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White ceiling. Dimmed lights. A steady beep in his right ear. A nice, warm, soft bed.
Feeling absolutely no pain.
Oh, he's on the good drugs.
He's in the fucking hospital.
Fuck.
Chris blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision. It works. The room comes into view, pale pastel green walls, adjustable hospital bed, television mounted against the wall across from him, softly beeping and humming machines surrounding him. The blankets are soft and warm, far better than the scratchy things field hospitals had buried him under at times in the past.
It's a nice hospital, all things considered.
He exhales, trying to suss out what's wrong with him, but his whole body feels blissfully, oddly numb. Really, really good drugs, then. There's an IV in his arm and when he shifts he can feel things (electrodes? bandages? stickers?) catch against the skin on his chest. No part of his body is in a cast and he can feel all his limbs.
All great signs. He knows he passed out at some point, so he figures he's got a concussion at the very least and when he works his jaw, there's a mix of distant pain and numbness. Definitely got knocked on the head.
The head of his hospital bed has been slightly raised, which is great because Chris hates waking up flat on his back. With some effort, he twitches his head to the side and feels his breath catch, his heart skip a beat.
There he is, slumped down way, way low in an uncomfortable hospital chair, eyes half-closed, not having realized Chris is awake yet, the most beautiful sight known to man. Or known to Chris, at least. Even with the dark shadows under his eyes and the scruff on his cheeks and the obvious tension in his jaw, his whole body, really, Leon still is a sight for sore eyes. He's got that half-awake, half-asleep stare down pat, eyes focused on—Chris follows his line of sight, frowns. Eyes focused on the door to his room, like Leon's expecting the cavalry to storm in and do... something. Do what?
“Hey,” Chris says (well, it comes out more of a croak than anything else) and Leon jolts, jerking up in his chair, eyes growing wide. He makes a shushing noise at Chris, puts his finger to his lips as he gets to his feet and moves closer to the bed, his hand reaching for Chris'. He tangles their fingers together and squeezes, relief flooding his features. “You're here.”
Again with the shushing motion. “Quieter,” Leon says, leaning in to him. His eyes brighten as he looks Chris over, apparently pleased with what he sees. “Yeah, I'm here, where else would I be?” He cups Chris' cheek and leans in closer, presses a kiss to the corner of Chris' mouth. “You hurtin'?”
“No,” Chris says almost in a whisper, following Leon's lead. He has no idea why they're having to be so quiet, but hey, indulging Leon is second nature by now. It's one of his favorite things in the world, in fact. “I think I'm on so many drugs.”
Leon laughs soundlessly. “Quite a few, yeah.” He pulls back and ducks his head, catching Chris' eye. “You're gonna be okay, Chris. You took a hard knock to the head. You've got two broken ribs, far too many lacerations and bruises to count. Your ankle got badly twisted. And uh, a bullet nicked your calf. It's gonna scar, but it shouldn't be too bad and not impact your mobility. They want to keep you here for a few days for observation, but you'll get to go home soon.”
Fuck. Chris drags a hand down his face and frowns, staring up at the ceiling. “Wait,” he says, squinting and trying to shake the cobwebs from his fuzzy brain. “How did I get shot? I remember fighting B.O.W.s but...” He trails off, presses his fist into his eyeball like the blunt pressure's gonna help him remember what the hell happened.
“Okay, so,” Leon says, raising a placating hand into the air. “I need you to promise to not get mad. Your guys need you to not get mad.”
“Goddammit,” Chris grouses, dropping his head back into his pillow. “Was it friendly fire? Was it Dion again? Tell me it wasn't Dion again. I'm sending him back to the shooting range. I'm taking his shotgun and exchanging it for a water pistol. I'm sending him back to basic training until he learns not to shoot his boss.”
“The big B.O.W. picked you up and used you as a bowling ball, your squad told me,” Leon says. “Dion took a shot when it grabbed you, nicked you, hit it, and then it threw you and knocked all of them over. You hit your head against the wall