the living room, stepping around furniture and over bumps in the carpet, as they maneuver their way to the bedroom. All the while Leon’s hands are fiddling with the buttons of Chris’ shirt, pulling at the knot of his tie to loosen it, as he pushes the expensive jacket out of the way, so he can dig his nails more easily into the back of his neck.

Obliging the prompting, Chris takes off the suit jacket, pausing their making out to sling the tie over his head, before letting Leon get back to working on his button up. His deft fingers are quick and gentle, tugging the fabric free from his pants, before sliding right under it, to let them roam the expanse of his torso. Guiding them towards the set of double doors, Chris steps out of his dress shoes, his own hands fidgeting with the buckle of Leon’s belt, until he yanks it free from the loops in one fluid motion.

Leon gives a quiet gasp, stumbling at the next step, before Chris steadies him again with a hand at the small of his back, then he begins opening the waistcoat and shirt Leon’s wearing, careful not to rip any buttons off entirely, even though he’s tense with excitement. Beneath the layer of fabric though, he finds once again, another undergarment.

“You've got to stop with the undershirts love.” He murmurs into the shell of Leon’s ear, feeling a shiver coursing through the other’s body.

Leon begins tugging on Chris’ own belt, feeding the strap out of the buckle, while Chris does his best not to rip the undershirt to shreds, while he fumbles it out from the seam of his pants.

“You don’t like undressing me?” Leon huffs between kisses, his cheeks tinged a healthy rose colour, that makes Chris just want to pepper his face with more.

He only growls in response, finally pulling the shirt up over Leon’s head, tossing it into some corner, like it has personally offended him. Now that he’s got a full view of Leon’s chest, he savours the sight, eyes raking over it for a long moment, as he tries to commit every minute detail to memory.

The exit wound of the bullet, poorly healed even after so long, the smattering of smaller nicks and gashes from his years of working for the government, the light dusting of hair, crawling up from the seam of his pants, to trail over his belly button, the stretch marks at his hips and shoulders, the muscles flexing under skin, and the fat which rounds off the sharp jut of his ribs and pelvis. 

Leon’s body paints a beautiful picture, drawing him in with every imperfection. All of it speaks to the things he has survived and to the strength it must have taken to do so. If he could, he’d do nothing but kiss the marred pieces of him, until the world turned into a kinder place, but until then he’ll do anything to make Leon understand how loved he is.

Leaning in to pour all of these thoughts into the next kiss, they both resume their exploration of the other’s body, eyes closed but hands crawling up and down every inch in reach. Chris traces what he’s almost certain are whipping scars, on Leon’s back, following the thin lines across his shoulder blades, before dropping them down to stroke the arch of his spine. Then he lets his lips wander, from the corner of Leon’s mouth, over his cheek with the beginnings of stubble growing in, until he reaches his earlobe, where he lingers to feel the other shiver and shake beneath the attention, stuttering through his breaths, as his nails begin to dig into the meat of Chris’ shoulders. He has to wonder how long it’s been, since Leon’s been touched like this, if he’s already coming apart at being given so little.

They hit the edge of the bed, once both of their pants have slid down their legs to pool at their feet and Leon lets himself tumble onto the soft mattress gracefully, like he’s rolling out of a fall. Chris goes with him, kneeling above Leon’s stretched out body, skin pale white in the dim glow of the night. They lock eyes again, Leon blinking at him slowly, already about to tug Chris back into a kiss, when he hesitates for a moment.

“What do you want me to do, Leon?” He asks, watching the other intently.

He blinks at him, losing the bedroom eyes, as a trace of confusion flits over his features, then he arches his spine again, squirming under Chris to hook one leg of his around Chris’ hips.

“You can do whatever you want with me.” He smiles, pushing himself off of the pillow to press their mouths together again.

The drag of their lips stokes the low flame of lust deep in his gut, making Chris relax into the sensation. He’s already hard, his dick straining against the elastic of his underwear and pushing against Leon’s hip with every move. Though, Leon’s no different, his erection hot and heavy in his briefs, leaking precum which soaks the fabric to wet Chris’ own leg. After a moment they break apart once more.

“I am asking you what you want.” He repeats himself, then after seeing the incomprehension on Leon’s face, adds: “I just want to make you feel good.”

Leon parts his lips, glistening with spit, looking at Chris with wide, wet eyes.

“Please,” He begins, voice thready, barely above a whisper. “please fuck me.”

Raising his hand to cup the side of his face, Chris strokes his thumb along the curve of Leon’s cheekbone, relishing in the sight of him, desperate with arousal, telling Chris exactly what he needs.

“I can do that.” His voice rumbles deep in his chest, already moving to suck at Leon’s throat, working his way downwards.

Taking his time, Chris mouths at every part of Leon’s body the other will let him, noting every minute reaction he can get out of him. Coming to the scar piercing his shoulder, he’s especially tender, ghosting his touch just so, over it. Shortly after, he realizes Leon has gone dead still under the attention, not even daring to breathe, as Chris kisses the scarred skin.

It’s worrisome, how Leon reacts like he’s expecting to be hurt, more so that he doesn’t say something, relying wholly on Chris picking up on his discomfort. Promising himself to ask him about it at a later date, he pushes the thought to the back of his mind, deciding instead to resume his path towards Leon’s belly button. Kissing down his happy trail, he begins to tug on the waistband of Leon’s briefs, before the other halts him with an uncertain hand touching his own.

“Do you have protection?” He asks, propped up on one elbow, eyes glassy with the passion traveling through him.

The question sobers Chris up a little, bringing back his rationale long enough for him to nod in agreement.

“I should have some–”

He crawls off the bed far enough to tug the suitcase out from under it, flipping it open with one hand and digging through his clothes on the search for–

“Aha!”

A little too enthusiastically, he yanks the condoms and lube free from the bottom of his luggage, tossing them onto the bed, as he repositions himself tangled between Leon’s sinfully long legs.

The other looks at him a little owlishly, before he stifles another chuckle. “Should I ask why you brought that to a mission? ”

“I forgot to unpack them after being on vacation.” He comments absently, distracting himself with finally, finally, sliding the underwear down Leon’s hips and legs.

The next snarky comment from Leon, about Chris’ vacation habits, dies in his throat, only a strangled gurgling noise escaping him, when Chris wraps his fingers around Leon’s stiff shaft. The other tenses, curling and uncurling his toes in tandem with Chris’ slow strokes, as more precum smears over the tip, down onto the webbing between his thumb and index. For a while, Chris does nothing more but keep up the rhythm, enjoying the way his touch makes the other twitch, squirming with pleasure, as their hands lay entangled on the duvet, Leon’s trembling fingers grasping for his own.

When he thinks Leon’s gotten used to the stimulation, he eases his grip, instead pawing for the strip of condoms and tearing one free, before ripping the packet open. Leon blinks down at him, the flush having spread from his face to his neck and over his chest, as he watches Chris roll the condom down his hard cock. Next he lubes up his index finger, settling his other hand to lay soothingly at the inside of Leon’s parted thigh.

“Are you feeling okay?” He checks in again, stroking his leg in slow circles.

Leon nods, silent for a second, as he swallows repeatedly. “I’m good, do you want to–?”

“Only if you want to?”

Their conversation is awkward, both unsure how to handle this new-found dynamic, though Chris is relieved, when Leon eases himself back onto the mattress and just breathes a:

“God, yes, please.”

The moment Chris pushes his first finger inside, he simultaneously wraps his lips around the head of Leon’s cock, tasting the rubber and lube on his tongue. He hums at the weight of it, the vibrations of his voice certainly traveling through Leon’s body, to set his nerves alight, though for now he stills his hand, letting the other adjust to the intrusion first.

Leon’s silent for a long while, the muscles in his thighs tensing and releasing spasmodically, as Chris continues to go down on him, taking as much of Leon’s cock as he can handle, before his gag reflex forces him to pull up. When he can feel the other slowly relax again, Chris takes it as his cue to move his finger, pushing it in and out, pressing against Leon’s walls to search for his prostate. His unoccupied hand comes up to circle the remaining length of Leon’s dick, as Chris bobs his head up and down.

At some point, a trembling palm comes to rest on Chris’ head, not guiding him to do anything but just laying there, fingers threading through his hair in a calming rhythm, while he sucks and licks at Leon’s dick, pressing the flat of his tongue against the twitching shaft, circling the head of it, to coax Leon into momentarily fastening his grip on Chris’ scalp.

After he gleans Leon might’ve adjusted to the stretch, he withdraws his mouth for a moment, taking a deep breath, as he looks back up at the other man, who is watching him from hooded eyes, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Are you okay with a second finger?”

He grasps Leon’s wrist loosely, guiding his hand so he can kiss his palm as the other visibly thinks through his answer. The soft cotton of his bandage brushes up against the edge of Chris’ wrist, but he only has eyes for the man in front of him, his legs spread to accommodate his broad shoulders and glassy eyes fixed on his face like Chris is the centrepiece of his entire world.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He rasps, the tip of his tongue peeking from between his teeth to wet his reddened lips.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable, okay?” Chris clarifies once more, unsure if Leon’s gotten the message yet.

The other nods, fingers tightening around Chris’ hand reassuringly.

Popping the cap of the lube open, he pours more of the viscous fluid on his fingers, coating the digits in a generous amount, before positioning them at Leon’s rim. The muscle gives easily, accommodating his fingers with more ease, as Chris slowly pushes them in, up to the second knuckle. He watches Leon’s reaction closely, his brows drawn together tight, eyes falling shut, as he focuses on just breathing. Chris waits, bowing forward to lick a long stripe up Leon’s erection, wrapping his lips around its head again, as he sucks softly.

It doesn’t take long, before the tension in Leon’s muscles eases once more, the other collapsing onto the mattress, as he threads his fingers through Chris’ hair, nails scratching pleasantly over his scalp. He can hear heavy breathing now from the head of the bed, some choked off whines, which barely reach him in the position he’s in. When he draws himself off Leon’s cock for a moment, he notices how the other is gnawing on his own knuckles in an attempt to silence himself.

The effort it takes for Leon to keep the noise down is almost glaringly visible on his features, only worsening when Chris decides to take it as a challenge, as he carefully pushes the rest of his fingers inside, resuming the thrusting motion, while he feels for the sensitive bundle of nerves, he knows is there.

When he hits it, he’s simultaneously mouthing at the inside of Leon’s thigh, nipping and kissing the skin, because it makes small tremors travel through the other’s abdomen, until suddenly a whole-body shiver overcomes him and Leon’s spine arches, like there’s electricity shooting through him. The noise he makes is more of a gasp than a real moan but it tells Chris enough to know he’s on the right path. Repeating the motion, he puts more pressure on the spot inside Leon, watching as the other stutters out a half-aborted groan, while his thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably.

“You don’t need to keep quiet.” He comments, reaching for Leon’s wrist to interlace their fingers.

The other lets him, limbs loose with pleasure, while he clings to Chris’ palm. Even with his encouragement, Leon keeps from vocalizing much, only sounding out a high whine, when Chris takes him into his mouth again, accompanying the steady friction on his prostate with the wet heat of his mouth. Soon after, the lube coating Chris’ fingers begins to dwindle and the give of the muscle indicates the other might be ready for more. Chris withdraws his hand from between Leon’s thighs, the latter wrenching his eyes open to watch him pour more lube on three fingers, before connecting their gazes.

“Still doing good?”

Leon nods, swallows, as he tries to grasp for words. 

“I’m doing amazing.” He says, before Chris proceeds to push the three digits inside.

For a moment, he breathes through the stretch, reaching for Chris’ other hand, like he needs something to ground himself on. He’s happy to oblige, even with his own erection begging for attention, right now though he’s focusing solely on taking the other apart, none of them in a hurry to get it over with. The fingers move effortlessly in and out of Leon, hitting his prostate with every thrust, to which he shudders and writhes in response, small gasps escaping his parted lips. Between the in and out motion, Chris gingerly spreads his fingers apart, scissoring Leon to loosen him up some more.

At first he eyes his expressions like a hawk, concerned he’ll accidentally hurt the other, though when he just continues to bunch up more of the bed’s duvet, Chris lets himself relax, going back to taking Leon’s cock in his mouth. After Chris swallows him a bit farther down than he has prior, the other jerks a little, forcing his hips to still shortly after.

“Chris I–” Leon tries to warn, the rest of the sentence breaking off into a deep groan, as Chris applies more pressure with his tongue and begins moving his fingers against Leon’s walls with more insistence.

The noise instantly makes blood rush south, Chris’ cock hardening to an almost painful degree, as he works to break down Leon’s composure for good. It’s almost maddeningly hot, the way his moans slowly tear loose from his throat, the control over his vocal cords slipping with every touch of his fingers and every pass of his tongue, until the soles of his feet press down onto the mattress and Leon’s abdomen tenses.

“Oh, fuck!” He cries out, dissolving into more breathy moans. 

Then suddenly, his orgasm crashes down on him, the ring of muscle beginning to spasm around Chris’ fingers and his dick pulsing rhythmically. Chris rides it out with him, moving his fingers in a slow motion, as he takes Leon as far down as his gag reflex allows. All the while the only thing on Leon’s lips is Chris’ name, saying it over and over and over, until his chest is heaving and his body has fallen still again.

He withdraws his hand from between Leon’s legs, lets his now soft dick slip from his lips, eliciting a quiet sigh from the other. Then he crawls up the mattress, laying one hand gingerly on Leon’s waist. He looks at his face, the usual tense lines of worry smoothed out by bliss, lips parted, skin glistening with sweat. Leon blinks back, something soft in his eyes, he’s never noticed up until now, before he wobbles upward to messily kiss him again.

It's slow, uncoordinated but Chris couldn’t ask for more, leaning into the pure emotion he feels radiating from the other throughout it. When they part, he keeps their foreheads joined, breathing the same air for a long moment.

“Do you want to continue this, or–?” He asks, holding his face in one broad palm, Leon leaning into the touch unabashedly.

“I wouldn’t mind, but only if you do too.” 

Leon says, the constant need to check in with Chris making something warm pool in the depths of his stomach. He doesn’t get that a lot, especially not when he’s topping and even though Chris is very much capable of voicing his needs, it's still a welcome change, seeing how much the other cares to make sure he’s comfortable.

“Of course, I want all of you Leon.” The words tumble out of his mouth, ere he can think them through, the truth of them stunning him.

A smile spreads on Leon’s lips in response, sweet and genuine, as he slings his arms around Chris’ neck, tugging their chests flush together. They fall back into just enjoying the feel of each other's lips, Chris settling between Leon's legs, as he one-handedly pulls his own underwear off. They only part, so Leon can take care of the used condom while Chris sits upright to fumble for a new one, as he tries not to stare too much at the sweat soaked hair falling into Leon's eyes.

Every touch to his dick feels almost too much, his body overflowing with arousal, forcing Chris to stop and breathe against the cresting orgasm, after rolling the condom down his length. He lets his hand pass over it to take the edge off, giving himself a few slow strokes, while Leon obviously sizes him up but tries to not make it obvious.

Chris isn't extraordinarily big, though several people have told him before that he's definitely above average, judging by the look on Leon's face, the other might be inclined to agree. He leans down again, cradling his face, as he cards the bangs from his damp forehead.

"You look spooked." He says, smiling.

The flush on Leon's cheeks intensifies at once, skin emitting a radiant heat, as he starts to avoid eye-contact, suddenly shy. 

"I'm not spooked , it’s fine." He counters, though his body language says otherwise, making concern slowly well up inside Chris.

All of this between them is so new and though it’s thrilling, Chris doesn’t want to push Leon to do things he isn’t ready for yet, doesn’t want to scare him away by going too far, too fast.

"You know we can stop whenever you want." Is what he says instead, hoping to reassure Leon he’ll still be there, no matter what they decide on doing.

Their gazes connect for a split second, the impression of confusion lingering in Leon’s eyes, like he’s hearing those words for the first time in his life, before a split second later, the playful smile is back on his face, turning Chris’ lovesick heart into goo.

"I know,” He emphasizes. “God, Chris please just fuck me already."

Leon exclaims demandingly, digging his heels into Chris’ lower back, as his long fingers wrap around the back of his neck, yanking him down towards his opened mouth. Chris gladly gives way to Leon’s begging, swallowing down kiss after kiss, his fingers wandering back to push inside him. The yelp escaping Leon, is half surprise and half anticipation, eyes fluttering closed and lips dropping away from Chris’, when he pushes the digits as deep as they will go.

"So impatient." Chris groans, feeling for Leon’s prostate again, only to barely brush it, as he continues preparing him.

“You’re just–” He inhales heavily, digs his nails into Chris’ back. “being slow.”

Taking it for the challenge it is, Chris angles Leon’s head to have free reign of his sensitive throat, sucking hard on the soft skin, as he begins to fumble for more lube. Once he’s coated his erection in a good amount, he grasps onto Leon’s muscular thighs to spread them a little wider, making space for his hips, while he marvels at his partner’s flexibility.

The push inside is slow, careful, the nervous stuttering of Leon’s breath enough to have him pause more than once. When he’s eventually sheathed fully inside, Leon’s legs are trembling again, one of his hands resting haltingly against Chris’ abdomen, while Leon fills his lungs with air at a crawling pace. Surrounded by Leon’s tight heat, Chris’ dick is throbbing, aching at the lack of friction to such a degree, he has to consciously relax the grip he has on Leon’s hips, as he waits for the other to adjust to the stretch.

After what feels like an eternity, Leon tells him to move. He keeps his thrusts down to a gentle rocking, gleaning the other’s reaction, though it seems, once Leon has gotten comfortable, all the rest follows almost effortlessly. The longer he’s inside him, the more his movements pick up in their intensity, first searching and then hitting Leon’s prostate mercilessly, the other shivering and squirming in his arms, as he chokes on his own broken off moans.

Leon isn’t loud, not even when he comes for a second time, Chris buried deep inside him, canting his hips in a rhythm, which has Leon rake his nails along Chris’ sides. It’s almost like he’s afraid to make too much noise, always vigilant, even now, even when Chris moans right back, unashamed, openly telling him how he wants to take him apart until he screams. The garbled noises he gets from Leon in response, are what pushes him over the edge too, thrusting deep inside, before he comes hard enough his vision whites out for a second. 

Overstimulated and with a loosened tongue, Leon picks up a chant of:

“Yes!” and “Please–!” and “Fuck, Chris!” 

The words falling from his lips, while he is shaking and shaking against him, wrecked by the pleasure shooting through his spine like molten iron.

The after is spent in mutual quiet, both wrung out and tired, too blissed out to have any mind for talking things through. But Chris is confident they’ll figure it out tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, maybe even breakfast.

They clean each other up as best they can, get rid of the used condoms, just to fall into bed again, still naked and sweaty. At first they don’t touch beneath the covers, like they have avoided to, since they’ve arrived here, but then he feels the very tips of Leon’s fingers at his palm, reaching out to hold his hand almost timidly. Chris grasps his hand back firmly, turning on his side to draw Leon in. The other goes without complaint, tension easing out of him, like butter melting in the sun. Before they know it, both of them are overwhelmed by sleep, as they rest in each other’s arms.

***

The dreams Leon has that night are strange, vague impressions of things, memories surfacing out of black depths, only to get sucked into the water again, before he can make sense of anything.

There’s Raccoon City, the dark hallways of the police station and Ada’s hand in his, as she slips from his hold. There’s Spain, the smell of cigarettes and blood, as he can do nothing but watch Luis Serra die. There’s the ceremony room in Tall Oaks, decorated in red, white and blue, Benford's corpse to his feet, as relief beats high in his throat.

At some point, he finds himself in front of his bathroom mirror, scrubbing his hands furiously, drenched in dark crimson. The blood is warm and sticky, the iron tang hanging in the air, making nausea well up in his stomach. He can’t get it off though, the red pouring endlessly into the drain, as he claws at his drenched skin, asking himself with rising panic if this is someone else’s, or merely his own.

The memories of it bleed into each other, the times he’s spent under the shower head, still shaking with adrenaline, as he’d tried to wash off the gore and guilt after every bad mission. When he looks back up to where his reflection should be, he sees a face he knows is his, but cannot recognize anymore. Quietly to himself he thinks:

‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

Then a long stretch of darkness overwhelms him, in which Leon doesn’t dream at all, until a hazy impression resurfaces, fragmented and blurry. He watches the smeared colours of an ambulance light change from red to blue from above. The noises around him are dampened, like he has cotton stuffed in his ears, though he gets the sense there might be people talking. The rhythm of it feels like orders are being shouted and he has to wonder if they’re directed at him.

Is he supposed to be doing something here?

The stretcher he lies on rattles, as they roll him down the street by his apartment, a paramedic swimming into focus, before this memory too, fizzles out.

Throughout the nightmares there’s the vague feeling of fear. Fear that he’ll die, fear that he won’t, fear of what he might find in the dark, or behind the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s muffled though, simmering low in the back of his mind, as he wakes momentarily, only to fall back asleep again.

When morning comes, with its golden light filtering in through the gap in the door, the first thing Leon becomes aware of is the familiar scent surrounding him, sweat and musk mixed with the cologne Chris has been using for over a decade. Still drowsy with sleep, Leon tries to move his head, only to bump his nose into the swell of Chris’ bare chest. The unexpected contact makes him blink his eyes open, vision clearing sluggishly, as he realizes he’s lying cuddled close to the other man, Chris’ arms wrapped around his upper body, like he’s trying to keep him near, even while unconscious.

The memories of last night begin to filter back into his sleep-addled mind, taking longer than he’s used to with how heavy he’s apparently been sleeping. All the while Leon just lays there, head pillowed on Chris’ chest, with his naked body pressed against his side, soaking up the warmth the other is emitting. It’s almost unreal to wake up like this, last night feeling merely like a figment of his imagination, though the hollow ache in his lower back begs to differ.

Leon lets himself bask in the peace and quiet for a little while longer, enjoying the easy contact, before the urge to shower gets too strong, coaxing him to carefully extricate himself from Chris’ arms, the other grumbling in protest, before promptly rolling over to lay on his stomach. Maybe if he’s lucky, he can slip back into bed afterwards, to steal a few more moments of intimacy.

Standing under the spray of the shower, Leon runs his hands through his hair, combing it back, to massage the expensive shampoo the hotel has provided them with, into his scalp. The liquid bubbles up, creating thick, white foam and Leon sighs, as he angles his head under the warm water, rinsing it out again, while he quietly basks in the memory of Chris’ fingers in his hair, on his hips, pressing inside him.

He can’t help but wonder about the implications of it, if maybe Chris and him could be more, even beyond the physical attraction, or if all last night had been for Chris, was a heat of the moment decision, fueled by lust and nothing else. Leon thinks he could live with that, keeping it simple, by claiming it’s only been sex, even if deep in his core, he’d want something different.

The alternative is even more terrifying though, considering the other might actually try and love him. What if he sees Leon for what he truly is and decides the trouble isn’t worth it? Could Leon survive that too?

Lost in his thoughts, Leon is distracted enough, he doesn’t hear Chris when he enters the bathroom, startling as the latter pries the door to the shower open, to step inside behind him.

“Give a guy some warning.” He grumbles, twitching under Chris’ broad palms coming to rest on his waist.

Leon isn’t used to being touched, especially not like this, it’s almost too much with Chris pressing his naked body against Leon’s back, joining him under the pour of the rain shower.

“Sorry.” He mumbles into Leon’s neck, though he gets the impression Chris isn’t very sorry at all, because he starts nibbling at the stretch of his shoulder right away, his arms sliding to vine around his stomach.

Leon lets his head fall back, resting it on Chris’ clavicle, as the worries from earlier begin to fall away. No matter what they decide on doing, Leon gets to have something good for once. Even if it is only temporary, he wants to enjoy it, while it lasts.

When he feels teeth tugging gently at the flesh of his throat, Leon turns around in the firm circle of Chris’ arms, a grin spreading on his face, beyond his control.

“Don’t you think you’ve given me enough hickeys last night?” He asks.

“Maybe,” Chris smirks, gaze skidding from Leon’s eyes, over his lips and chin to the smattering of bruises on his throat. “you could do with some more though.” He says, leaning in to kiss his face and neck, while Leon laughs like he’s sixteen again.

As they stand there, joined under the drizzle of the shower head, the consistent ache in his muscles eases, warm water and careful hands chasing the tension away. Joy blooms in Leon’s chest, fragile, too big for his tired heart. He smiles, keeps smiling into every kiss, Chris' hands caressing down his back, down his shoulders, along both of his arms and–

Chris stops kissing him, stops moving altogether. Suddenly the sound of the water hitting the basin of the shower is deafening. Leon blinks his eyes open, brows drawn into a confused furrow. He finds his lover with his head lowered, staring at the expanse of his left forearm, the one he's kept covered all week.

Leon forgot he took off the bandages before hitting the shower, the fantasy of sharing a life with Chris getting the better of him and making him drop his guard, distracting him. Now the scars are on display, a few fresher ones still dark and red. There's no doubt where they come from, placed perfectly parallel, too precise to have been an accident. His arm is littered with them, some already pale, fading steadily, while others stand out, where he has accidentally gouged too deep.

Realizing they've both just been standing there, frozen to the spot, Leon snatches his arm away from Chris, his back hitting the tiled wall of the shower.

“Leon,” He gasps, the happiness is gone from his face, all traces of affection washed away. “What is that?”

Chris is staring, fixating on the limb he cradles close to his chest in an effort to hide it, refusing to look him in the eye, as Leon suddenly feels naked in more ways than one.

“It's nothing.” He presses from clenched teeth, covering the worst of the scars in one palm, as he curls around the rest of it. They’re still in the shower, there’s still water streaming in rivulets down Chris’ toned body.

“It doesn't look like ‘nothing’ .” He says, taking a step towards him, but Leon isn’t having it, dodging his grasping palms by getting closer to the shower door.

The air is humid, Chris is too close and he doesn’t want to be having this conversation. He feels like he’s suffocating.

“Well, then let’s just say it’s none of your fucking business.” Leon bites out, shoving the glass door open behind him to flee from the confines of the cabin. Cool air immediately sends goosebumps all over his skin, as water starts pooling to his feet.

“Isn’t it?” Chris’ gaze hardens, eyeing him critically. “Because I thought we were in this together.”

He reaches out to touch him again, wraps his fingers around Leon’s biceps, halting him in his escape. An indecipherable emotion explodes in his chest. Anger, panic, disappointment, feeling torturously vulnerable beneath Chris’ hands. He doesn’t understand why he can’t just let it go, why Leon doesn’t get to have anything good in his life.

“I know you refuse to believe it but I don’t need anyone to coddle me and treat me like I’m made of glass.”

Yanking his arm back, he tears himself free of Chris’ hold, biting down on the wave of fear, which follows the defiance, before he snatches a random towel from a shelf to start wrapping it tightly around his hips. The water of the shower stops abruptly, Chris having wrenched the faucet shut in anger.

“The last time you said that I had to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit and drag your sorry ass back to rehab.” He’s coming out of the shower, hands flying wildly in gesticulation, as he throws the accusation at him.

Their eyes meet for a heated moment, the other clearly upset, while Leon tries not to feel the sting of shame and guilt, returning at the reminder. Instead, he compensates with anger, a tight knot forming in the centre of his chest, as he pushes the doubt away.

“Oh fuck you too, Chris.” He yells, slamming the door to the bathroom shut behind him.

With shaking hands, he scrubs himself dry, haphazardly gathering the clothes to stuff his unwieldy body into. He needs to get out of here, somewhere where he can think past the blazing anger ringing in his ears. Chris had no right to bring that up, when all Leon’s been doing for the past year is trying to fix the damage he’s done, when cutting himself is entirely separate from his addiction.

The other inevitably follows him, still drenched, with only a towel circling his waist, while he’s barely dressed himself, shirt still open and fingers fumbling with his belt.

“We need to talk about this, Leon.” He demands, one hand holding the knot closed, where the length of the towel tapers to an early end.

“Do we?” He scoffs in response. “Maybe we’d both be better off, if you keep out of my private life and we just do the fucking job we came here for.”

His fingers stumble over the buttons, struggling to push them through their holes, as his eyes track all the things he’ll need to grab, if he wants to flee the conversation entirely. He can barely look at Chris like this, heart hammering in his chest, as his burgeoning hopes crumble.

“Oh, so you were only doing your job yesterday too?” Chris’ mouth turns into a sour line, the set of his shoulders rigid.

The bitter truth is, that Leon’s always been too broken to be loved by someone like Chris, that the other would be better off without him. It’s a hard pill to swallow but he’d be doing him a favour to cut things off now.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, I know you don’t–”

‘Love me’ is what he wants to say, before his voice gives out, leaving him to just stand there, clenching and unclenching his fists. He braces himself for the answer, for the inevitable confirmation that all Chris had wanted last night was a round of inconsequential sex and Leon had been stupid enough to go along with it.

“Does Hunnigan know, you’ve been hurting yourself? Do your superiors know?” Chris says.

“What?”

The change in topic throws him off, Leon blinking at Chris in incomprehension. It’s enough of an answer for him though.

“Leon.” The tone of his voice is different than usual, or maybe he finally hears what has been there all along. It’s matter-of-fact, clinical, cut off from any emotion, which might’ve been there once. “This isn’t normal, they need to know. They should’ve never sent you on the field in that state, when you could be a danger to yourself.”

It feels like a strike to the face, the other talking about him like he’s something broken, in need of fixing.

Or Readjustment. 

“A danger to myself? Are you fucking serious?!” He’s yelling, hearing nothing but his own blood rushing in his ears. 

Too loud.

“You know when I’ve been a danger to myself?”

He can’t stop.

“Last summer, when they had to pump my stomach. But of course you wouldn’t know that.”

“They did what?” Chris says, suddenly small, quiet.

Shit.

The look on Chris’ face falls into something agonized, the other expressive where Leon is set in stone. He’s never meant to hurt him but when Leon opens his mouth to give empty reassurances, just more anger bubbles up, spilling from his lips like bile.

“And now you come here, acting all high and mighty, when you’re not a single bit better than the DSO, with the shit you pulled on me in Colorado.”

He wants to stop but he can’t. Even though the heartbreak in Chris’ eyes is unbearable, the frustration of the past decades is so strong, it just rolls through him recklessly.

“You didn’t care for why I was on vacation then and you don’t care now. I don’t think you’re in any position to judge me for how I cope.”

His burning eyes are squeezed shut, chest heaving to get any air inside his lungs, while it feels like his ribcage is being crushed inward.

“Of course I care , but Leon, you–” His voice cracks, breaks off.

For a second, Leon expects him to start crying.

“I need to think.” He grabs the few things he’s set out to wear, leaving in a blind hurry, as he scrambles to get out of their shared bedroom, away from the noise, the prying set of eyes. Away from Chris eternally trying to save everyone he meets.

His socked feet make no noise on the carpet down the hallway, before he disappears in the very first bathroom he can find. Behind him, he slams the door shut, just holding the handle in his hand for a few moments, attempting to reassure himself.

No one’s hot on his heels, no one will try to break it down to get to him.

After the initial shock has passed, he rushes to dress himself, putting on his shoes, sliding his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. Lastly, he tries to fix the knotted mess that is his hair, raking his restless fingers through the wet strands. All the while his body is shaking from head to toe, lungs contracting, making Leon feel like he’s drowning.

By the time he’s put himself into a presentable state, cold sweat is beading down his neck. When he looks at his reflection, he sees his facade cracking apart. An almost unnoticeable twitch at the corner of his mouth, together with the sheet-white of his skin, betraying the suffocating fear swirling in his stomach.

It’s a panic attack, he’s well aware of the signs, images flickering in front of his eyes every time he blinks, as he fights back the tears brimming on his waterline. There’s no time to break down though. He needs to get a hold of himself as soon as possible, before Chris finds him here and forces more out of him than he’s already said.

Leon presses his palms against his ears, trying to dampen the awful noises, which come with the approaching flashback, then he gives himself exactly ten seconds to regain his composure. After those are over, he rights his posture, muscles already aching, before he casts a last look at the mirror, expression dead, leaving the empty bathroom right after.

His phone together with the pamphlet, are in their room, so Leon doesn’t really know where he’s expected to be at this hour, though judging by the time and their usual schedule he assumes most of the attendees are still having breakfast.

He takes the elevator down, only because Chris usually avoids them if he can. Inside, the gaudy chandelier sways above his head, as ‘ For Elise’ tootles from a speaker. On the digital display, the red number ticks down, before, to Leon’s dismay, the elevator doors open to let someone in at the second floor.

When he recognizes Koch, the doors of their lift have already rattled closed again, as the other positions himself right in front of the row of buttons, smiling in his direction.

“Good morning Mr. Carpenter, you’re up early today.” He greets, his set of keys jingling in his hand.

Leon tries to ignore him the best he can, keeping his eyes locked on the sliding doors, while he answers:

“I didn’t want to miss out on breakfast again.”

The smile he forces onto his face is tight-lipped and fake but he hopes it’s enough to divert Koch’s attention from how miserable he feels. For a moment, the other just hums thoughtfully.

“If I might mention it, you look a little unwell.” Koch comments, the concern in his voice not quite as convincing, as the other might’ve hoped.

The elevator moves slower than Leon remembers, only just now passing the first floor, even though he itches to be out of the enclosed space as soon as possible.

“I’m fine, just a little tired.”

“You know,” He pauses. The display flickers from ‘1’ to ‘E’ , arriving at the ground floor. “you can talk to me about anything.”

At once there’s a jostle, their cart screeching to a halt, the doors staying locked. Adrenaline rushes through his system, air getting caught in his throat, as he barely manages to dampen the anxiety slamming into him. After a second, he has half a mind to snap his head towards Koch, focusing on him like he’s trapped with a rabid dog in here. When he takes him in fully, the other is barely concealing the open control panel of the elevator. Right behind his otherwise sturdy frame, he can see one of the switches has been flicked off, Koch’s keys still stuck in the manual override. Momentarily, Leon’s eyes widen with sick premonition.

“What?” He responds eloquently.

As Koch strides towards him, the small cab lacks the space for Leon to evade him, which is why he decides to inch towards the operating board instead.

“I know you deserve better than that boyfriend of yours. He doesn’t know how to appreciate someone like you.” Musing almost to himself, he effectively corners Leon, placing a hand at the wall next to his head.

He isn’t touching him yet, but Leon can clearly sense, he wants to. There’s probably some way out of this, some combination of words he just needs to find to bring Koch back to his senses but he simply can’t grasp them, not when the shadow of Koch’s built frame looms over him like this, the smell of too much hair gel and mint flavoured gum, wafting over from the other.

“I am married. ” He stresses. “And I am not in the business for cheating.”

Scooting further towards the control panel, Leon feels frantically for the row of buttons operating the elevator. He knows, if he’d physically attacked Koch right now, their entire mission would go up in flames. It’s either he gets himself out of this with his wits alone, or the only other way is through. Despite himself, his knees feel suddenly weak.

“Oh I know, but it’s not cheating if you don’t tell him.”

Koch raises an eyebrow, gives him a smirk showing off his canines, before one of his hands grabs the lapel of his suit. The other grasps the side of his face, forcing Leon’s chin upwards, the cold gray of his irises connecting with Leon’s blue one’s, their intent painfully apparent. Their breaths mingle with their sudden proximity, Leon already dreading what he’s about to do.

“I said, no. ”

He pushes against Koch’s solid chest, reigning in the amount of force he puts behind it but even then, the other doesn’t budge, just strengthens his hold on Leon to still his thrashing.

“You don’t really mean that.”

Leon hears the hoarse whisper close to his ear, the inflection belittling, syrupy sweet and absolutely nauseating, as his wide eyes stare blankly forward, the other squeezing his jaw tightly, before he presses their mouths together harshly. Rough lips scrape over his, Koch’s five o’ clock shadow grazing against his chin, as Leon gives a muffled yelp at the unwanted sensation. He jerks in place, trying to loosen the hold Koch has on him. The hinge of his jaw aches with how hard he’s pressing the tips of his fingers into it, forcing his teeth apart, while Leon blinks frantically against the encroaching darkness. As soon as Leon’s lips have parted against his will, Koch shoves his tongue into his mouth unasked, keeping up the pressure on his cheeks even now, while the ball of his palm presses uncomfortably against his throat.

Kissing Koch is so very different from Chris, the one domineering, where the other had been gentle. During the night they’ve spent with each other, Chris had been nothing but considerate, checking in with Leon to a degree, where even he felt the need to urge him along a little. If he thought about it, it was probably the best sex Leon’s had in his life, but this now only feels like he’s being used. His body is being utilized to satisfy someone else’s desires, Koch taking whatever he pleases, as Leon’s expected to just keep his mouth shut throughout. It might not be the worst pain he’s ever been in, but it stings nonetheless, to be made into an object, even if it wouldn’t be the first time.

Leon wants to fight back, one hand of his scrabbling at Koch’s chest for purchase but his muscles don’t cooperate, as the nauseating dizziness steadily increases, the room beginning to spin around him.

‘That’s never happened before.’ He thinks, panic flooding his body, as his vision whites out for a second. Heavy static fizzes past his eyes, while he has to refocus on breathing properly, heart palpitating unsteadily.

Noticing Leon’s attempt at resistance, Koch tears his wrist away from where he’d been digging his nails into the other’s flesh, slamming it against the wall of the elevator, joint creaking under the force of his grip. For a moment, he parts, boring his gaze into Leon’s pupils, like he’s trying to drill a hole through them.

“Don’t fucking fight me.” He growls, applying the barest amount of pressure on Leon’s Adam's apple.

At the sqeeze, he chokes almost instantly, coughing on instinct. The look on Koch’s face carries a promise of violence, the man in front of him well aware he’s both bigger and stronger than Leon, ready to demonstrate his power over him, if need be. The next inhale he takes, shudders through his chest, like Leon dreads it being cut off at any second. He says nothing, doesn’t move to resist, though it still takes him a moment until he forces himself to nod in agreement. Holding himself rigid, he lets Koch lean in again, pinning him against the wall, like he’s nothing more than a pretty trophy.

After he’s given in, the pressure on his jugular eases, thoughts clearing, even while Koch has pushed a knee between Leon’s legs, grinding against him. It makes him feel even more filthy, than he already does. Despite everything, he has half a mind, to blindly reach for the control panel again with his free hand, bumping against the key still stuck in its metal slot on the way. A slick tongue worms its way into his mouth once more, Leon doing his best to ignore the violation, together with the rough hand groping down his stomach, as he seizes the opportunity to carefully slide Koch’s keycard from the carabiner, fumbling it shakily into his own pocket, before his fingers are back at the open panel.

All it takes is one determined flick of his hand, flipping the switch back on. At once, the elevator gives a loud chime, indicating its arrival at the ground floor.

It’s over.

The doors open, Koch ripping himself away, as soon as the light from outside floods in. Using the momentary confusion, Leon bolts from where he stands, into the foyer, eyes darting around to fix on the first human he can see and striding towards them, ignoring the man left in the car to the best of his ability.

He does that for a while, walking aimlessly through the castle in search of a crowd he can hide himself in, while nausea wells up every so often in his stomach. All throughout he keeps turning around, looking if Koch has followed him, if he’s just waiting for him to end up alone again. His nervous fingers knot together, in an effort to still their shaking.

When he thinks he’s walked far enough and still can’t spot him, he’s almost dizzy with relief, letting himself fall into one of the empty chairs of the garden lounge, well hidden behind a potted Monstera.

All around him, he can hear the chatter of people, cups clinking against their saucers, as some of the guests drink their tea in the secluded sitting area, though Leon can barely think straight, with all the misplaced adrenaline rushing through his system. The world is spinning around him, lights flickering in front of his eyes, as he desperately attempts to reign in the panic attack digging its claws into his spine. His head drops into his hands, too heavy to hold up, the phantom sensation of Koch’s lips shuddering through him.

Nothing actually happened, yet Leon is freaking out. All because he kissed someone, he didn’t want to kiss. If he’d wanted, he could’ve fought Koch off, it’s what he should’ve done too, but the size of the man, his physique, paired with the blonde hair and the crook of his nose–

It was all too reminiscent of Krauser, so Leon just froze.

Thinking about how paralyzed he’d been, it makes him feel pathetic.

For a long while, Leon just sits in his little nook, unmoving, as his vision goes in and out of focus. Even if he’d still make it to breakfast, his appetite is now entirely gone. Numbly, Leon registers that he’s forgotten to take his medication all morning. In the back of his mind he knows it’s probably a bad thing, but as is, he can barely bring himself to stand up, to go look for Chris, so he doesn’t really care. First, he needs to focus on being a functional human again.

Eventually Chris finds him on his own, stopping dead in his tracks when he rounds the overgrown plant, Leon’s taken cover behind and abruptly notices him sitting there. Leon doesn’t make eye-contact, just flits his gaze across the span of his shoulders, before he goes back to staring at a bit of moss growing in the caulks of the stone flooring.

“Leon,” He exclaims, coming to stand next to the little garden table to his left. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You’ve found me.” His voice is hollow. Speaking already takes too much energy.

“I was worried.” Chris steps up to him, goes down to his knees and grasps Leon’s hands gently, like he’s holding the fragile body of a bird.

After what happened with Koch, Chris’ presence feels safe, his touch like an anchor, where Leon’s been floating adrift for the past few hours.

“Don’t be.” He shakes his head but Chris only strengthens his hold on Leon, his palms pliable in his grasp, almost limp.

“I am though.” He insists, gaze searching for a reaction, peeling away layer after layer of Leon’s defences, until the raw wound he’s been trying to cover with anger and accusations lays bare again. 

“It’s fine, I just–” He considers telling Chris about Koch, considers what his reaction might be like, if he’d think even less of him, once he found out he failed to apprehend the other man. “got a little lost.” trailing off instead, he turns his head away from Chris’ scrutiny.

“I can see that.”

Fingers at his chin, nudge his face upward, Chris’ dark brown eyes full of worry, while Leon is still stuck in apathy.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, because he means it, the horrible pressure in his chest aching with regret, guilt, a little bit of shame. 

“For what?” Chris asks. “Are you sorry I found out, or sorry you did it in the first place?”

The question hangs over them heavy and raw with honesty. Leon wants to run from it, with all the scars along his body he wishes to hide. Slipping his hands from Chris’ to cover his face, he grinds out the truth, like it physically pains him.

“Both–” He wants to go on, say anything in defence of the horrible thing he’s become, but the words get stuck in his throat. None of what he could say would soften the blow anyway.

At some point Chris has found a second chair to settle next to him, the metal creaking under his weight. He touches his shoulder, like he’s trying to draw Leon out from underwater, having fallen into something he can’t pull himself from.

“Leon, be honest with me for once,” His voice is grave, low. “does anyone except me know you cut yourself?”

Leon’s always been prone to self-destruction, having preferred the less direct methods for a majority of his life, alcohol being the vice of choice. Then Raccoon City happened and suddenly the government had its claws dug deep into him, throwing him from one harrowing mission to the next. Amidst the chaos in his head and the absolute wreck, his life had become, he’d just– slipped.

It wasn’t often throughout the years, not when he was already nursing enough other injuries but especially after the suicide attempt, it sort of became a more regular coping mechanism. Cutting himself was still better than trying to take his own life again.

“I never explicitly told anyone, but it’s hard keeping things like that from Ingrid.” He settles for, sounding defeated.

It’s not like he wants to hurt the people he loves, this is why he keeps all the messed up bullshit to himself in the first place. He just can’t help but fuck up anyway though, the skeletons in his closet having a way to reappear, when it least suits him.

It’s like nothing in his life can ever stay dead.

Some of his thoughts seem to have shown on his face, or maybe it’s because Chris wants to reassure himself but his voice gentles again, an arm looping around his shoulders, as he says:

“Okay. I’m sure we can figure something out, alright?”

‘You can’t fix me.’ He thinks. ‘I will only cause you more heartache.’

“Sure.”

He nods instead, staring through the sleeve covering his left forearm, before Chris grasps the ball of his shoulder, to guide him closer into his embrace. The arms wrapped around him, hold him fast, Chris’ heartbeat drumming inside his chest, as the other takes measured breaths against his neck.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” He asks, voice quiet, strained with pain. The fingers between his shoulder blades curl and clench tight in the fabric of his suit jacket.

A tremble travels through him at the words, the vulnerability behind them. Leon can feel tears burn in his eyes, before he screws them shut, sinking into the hug, fully aware that he doesn’t deserve it in the least.

“Chris, please, can we not, right here?” His voice is nothing but a high whimper, the weak attempt at making them both aware of their situation again.

They’re still in public, albeit concealed from most guests. Despite everything, there’s a job waiting to be done. Swiping his hand up his spine to bury it in his hair, Chris cards through the smooth strands, while he rocks them both from side to side. They stay like this for a bit longer, before they pull apart, Chris’ hands still holding onto him, the tense line of his mouth enough to tell him he’s holding back on what he truly wants to say.

“Okay,” Chris leans in to press his lips to Leon’s forehead, lingering there. “But I’m not going to ignore this.”

“I know.” Leon relents, the tight knot in his chest easing just a little bit, at the soft look in Chris’ eyes.

Chapter Text

Today, their schedule is less busy, giving them enough time to show some face, as they peruse the usual spots to take part in conversation and gather more intelligence. They also manage to make a short trip to the library in the hopes of maybe getting some more time to snoop around, though once they enter, it’s already occupied by a group of elderly men, who are in a heated debate about some piece of literature. Luckily, Koch is nowhere to be found, even though the rest of the PRISM staff is bustling about, but Leon really can’t bring himself to care much for his absence, suspicious as it may be.

At noon, they go to dinner, frequenting another restaurant inside the hotel itself, which looks fancy and serves questionably small portions for the pricing listed on the menu. This time they’re seated with two bachelors, who are more than eager to share their business expertise with them, while Leon pokes his food longer than he eats it. It’s not like his dish tastes bad, or that he isn’t hungry, but Leon can barely summon up his appetite on a normal day, so now his body fights every bite he takes. Chris nudges him a few times, orders a dessert for them to share, after he’s barely touched the main course, proceeding to make a show of it, to sell their relationship to their guests. It helps partially, the sweet baked good somehow easier to get down, with Chris eating the rest, once Leon falters at the task.

Nearing the evening, they get invited to the hotel’s spa by Mrs. and Mrs. Thomas, the two elderly ladies insisting on their company. In the end, Chris and him only let themselves be swayed, because they don’t have anything better to do.

The wellness centre is located on the ground floor, nearing the entrance hall and consists of several different areas, with varying functionality. After checking in, they get handed a set of towels, slippers and a bathrobe, which Leon is quite relieved about, since he’s only packed a pair of swimming trunks by pure coincidence, foregoing any kind of swim shirt to cover up the worst of his scars.

He ties the bathrobe tightly around his waist, making sure there are no past stab-, or bite wounds visible. Next to him, Chris has draped the thick cloth lazily over his shoulders, leaving it open, as he steps into his slippers. Beneath the plentiful body hair and the tan of his skin, most of his marks get lost, though Leon still has the desire to trace them all, preferably with his teeth and tongue.

Catching himself staring, he averts his eyes, instead tugging nervously on the hem of his sleeves. He doesn’t even know if Chris would still want him, after the debacle this morning. Yet he can’t stop himself from yearning like some forlorn lover.

When they enter the main area, they’re greeted by Ann and Theresa already in floral patterned bathing suits, with their towels spread on the nearest lounger. Ann waves them over enthusiastically, while Leon still tries to take in their surroundings. They’re in a modernized area of the hotel, the walls painted a modest white and gray, with a low vaulted ceiling stretching over the length of the pool. Most of the fittings are a radiant gold colour, while the tiling of the pool is a deep blue, the specks of lights twinkling from the ceiling above reflecting in the clear water.

“It’s so nice of you to keep us old ladies company.” Ann says, once they join them at the edge of the elevated hot tub, reaching to lightly squeeze Leon’s forearm, as she smiles up at them.

Leon nods, says:

“Thank you for the invitation, Chris and I were already wondering what to do this afternoon.”

“Well then I hope our venture will not disappoint. Theresa and I booked a massage today, so we won’t be able to entertain you all evening, but I’m sure you know how to keep yourselves busy.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Chris smiles, his hand coming to rest casually on Leon’s waist.

“Good, good.” Ann affirms, taking her own wife by the arm, before padding over to the set of stairs leading into the pool. 

Chris follows them, dropping his things at the foot of an unoccupied lounger, before dipping into the water himself. For a moment, Leon isn’t quite sure what to do, making an effort to not look awkward, as he places his stuff next to Chris’, going to sit on the edge of the pool, as he carefully sticks his calves into the water. He’s yet to have any awful experiences in public swimming pools, so the water itself is not a problem but Leon doesn’t think stripping right now would be a good idea. Not with the way he looks. So he settles for just feeling the current playing around his shins, as he watches Chris effortlessly stroke through the water, completing a few laps alongside the elderly couple.

They chat a bit in there, Ann animatedly telling him a story that Leon can’t catch from his spot at the edge, only waving and smiling, when the both of them look over to him at some point. He’s content with not being in the midst of events right now, taking a moment from having to put up a cheerful front, to just sit and stare at the ripples travelling through the pool. The ceiling he’s sitting under is domed, set in a deep blue colour, speckled with flecks of white to imitate the starry night sky. Around him the rush of water and the chatter of people drown out the constant stream of his thoughts, silencing the anxiety fluttering beneath his sternum. It’s simple, peaceful, with Chris never too far from him.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

Theresa mumbles to herself, as she swims up to where he’s perched, snapping the googles back onto her head. She rests her arms on the edge of the pool, looking up at him, with her sombre gaze, hair hidden beneath a lilac swimming cap.

“Don’t you want to take a dip?” She asks then, voice flat and monotone.

“Oh no, I’m fine.” He shakes his head, finger’s curling around the hem of his sleeves, making sure they’re still in place.

She nods, like he’s said something profound, opening her mouth again to answer:

“Can’t blame you, the pool’s awfully busy today.”

Her nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly, though Leon’s just relieved he doesn’t have to come up with an excuse himself.

“Yeah.”

There are a few other patrons in here with them, mostly floating in the water, or lounging on the chairs with a drink in hand, though Leon would say the place is still far from crowded. His company doesn’t seem to share his perspective though, preferring her newfound spot beside his knees, while their separate spouses continue to occupy themselves in the water.

“I usually like swimming but I do fancy the privacy of my own home.” She elaborates further, before floating off to the next ladder, to pull herself out.

“Are you coming?” She asks next, dripping with chlorinated water.

Leon gets up without a word, following her to where they left their bathrobes, waiting as she drapes it around her shoulders. After she’s dressed herself, Theresa takes him to what looks like a bar, ordering a fruity drink for herself, before asking what Leon wants. He gets himself a coffee, taking the cup with them to their lounges, where he can keep an eye on Chris.

“You know, Ann and I come here every year, no matter how much I complain about it being a waste of time.” She begins to talk again, surprising Leon with her openness, where she’s been cold and closed off before.

“Don’t you invest in PRISM’s projects?” He asks, as he peels open the cup of creamer to pour it into his mug.

“God no, we haven’t invested in anything, since we retired, we’re mostly shareholders now. That sure makes enough money on its own.” Waving him off, she takes another long sip from her drink, lips pursing around the straw, before she goes back to stabbing at the mint leaves in her glass.

“Why come then?” He challenges, watching his coffee turn a light brown colour, as he uses the spoon to swirl the liquid around.

Theresa pauses, fiddling with her swim cap, as she pulls an array of bobby pins from the silicone edge. “The ambience?” She concludes. “The free vacation? Staying up to date on the kind of people PRISM tries to rope in as new investors. Stuff like that.”

Her wrist twirls in an off-hand gesture, fingers clenched around a set of hair pins, then she pulls the cap off her head, letting her white-gray curls fall over her damp shoulders. She looks at him with a cat-like glint in her eye, watching if the information she just revealed clicks in his brain.

“So you’re vetting us?” He laughs, forcing himself to sound unbothered.

If that’s true, they might be in more trouble than he’d anticipated.

“Maybe.” She shrugs, looking towards the water again. “I’m just saying you’re in closed company, so there are eyes on you.”

Plucking a fresh strawberry out of her drink, she regards it for a second, before pushing it in her mouth, red flesh crushed between blunt molars. Leon raises the coffee to his lips in lieu of answering, chewing through the unsettling fact that their steps are being followed.

“I see.” He says finally, worrying his thumb into the handle of his cup.

The glass she sets down, clinks on the side table, perspiration coating the outside in thick droplets. She turns back towards him, a grave expression marking her face.

“What I’m saying is, you’re trying too hard, Mr. Carpenter.” Her accent sharpens the words around the edges, as Leon tries not to show his discomfort.

He’s usually not a bad actor, having done countless of missions like these, so maybe it’s just Mrs. Thomas’ exceptional observational skills, or maybe Leon’s getting rusty at his age and he’s been right to refuse the mission all along.

“How so?” He keeps up the smile, fixing Theresa from behind his bangs, coffee cup half raised upwards.

“Anyone with two eyes can see you’re not good with crowds,” She laughs. “you’re better than me at hiding it but it makes you inauthentic nonetheless and people will take notice, which– if you’re serious about your involvement with PRISM– does not improve your prospects.”

There’s not a lot of countenance to be read with Theresa, her choice of words careful, her tone calculated, as she explains, so Leon isn’t sure if she’s trying to be friendly, or vaguely intimidating. One way, or another, he’ll have to keep up the oblivious act.

“Excuse me?” Is all he says, now clutching the mug in both of his hands to keep them from fidgeting. 

“I’m not trying to threaten you,” Her hand lifts, presenting her empty palm in reassurance. “This is me giving you advice, because PRISM doesn’t always distinguish between ally, or enemy and you do not want to fall into disgrace.” She cocks a single eyebrow at him, enough to let him know what she’s trying to imply.

PRISM, as much as they might pamper their clientele, does not rely on loyalty, or good graces. Every weapon they’ve presented the days before, can be turned against them just as quick. Leon doubts being invited to this event is much of a privilege after all.

“I’ll keep it in mind, thank you.”

His teeth gnaw on his bottom lip in thought, Theresa waving him off with a tut of her tongue, before she goes back to laying on the lounge, enjoying her iced drink, while Leon’s left to ponder their next steps. Absent-mindedly he sips on his coffee, wandering back to the edge of the pool, after he’s finished it. They only have two days left to gather the intel they need, tomorrow providing them with the most ideal opportunity to do some espionage. Until then, they need to rework their plan, so they can get another chance at investigating the library.

Back at the pool’s edge, he lets his legs dangle in the cool water again, fiddling with one of the piercings in his ear, as he thinks. A little ways off, Chris has resumed swimming laps, his movements fluid, as he glides through the surface, flat palms pushing him steadily forward. The sight is captivating, almost distracting him enough from Ann exiting the pool, to join her wife at his back, the two of them whispering to each other shortly.

It doesn’t take long before Chris finishes his swim, sidling back up to Leon, shoulders dipping out of the water, as he grasps his ankles. Leon looks down at him, smiling.

“Are you done now?” He asks, feeling Chris’ fingers travel up the length of his legs, coming to rest on his knees.

“Think so, how was your conversation? Looked pretty serious.” 

Chris’ hands are warm and wet against his skin, wrinkled from the long time in the water, his skin smelling like chlorine, though Leon can’t bring himself to mind much, turning towards the contact like a flower to the sun.

“Insightful. I’ll tell you about it later.” Is all he says for now. “What about you?”

“It was fun, nothing new though.” Chris shrugs, sneaking his touch up Leon’s thighs, beneath the hem of his bathrobe, to lightly squeeze the flesh there.

He hums wordlessly, gingerly placing his hands on Chris’ shoulders, allowing himself to card through the short hair at the nape of his neck for a moment. While he pets him, Chris’ eyes flutter closed, visibly relaxing into his touch. When he opens them again, they’re alight from within, sparkling orange and gold.

“Can I kiss you?” Chris asks, easily.

A smile wobbles onto Leon’s face, the curve of his lips unsteady, as his eyes crinkle with joy. It’s a fragile thing in his chest and Leon doesn’t trust how good it feels, but eventually he says: 

“Yes.”

Chris braces his hands to both sides of Leon’s hips, pushing himself out of the pool, with a rush of water spilling down his front and between the both of them. It soaks the bottom of Leon’s robe and part of his trunks but he forgets all about it, as soon as their lips touch. They don’t kiss for long, it’s more of a peck than anything else and Leon must have horrible coffee breath, so he’s not even sure if it’s any good for Chris, but he revels in it nonetheless.

Lowering himself back down into the water, waves lap at Chris’ chest and biceps, while Leon wipes a bit of spit from his lower lip, focusing back on his surroundings. With a strong hand in his, he helps Chris out of the pool, drawing him upward, as he climbs the ladder, before the both of them return to their companions. The two women acknowledge them cordially, already having gathered their stuff, looking ready to leave.

“Our appointment starts in a few minutes, I hope you’re okay with us leaving you here.” Ann chimes, adjusting the drape of her bathrobe.

“Yes, of course, thank you for having us.” Chris nods affably, a content smile on his face, while Leon lingers at his shoulder, watching Ann and Theresa for any kind of unusual reaction.

“The pleasure’s been entirely ours.” Theresa offers ominously, lips curved into a barely there upturn of lips, where her wife beams brightly at them.

They say their goodbyes, Mrs. and Mrs. Thomas taking the door behind the hot tub, while Chris and him are left in the main area, wondering what to do now with their company gone. In the end they decide on exploring the spa, despite it not being very beneficial to the mission, indulging their own curiosity, while they have nowhere better to be. They come upon a variation of saunas and relaxation rooms, some of them occupied with people getting different wellness, or beauty treatments, others almost empty.

Looking for a bit of privacy, Chris and him settle for one of the lesser frequented ones, a rectangular, gray painted room with a matching translucent curtain separating it in half. Embedded into the majority of the opposing wall, are a number of pink, or orange bricks, backlit by a bright light, which makes the entire installation glow in a soft yellow haze. The moment they let the door fall shut behind them, Leon gets an inkling of what the marbled stone might be made of.

“It smells like the ocean.” He states, breathing in the salt infused air, as he ambles forward, picking the next best lounger he sees.

They’re all identical in here, white framing with gray padding, a set of buttons on one side. When he sits down, he realizes their surface is heated, emitting a slight warmth wherever Leon touches.

“It does, just without the sand and algae.” Chris grins, already taking off his bathrobe again, to toss it onto the opposite cot.

“You’re funny.” Leon shakes his head with a grin, disentangling the knot of his own gown to slowly slide it off his shoulders.

He doesn’t put it away though, keeping it draped over his left forearm, as he leans back in the lounge, heat seeping into his tense muscles instantaneously. Quietly, he sighs.

“So what did Theresa talk to you about?” Chris pivots the topic back to work, still sitting on his own lounger, eyes fixed on Leon.

His body protests, when he sits up again to explain the situation, summarizing the contents of their conversation to him. After he’s finished, Chris has a similarly concerned expression painting his features, fingers drumming nervously where he’s propped them on top of his knees.

“This is getting more and more out of hand, if you ask me.” He grumbles, scratching through the scruff of his beard.

“Mrs. Thomas is more cunning than I expected.” He says, then to himself adds: “Besides I told Hunnigan this was a bad idea.”

They haven’t even done much today but Leon already feels tired, the comfortable temperature of the room not helping with the lingering exhaustion weighing on him. He just wants to lay down and sleep, clear his head for a while just so he can think again. Instead he rubs a palm over his eyes roughly, twisting his fingers between the folds of the bathing gown, as he starts to fidget.

“Then why didn’t she pull you off the mission?” Chris looks at him, but Leon doesn’t meet his gaze, unwilling to offer him the whole truth.

“She didn’t give the orders and I wasn’t about to argue with the new Secretary of Defense, who’s already wary of me for killing his predecessor.”

Hunnigan only has so much power, as his handler. If push comes to shove, Leon always answers to the President, or the people under their direct command, so if he’s ordered to do something, it’s usually in his own best interest to submit and do it, rather than disobey and suffer the consequences.

Throughout the years they’ve begun to loosen his leash a bit, the fear of being punished keeping him in line for the most part, though with how much trouble Leon’s been these past few years, he isn’t too sure how long his luck will keep holding up. It wouldn’t surprise him, if they decided to just decommission him for good soon. 

“Tough luck.” Chris shakes his head, the expression he wears looking angry, where Leon can just match him with practiced apathy.

Crying about it has never gotten him anywhere, so why start now?

“Real fucking tough.” He rakes the damp hair away from his forehead and shrugs, wanting to just not think about this anymore. “We’ll need to come up with a solid plan for tomorrow though, I don’t think Ann and Theresa are the only one’s keeping a close eye on us.”

Chris lets himself be diverted, nodding slowly as he ponders Leon’s words. “You’re right, anyone you think we should be especially wary of?”

“Koch,” It blurts out of him, the feeling of his hand on his neck skittering through him for a split second. “maybe Dr. Diavatis too, but really anyone could become a threat around here.” He rushes to add. 

“Right…” Chris is silent for a while, then says with new determination. “We have to get a sample of that mold, else we’ll have to go in absolutely blind if there ever is an outbreak.”

“I know,” Leon lets himself fall into the backrest once more, pinching the bridge of his nose against a burgeoning headache. “We can contrive something tonight, as soon as we’re in private.”

His eyes fall shut against the bright light, the weight of their demanded success an oppressing force steadily crushing him.

He’s so goddamn tired.

“Come on, scoot over a bit.”

Chris’ voice suddenly rumbles from above, Leon squinting his eyes open to see the other man stood before the cot he’s chosen, looking down at him expectantly, with his stupid handsome muscles and his stupid handsome smile.

“Go get your own, honey. ” He glares upwards, before making space for him anyway, because how could Leon deny Chris anything, when he’s ordering him around half-naked?

The other squeezes himself onto the lounger with him, tugging Leon close until he’s practically half draped across Chris, cheek smooshed against the rise of his chest, one leg tucked between Chris’. Somewhere during the shuffle, his bathrobe gets lost between their bodies and Leon ends up with his injured arm across Chris’ solid belly.

There’s tension for a moment, his muscles going rigid with discomfort. The sudden urge to curl back up and hide, freezes the breath in his lungs. But Chris doesn’t comment on it for now, doesn’t try to interrogate him, while they’re here to relax, instead he caresses his arm from the top of his shoulder down to his wrist, like it’s all just the same skin, taking Leon’s hand in his and guiding it up to Chris’ lips to press them firmly against his knuckles.

They don’t say anything, just lay there while Leon strokes his fingers through Chris’ chest hair in a soothing motion, the scent of the other man, mixing with the chlorine and the salt in the air, while warmth seeps through his muscles, as Leon’s eyes begin to flutter closed.

***

They do hash out a strategy later that evening, after another endless dinner and more fruitless conversation, spending the majority of the night hunched over handwritten notes and annotated documents to go through the details. It’s neither the best, nor the most foolproof undertaking Leon has ever conducted, but from his experience, most planning goes down the drain in his profession anyway.

After they have established a course of action, they go through the necessary equipment, making sure it’s still working, before they study the castle map again, roughly estimating where the secret laboratory may be located in relation to the other rooms. When Chris poses the question of how they’re going to get access to the storage units, or the computers, Leon eventually draws forth the keycard he stole from Koch, the sleek white piece of plastic showcasing the man’s name and personal number in a sans serif, light blue font.

“When did you get that?” Chris asks skeptical, a little bit of alarm in his tone, flipping the card around between his fingers, as if checking its validity.

Leon has to think of their conflict in the elevator, the memory still fresh and burning itself into his mind like a branding iron. He doesn’t want that to become a part of him though, doesn’t want Koch to hold this kind of power over him, so Leon swats the images away, bites down on his tongue to drown out the taste of him. What happened with Koch was a mishap and he won’t let it get that far again.

“Had a little run-in this morning. Koch dropped his keyring and I nicked the card, when I picked it up.” He explains casually, twisting the earring in its lobe.

Chris hesitates before answering, eyes narrowed and twitching to his ear, before he hands the keycard back to him. “Are you sure he didn’t notice?”

“He seemed in a rush, so I don’t think he did.”

Leon’s not sure why he lies, seeing as Chris doesn’t seem to believe a word he says anyway, but it’s done, before he can really think about it, which is why, ultimately, he doesn’t correct himself, moving on from their discussion about Koch to more pressing matters.

It’s late when they eventually finish, the slight headache having grown into a solid migraine by then, so Leon suggests they head to bed, to catch a precious few hours of sleep. Chris complies, despite the obvious hesitation, though even if Leon weren’t trying to avoid the difficult conversation they should probably be having, they really can’t afford staying up much longer. 

The moment his head hits the pillows, the fatigue which has lingered in the background all day slams into him full force. As his limbs go slack, he can’t help but sigh tiredly. Beside him he feels Chris slide under the covers, the mattress dipping with his weight, before one half of the blanket is draped over him. After crashing into the bed, he’s forgotten all about covering himself.

Sleep comes slow, with the pounding ache in his temple, drawing him in then pushing him away like the gentle rocking of waves, Leon teetering on the edge of unconsciousness for an undefinable amount of time. Eventually, Chris’ deep voice cuts through the dark like a bad omen, pulling him from the precipice of rest once again. 

“Leon?” He asks, tone barely above a whisper.

He hums in response, turning his head towards the dark figure beside him, a solid rock between himself and the world.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

It takes Leon a moment, before he registers what Chris is referencing, the darkness enshrouding them, hiding the grimace that slips Leon’s control.

“It was a…” He chews through his answer, the emotions surrounding his suicide attempt still messy and unexamined. “lapse in judgment. I didn’t want people to worry.”

Hunnigan had been livid, once Leon was responsive again, all the hurt about his stupid decisions breaking free as anger. He’d been so confused about her yelling at him, about how the hospital staff had restrained his hands. The memories are blurry, smeared and blended into each other.

He thinks he cried a lot, he thinks he didn’t cry at all, just staring through everything and wishing he’d died. What he does remember for sure is: He didn’t want people to see him like that.

Hunnigan took the sleeping aids away from him afterwards.

“Leon I–” Chris pulls him back to reality, his voice hoarse, tone troubled. “I want to worry about you. I’d rather worry myself sick than be called to identify your corpse.” He concludes, a hand coming down to rest on his side, hesitantly, like Chris is afraid he’s going to disappear at any moment.

Leon breathes against the weight of it, wills himself to not push the other away, no matter how terrifying it feels, to leave himself open and vulnerable.

“I’m better now, Chris, I promise you.” He reassures, because as much as Leon might struggle, he doesn’t want to go through that again. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” He adds under his breath, wracked by the guilt haunting him.

“I know.” Chris tugs him close once more, the both of them laying face to face now, before he presses his lips to Leon’s forehead with the intensity of a branding iron. “Just,” He starts again, desperation in his voice. “If you ever think about hurting yourself again, please talk to someone.”

Can he promise something like that?

Chris is begging him here, arms vined around his body, like he’s terrified of letting him go and yet he can’t help but hesitate. Is waiting for something else to kill him really any better than doing it himself? How much is his promise worth if he doesn’t think he deserves to be saved?

“Okay…” He relents, feeling like he’s six again, as his mother lies about how everything will be alright.

“Okay.” Chris hugs him closer, tighter, the weight and the pressure a welcome thing.

He doesn’t fight the draw of sleep.

***

Chris has always been a tower of strength for other people. He’d had to be, ever since his parents died, first for his sister, then for his comrades, for S.T.A.R.S and the countless teams he’s led throughout the years. It became a point of pride for him, to be unshakeable, loyal and dependable. If someone asked him for help, Chris was there. If he was on the field, he gave everything to ensure his entire team made it out alive. If there was even the slightest chance someone could be saved, Chris always took it. His attitude got him into trouble more often than not, even cost him his employment at the air force but it had always been worth it. He tried to be there for everyone else first, thinking of himself last.

If he couldn’t protect the people he loved, then what’s he even good for anyway?

Being the one who shouldered everyone’s pain on top of his own, could be a lonely thing sometimes and when he inevitably stumbled under the weight, Chris usually fell hard.

Laying in their too soft double bed, he counts the minutes, as his entire body shakes, holding Leon’s sleeping form tightly against his own. Because the man he loves has tried to kill himself and Chris hadn’t known. Because Leon Kennedy, the strongest person Chris has ever met, feels the need to hurt himself and didn’t think he could tell anyone.

The brave face he’s been wearing for his sake all day, slowly crumbles, now that the night is deep and dark and no one can see the tears streaking down his cheeks. Chris trembles beneath the covers, skin flushed hot, as his stuttering breath escapes his mouth soundlessly. For a few moments longer, he keeps Leon close, inhaling the man's scent, feeling the way his hair brushes against his cheek, committing all the things to memory he might’ve lost, had Leon’s suicide attempt been successful. Something in his chest contracts with a sharp stabbing pain, convincing Chris to rip himself away from the other, to avoid waking him up.

Instead he meanders out on the balcony, sinking heavily into one of the chairs there, whole body deflating, as he curls in on himself. Chris is not unacquainted with loss, their violent jobs bringing plenty of it with them. Not everyone’s made for this kind of life, he knows. Amongst it, he has found his own way of dealing with the lasting impacts but he’d be lying, if he claimed he never lost people to suicide before.

They’d been colleagues for the most part, often veterans who went into retirement, only to be found dead months later. Sometimes they were young cadets, fresh in the fight, bright-eyed and full of optimism, until reality caught up with them too fast.

Chris always tried to weed those ones out before it was too late.

And sometimes they’re the ones no one would’ve expected.

A friend, for example, who pulled him from rock bottom, only to sacrifice himself because he didn’t believe he could be saved.

The man he loves, with his endless repertoire of jokes and quips, no matter how dire the situation may seem, who’d rather die alone than burden his friends.

He talks a lot about those ones in therapy, Piers especially. It never stops feeling like Chris should’ve done something, could’ve somehow saved them still, even when the decision had been taken out of his hands before he’d even known. It makes him angry, not only at himself, because he failed the one’s he swore to protect. But he’s also angry at them, for thinking their death would not tear a hole into the people’s lives around them. A hole that can never be entirely fixed again.

It makes him so fucking angry and so fucking devastated that Chris doesn’t know where to put all of his emotions down, how to get them out, when the grief is like an immovable mountain, just sitting in his chest forever. There’s nothing he can do.

So Chris weeps. Head in his hands, shoulders hunched, as the tears don’t stop for hours, soiling his clothes and drenching his beard. The grief won’t ever dissipate entirely, not in a way that will make it any smaller but through time he’s learned to live around it, made space for the mourning where it was needed, until he could rebuild himself.

If they weren't undercover, using burner phones, maybe Chris would call his sister now, just to hear her voice, drawing some comfort from it, even if he can’t tell her about Leon outright. But for now, all Chris is left with is sitting in his pain alone, waiting for it to pass through him, so he can go back to bed and get enough sleep to survive the coming day.

Almost on autopilot, he reaches for the packet of cigarettes he left on the balcony table, sticking one of them between his lips and lighting it, before he can think twice. The first draw of smoke stings in his lungs with old familiarity. He closes his eyes, breathing out a cold white plume into the night air, as he lets himself fall against the backrest of his chair.

There are only two days left for them, where they need to keep up the false personas, only two more days, in which Chris has to make sure they get out of this alive. Maybe then, he and Leon can finally talk about what they are to each other, without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Maybe then everything will change for the better.

***

Leon sleeps deep and dreamless, rising sluggishly out of his slumber, when the first rays of sunshine beam through a crack in the curtain, falling directly onto his closed eyelids. He squints against the bright daylight, trying to orient himself, only to find he's trapped under the heavy weight of Chris’ massive biceps. The other snores into his pillow undisturbed by Leon’s squirming, eventually rolling himself a little closer, to bracket one sturdy leg around him as well, effectively pinning him to the mattress. It takes him by surprise, to wake up in Chris’ embrace two days in a row, the other comfortable and warm, while he tries to figure out what to think of it all.

He likes it, the small thing they share but he knows it will not last. As soon as they return, the DSO will rip him back into its clutches. The best thing he can do then, is to keep Chris far away from the people holding his leash.

Resigning himself to the eventual fallout, Leon turns his face towards the other, tracking his relaxed features, peaceful with sleep. There are wrinkles around his eyes and the set of his mouth, some of which hadn’t been there a few years ago. At his temples the hair is slowly turning gray, something which only serves to make Leon even more attracted to the man. A thin scar travels across his forehead, pale enough it's barely visible anymore. Fervently he presses a kiss to it, his eyes falling shut, as he buries the short lived hope again. For a minute, Leon watches Chris sleep, then he brings down his palm on the other’s shoulder to gently shake him awake.

They have breakfast in their hotel room, Leon remembering to take his medication, before they both get ready, and head down to partake in the day’s activities.

The main event is scheduled for the evening, which means everyone’s pretty busy with the final preparations. Even the guests are sent to retrieve their auction numbers and visitor’s badges beforehand. While everyone else is greeted by their assigned PRISM employee in the ante-chamber, Koch remains strangely absent. After they’ve been looking around for a while, another one of the staff members addresses them instead, a middle aged woman in a neatly tailored blue suit, greeting them with a smile, her thick, dark hair laying over one shoulder, framing her round face.

She leads them to one of the set up tables, where they hand out everything they'll need for the auction. Seating herself on the office chair behind it, she starts going through the list, looking for their names, as she distractedly explains Koch’s absence to them.

Apparently the other is busy with filling in for a colleague who’s fallen ill and thus hasn’t been able to check in with them today, though they are assured he'll be available again in the evening. For the time being, they’re given a name and a phone number to call, should they need anything.

Leon doesn’t trust it, not with the man’s keycard sitting snugly inside his breast pocket. The taste of him burned into his memory. Something is horribly wrong and Leon feels like danger is closing in on them faster than he’d anticipated. Nevertheless, they act like nothing is amiss, chatting with the other guests, ultimately getting themselves invited to a restaurant outside the hotel for lunch.

They’re driven there with a company car again, the other couple paying by the end of their meal, firmly shaking their hands, as they assume they’ve just made some important business partners, while Leon’s started recording the conversation halfway through and is tucking their business cards away with shaking hands. If they can extract nothing else during this operation, Leon hopes at least the personal information about the people funding this nightmare will be of use to the DSO, or the BSAA for that matter.

When they head back to the hotel it’s late afternoon, leaving them with only a few hours to prepare themselves, which is why, as soon as they arrive, they hurry up to their suite, locking the door tightly behind them. For a moment they just stand in the entrance, hands still interlocked, despite their lack of company. Chris looks at him, looks away, opens his mouth like he wants to say something, before Leon promptly cuts him off, striding straight towards the bedroom, to retrieve their equipment.

“You can go change first, I need to pull the data from my phone and prepare everything for tonight.” He keeps his eyes glued to the attaché in front of him, opening the hidden compartment to retrieve an unassuming looking USB drive from it, as well as a set of earpieces, those being the bits of the equipment R&D has so graciously spared then.

“Sure thing.” Chris mumbles more to himself than Leon, ambling to do as he’s been told.

For the majority of the day, Leon’s been trying to avoid talking to him, dodging the unspoken thing between them, in favour of focusing on the task at hand. He knows the other must be growing impatient with him by now, but Leon can’t spare any more distractions.

Their tailor has provided them with two elaborate suits, especially made for the ball, that will await them in a few hours, which is what Chris is changing into in the next room, the many layers and correct donning taking its time. Meanwhile, Leon is plugging his phone into the spare laptop he’s brought, transferring the data he’s gathered over the week, to store it all on the USB drive, before digitizing some of their written notes, saving them on there too. Every other physical piece of evidence, every business card, scribbled note, or informational flyer, goes into a separate folder, which he hides in his attaché case. The booklet though, together with the drive, he keeps on the table, planning to take them with him for the last stretch of their mission.

Right when he’s just about to inspect their comms again, Chris exits the bedroom, tugging on the bottom end of his suit jacket, like he’s self-conscious about the outfit.

“How do I look?” He asks, presenting himself to Leon.

The suit he’s wearing is a three piece, matching Leon’s own still safely tucked away in its garment bag. The pants are a modest black colour, as well as the suit jacket, though its inlay and tucker are both set in bronze silk, shimmering in the light. Beneath the jacket a double breasted vest hugs his frame perfectly, wrapping around the sturdy cut of his waist. The fabric used is decorated with a brocade pattern, in a warm brown-orange, matching the shade of his eyes. All is worn over a white button down, the embossed cufflinks and the silken tie rounding off the outfit.

If Leon could be honest, he’d say Chris looks absolutely beautiful, that to him, he always looks perfect. But Leon holds the truth back, keeping it for himself, safe inside the confines of his ribcage. Instead he gets up, takes a closer look at the other man, to inspect his get up for any flaws.

“Turn around.” He says, moving his index in a twirling gesture. 

Chris rotates once, the fine fabric of his clothes sitting snug in all the right places, attracting a bit too much of Leon’s attention for a second.

“Your tie is askew.” He claims.

Without hesitation, he steps close to the other, reaching for the knot at Chris’ throat and readjusting the set of it minimally. As he fumbles with the tie, Chris smiles down at him, calloused hands gliding over the smooth surface, before he puts more distance between them again, regarding his work.

“Am I to your satisfaction now?” He asks, humour in his voice.

Leon taps his knuckles to his chin, acting like he’s considering his answer. “I can work with it.”

“You’re impossible!” Chris laughs in disbelief, rounding Leon to plop himself down on one of the sofas.

“Don’t you dare get wrinkles in that suit, or I’m not taking you to the dance.” He warns, already turning to get dressed himself.

Not looking back to see Chris react, Leon shuts the door behind him, though he can still hear his shouted answer.

“As if you’d find a better date than me!”

Afterwards, Chris devolves into more laughter, the sound of it barely travelling past the wooden door of the bedroom.

Leon puts on his own suit with practiced efficiency, the set entirely black, safe for the pale silver detailing on the back of his vest and the cufflinks. Peeking just above the neckline of his vest, his tie has a small star embroidered on the otherwise pitch black fabric, drawing the eye down towards the shape of his chest. Once he’s put together the outfit, he regards himself critically in the full length mirror of their dressing room, smoothing out every stray wrinkle he can find with a flat palm and almost neurotic compulsivity. 

Afterwards he goes back to the sink, rifling through his toiletry kit for the other make-up he’s brought. He knows now, Koch considers him attractive and though he’s been taken by surprise the day before, Leon is not unused to wielding his pretty face as a weapon. Maybe putting more of a focus on it, could come in handy later on.

Taking the black eye-liner out of the pouch, Leon uncaps it, positioning its tip right at his lash line, before he starts to carefully frame the outer edges, adding a tiny hook at the end to emphasize the feline shape he’s aiming for. Getting the eye-liner to look symmetrical takes a bit of time but Leon’s been practicing for a while, ever since he’s found the courage to start experimenting, so, by the end, he’s fairly satisfied. Blinking at himself in the mirror, he can’t help but smile at the result, liking how the simple touch softens his face.

He’s only ever gone out like this a few times, always accompanied by Claire, who had bullied him into trying it out in the first place. Back then, she had claimed she wanted to break in a new eye-shadow palette, which she’d bought for herself, picking Leon as her target. Even though he fought her tooth and nail for the better part of the afternoon, he’d been struggling to conceal his own surprise, once she was done with him, looking at himself in the mirror, not with repulsion, but a soft blooming of something around his heart.

Afterwards, it became somewhat of a habit, they’d even hit up a bar, or a club in the more queer area of the city once or twice. While Leon didn’t enjoy how crowded it was there, he couldn’t help but feel flattered by the compliments he’d received.

It was the first time other men had called him ‘pretty’ and meant just that.

He moves on, picking up the rose-coloured lip gloss again, unscrewing the cap, before bringing the bristle up to his lips. He’s halfway through coating his bottom lip, when it knocks on the door.

“What’s taking you so long?” Chris inquires, voice raised to carry into the room.

“Give me a minute.” He mumbles back, eyes fixed on the reflection of the brush in his hand.

His reply doesn’t keep Chris from impatiently sighing, as he pushes the door open anyway, to step inside.

“What are you doing in–” He halts in the doorframe, words running dry, while he just stares.

The expression on the other’s face is unreadable, Leon feeling like he’s been caught doing something bad, as he tries to gleam if Chris will say something horrible in the next few seconds. On instinct, he straightens up, hands sinking to cap the gloss again.

“What?” He snaps, when Chris still hasn’t moved, anxiety and irritation sloshing around inside him.

“Nothing.” It tumbles out of his mouth, red dusting Chris’ cheeks, where he begins to shuffle on the spot. “I’m just–” He stammers, a grin spreading on his face, as his eyes get stuck on the half-painted part of his lips. “Are you wearing make-up?”

Leon bites the inside of his cheek, neck twinging with how hard he’s tensing his muscles. Turning back to the mirror, he presses his lips together to spread the colour evenly across them, taking off the excess with the tip of his pinky.

“So what if I am?” He challenges.

Looking at Chris, he doesn’t think the other will be intentionally rude. They had slept with each other after all, though Leon knew from experience, how freaked out men could get about perceived effeminacy. In the back of his mind, he still prepares himself to just wave it off, as another act for the mission.

“No, it’s fine.” Chris backpedals, hands coming up in surrender. “Sorry, I didn’t want to be weird about it.”

He doesn’t move from the threshold to the room though, like he can’t quite decide where he should be, fixedly staring at Leon’s reflection, as he readjusts his bangs. It feels kind of like he’s observing an exotic bird, instantly heightening Leon’s discomfort.

“I see.” He takes in his reflection, the excitement from before dampened. “I can also take it off, if it bothers you this much.” He relents, resigning himself to destroying his work, even if he liked how it turned out.

It’s been a stupid idea to begin with.

“I didn’t say that.” Chris shakes his head, finally entering the bathroom, arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

“You really didn’t need to.” He rummages through his toiletry kit in search of the make-up wipes Claire had him borrow, discerning quickly that he must’ve forgotten to bring them with him.

Instead he reaches for the towel, hanging next to the sink, yanking it from its hook to run it under the faucet.

“Leon, it’s fine. ” Chris says again, with more emphasis, halting him in his plan to try and scrub the eye-liner off.

“It’s just for the mission anyway.” He sighs, bunching the fabric in his hands, as he glances over his shoulder at Chris.

The other is smiling sympathetically, stepping forward to turn him fully around, taking the fluffy white towel from his clenched fists, before dropping it in the hamper to his right.

“I wouldn’t care, even if it weren’t.” He says earnestly. “I really do just think you look pretty.”

There’s something reflecting in Chris’ eyes and Leon has to look away, so he doesn’t fall in love even worse than he already has.

“Noone knows.” He says, because he thinks it must be said. “My colleagues would never let me hear the end of it.”

That was putting it lightly, the memories of living through DADT still seared into his mind. A few of the people he worked with probably wouldn’t be bothered but Leon wasn’t eager to find out when his life could hinge on it.

“Mhm.” Chris considers his admission, before leaning in to press their lips together. “The DSO isn’t around right now though.”

Leon blinks his eyes open, not having realized he closed them, as he traces his gaze over Chris’ face, the look in his eyes dark and raw. On his mouth, the sheen of his gloss shimmers in the bright bathroom light. Leon chuckles, drawing out of the loose embrace he’s found himself in, to run his thumb across Chris’ bottom lip.

“You’re gonna get that all over your face, if you don’t watch out.”

Chris’ tongue darts out to lick the colour off, wiping the back of his hand over the rest of it.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He answers, giving him a poised look, which Leon just waves off with a shake of his head and a barked out laugh.

Once they’re both ready, they go through the plan again.

Show their face at the dance, sneak off to the library, get the data and a sample of the mold, hopefully be back once the actual auction starts.

Leon instructs Chris on how their earpieces work, the devices primarily made for stealth rather than practicality, unlike the military grade ones Chris is used to. As Something of a last precaution, he hides his knife in the inseam of his suit jacket. Chris, on the other hand, tucks the Desert Eagle into its usual place, the holster close to his body. None of what they’ve planned is one hundred percent foolproof, let alone ensures their safety, though with the resources at their disposal, Leon would be content if it’s just him who’ll get hurt.

The attaché case goes back under the bed, the booklet and the USB drive into his pocket. One last check, then they’re off to the ball.

***

The dance begins at seven, admission taking them at least half an hour, as they wait in line to show their visitor passes to a security guard up front. He uses the time to assess the crowd for the evening, many of the faces familiar by now, if not by name then by the fact they’ve been at one of the earlier gatherings. Most everyone is dressed to the nines, women in elaborate evening gowns, bustling alongside flocks of men, all in their nicest suits. Some of them wear tailcoats, which inevitably cause Leon to think of a bunch of penguins, when he sees them. He's just glad his tailor had been considerate enough to not force him into one of those.

Arm in arm they step into the ballroom at last, the inside looking vast with its high ceiling. Heavy golden chandeliers dangle over their heads, casting their warm light onto the white and gold wall panelling, as red velvet curtains frame the top to bottom windows on their right, revealing the endless green lawn of the parterre. At the back of the room there’s another stage, currently occupied by a string quartet who fills the air with sweet violin music. It all strikes him as a little bit old-fashioned, like he just walked into a period drama without having read the script. All the people bustling about, make him acutely aware of his own gait, trying to keep up the confident stride, despite not knowing where he’s even going. He locks his arm a little tighter around Chris’.

“I hope you can dance.” He whispers in his direction, dodging a waiter carrying a platter of drinks, like she has the plague.

In the corner of his eye, he can see Chris nod. “I was Claire’s prom date on more than one occasion.”

It makes him smile unbidden, taking a mental note to ask Claire for photos, once they’re back. Wanting to say something else, the teasing remark is already on the tip of his tongue, when a small crowd in front of them parts to reveal the looming figure of Jason Koch. The words die in his mouth, throat going tight, as he tries not to let his disquiet show. Promptly, Koch spots them, sauntering in their direction with a plastic smile stapled on his face. Leon begins to linger a little behind Chris’ shoulder, eyes dropping automatically to track the movement of the man’s hands.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He greets them. “I’m sorry for the continued absence, I’ll be all yours today.”

It’s hard keeping the smile on his face, when he can feel a pit forming in his stomach, Koch’s reassurement sounding more like a threat than a promise.

“No need to apologize, we found our way around well enough.” Chris answers for them both, while Leon consciously relaxes his shoulders.

There’s no reason for him to be so nervous, he’d been trained for this and despite everything, they’ve got a fully loaded Magnum, as well as a combat knife between them. Leon’s gotten out of worse with less, all that happened between Koch and him being a bit of unwanted touching.

“Experts already, I see.” His grin spreads impossibly wide on his face. “Have my colleagues given you your auction number for tonight?”

Chris pulls out the red waiver, showing off the black ‘42’ printed in bold letters.

“Great.” He smiles. “Do you need anything else?”

Leon shakes his head, following it up with a: “No, thank you” Though the moment he hears his own voice, he wishes he would’ve stayed silent, the pitch of it off, too timid for his liking.

Koch takes his leave with the usual set of phrases, before he vaguely walks towards the bar, giving Leon a clap on the back, as he passes him. The feeling of insects skitters down his skin at the contact and Leon feels the imprint of his hand even long after they have weaved their way into the crowd.

At one point they take some of the canapé, which are being insistently offered, mostly out of politeness, as well as to look more busy than they are. Leon’s chewing on his own strange combination of vegetables and bread spread, when Ann and Theresa, greet them shortly, both with a flute of champagne between their gloved fingers. While Chris and Ann hold a brief conversation, Leon can feel the boring gaze of her wife drilling into him, though he keeps his peace about it, discomfort continually increasing.

The casual chatter doesn’t persist for the entire evening. At one point the musicians finish their piece, before Dr. Diavatis strides up onto the stage again, this time sporting an expensive looking pants suit, her hair pinned into a festive updo and decorated with a jewelled barrette.

The speech she holds is uninteresting, its main purpose being to officially initiate the festivities and to once again butter up the sponsors of their little shop of horrors. The endless blather only serves to rile Leon up further, knowing their time is ticking by, while the threat of Koch is breathing down his neck.

Afterwards the music sets in again with a classic waltz, the crowd quickly separating into those who came here to dance, or those who might rather tarry around close to the walls. Unfortunately for them, they get swept up in the middle of it, not close enough to either of the edges to make it there, before they have several couples moving in circles around them. Panicking a little, Leon grips Chris’ arm tightly, pushing himself more insistently past the people crowding them in, until the other gently makes him halt.

“Let’s draw some attention to ourselves now, maybe it’ll help us slink away later.” Chris tilts towards him, mouth right next to Leon’s ear, as his hands wander to his waist.

He takes a deep breath, setting his own palms where they belong, one on Chris’ shoulder, the other interlocked with his hand. “Let’s hope you’re right.” He says, before they set into motion.

Chris didn’t lie when he said he could dance, the slow waltz easy enough, as they stride in a loose circle, the other patrons merely a blur of colour passing them by. The sole thing in focus is Chris, like the centre or the universe has been condensed down to only the two of them, all the rest of the world fading in comparison. Music swells and ebbs, leading their steps smoothly across the floor, dress shoes sliding over the polished marble.

The hand on his waist pulls him in, closer to Chris’ swaying hips, their legs almost interlocking, before he releases him again to spin him around. Leon returns the favour wordlessly, one moment of eye-contact enough to let the other know, having him adjust his grip and granting Leon the lead. It’s almost like they’re on the battlefield, perfectly in sync, as they step around one another, practiced in anticipating the other’s next move and matching their own in response.

He can’t help but feel a little mesmerized by it, wondering if it could always be this way, just him and Chris orbiting each other, like they’re the only ones left in the universe.

There is little Leon wouldn’t give to get a glimpse at that possibility.

The song ends eventually and with it their small moment, as they hurry off the dance-floor, towards the windows, where the dying sun is casting its last rays into the opulent ballroom. They’re both a little taxed due to the duration of the piece, in a good way though, one that doesn’t stem from fighting for their life for a little too long. Catching their breath, Leon takes another glance at the clock, noting how they’re approaching 9 PM steadily. He worries his teeth along the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his nerves in check. There’s an undertone of anxiety, having coloured the previous hours too, which Leon struggles to compartmentalize how he usually does. It leaves him with a vague sense of dread.

The next time they’re offered more food, he has to decline, feeling his stomach twist itself into knots.

The sun eventually disappears behind the horizon, dousing the outside first into a calm blue, then the sky turns into an inky black abyss heralding the onset of night. All around them the other guests are preoccupied with enjoying the festivities, some of them visibly drunk already, which is when Chris and him decide to make their way towards the exit. As they head for the door, they talk animatedly about meaningless nonsense, acting unbothered.

When they leave, the security guard doesn’t stop them, noone batting an eye, as they casually stroll down the hallway, away from the party. Outside the air is clearer, some other guests tarrying around near the bathrooms, or resting on one of the benches. Chris and him pass them by, choosing to head into the approximate direction of the library, while taking some turns to not make it too obvious. All the while, Leon keeps subtly checking if they’re being followed, though as it seems, they’re all alone now.

Getting to the library the door is– thankfully– still unlocked, letting them slip inside silently, before Leon casts a final glance outside to check for any unwanted company. They make quick work of the riddle, the secret door giving another clunk, as it unlocks and the halogen lights behind it flicker on. It’s then that Leon hesitates.

“One of us needs to keep a look-out.”

He fumbles for the keycard in his pocket, presenting it to Chris.

“What? No, Leon, that’s not what we planned.”

He has a bad feeling about this, dread creeping up on him. If Chris got hurt on their mission, Leon doesn’t think he could forgive himself.

“If anything happens, we’ll alert the other, but we can’t just leave our only way out unguarded.”

Pressing the USB stick and the keycard into Chris’ hands insistently, he hopes his expression is serious enough, so he wouldn’t try to argue with him.

“Then let me keep watch, you’re better at the espionage thing anyway.” Chris halts him from withdrawing, his tone pleading.

“I am,” He admits, “which is why I need to stay up here to do the sweet-talking.”

With a conflicted expression drawing his mouth downward, Chris still looks like he wants to disagree, but before he can interject, Leon quickly adds:

“You’ve got the gun, if anything’s down there and when something unexpected happens, we can still reach each other through the comms.”

He clicks his own on demonstratively, watching Chris react to the double input. 

“I’m not worried about me. ”

Chris presses against his own earpiece, activating it, but ultimately lets Leon hand him the two items.

Softening his voice, as he gazes up at Chris, Leon tries to placate him, the other’s worry lines looking like trenches in the low light:

“The longer we take to discuss this, the more time we waste.”

“Fine,” He breathes out heavily, “but you say the word and I’m blowing this whole operation, DSO be damned.”

Leon smiles tightly, the thought of coming back empty handed, washing more than just unease through him.

“Good luck, keep me updated.” He says, watching Chris swing the bookcase to the side, to descend into the tunnel system beyond.

Once he’s out of sight, Leon turns on his heel, exiting the library and carefully clicking the door shut behind him, before restlessly walking a few steps up and down the hallway. After a minute has passed, he checks the comm anxiously.

“Do you copy?”

“Copy.” Chris’ voice comes back, loud and clear. “Koch’s keycard works on the storage units. There don’t seem to be any samples around though.”

“Check the computer first, maybe you’ll find something in the system.” He whispers back, glancing around to make sure the corridor is still vacant.

“Gotcha.” Chris’ distinct voice rings in his ear.

Now all Leon can do is wait, keeping up his nervous pacing, as the sky outside begins to cloud over. The next time Chris pings him again, the first drops of rain have begun to flick against the dark exterior of the windows.

“I’m transferring the data now, the files don’t say where they’re storing the samples but I’ll be keeping an eye out.”

“Be careful.” Leon advises, wringing his hands so hard, his joints ache with it.

“‘Course.” Chris says, focused on the task at hand.

If Leon could, he’d be down there with him right now, loath to leave the man alone in some lab they virtually know nothing about. But with the armada of staff snooping through the building at all times, he’s more worried about what he might encounter out here. His only consolation is the fickle wavelength they share through the earpieces, the sounds of metal hinges moving filtering through Chris’ sensitive microphone.

The sky outside begins to grow more heavy, laden with clouds, as the rain intensifies. Crossing his arms in front of his sternum, Leon digs his fingers into his biceps, as something in his chest pulls incrementally tighter.

“Have you found anything yet?” He asks, for lack of anything better to do, turning away from the big glass panels to blindly stare through one of the paintings.

More dead animals, more hunter’s trophies.

“No, I’m still looking through the storage units we saw last time.”

He doesn’t quite see the first strike of lightning, only startling at the bright flash, which momentarily illuminates the hallway, before it falls back into its softly lit default, then the thunder rolls through the air. It’s still far away, only a quiet rumble, passing quickly but Leon can feel the pressure on his ribs increase anyway. When he stuffs his hands into his pockets, they are already trembling.

“Okay, just don’t take too long.” He swallows against the tightness in his throat, though Chris comments neither on his request, nor his inflection.

Thunderstorms never used to scare him, not even as a kid. Through the decades, eventually the fear crept onto him. The sudden loud noises and flashing lights were too reminiscent of gunfire, grenades going off, heavy Tyrant steps echoing on solid stone. Years of repeated trauma burned the sounds so firmly into his memory, he can barely contain the subsequent bodily reaction.

“Heading down now.” He hears Chris state, unsure if he missed any prior clarifications, though he just decides to echo him. 

“Copy that.” His own voice sounds breathless.

The rain nearly drowns it out, but in the silence which follows, Leon’s ears pick up a dull thud of shoes on carpet. He doesn’t have a lot of time to ascertain if they’re heading towards him, before a dark shape rounds the corner into their hall, beelining straight in his direction. Righting his posture, he puts on his best performance of being lost and shuffles unsurely towards the man approaching him.

Halfway there, recognition sets in, a muscle in his cheek twitching involuntarily, as he makes out the unmistakable features of Jason Koch, the other man smiling like he’s a big cat having found a piece of prey. Unfortunately for Leon, that is when the low simmering anxiety blows into a full on panic attack, his vision whiting out for a split second, until he has to grind to an abrupt halt.

“Mr. Carpenter, what are you doing here?” Koch asks, as soon as he’s bridged the last few feet between them.

Leon blinks his vision clear, as he tries to desperately wrangle in the suffocating feeling that he is going to die, without any of it showing on his face. He’s sweaty all of a sudden, skin cold and damp, unable to get a full breath in.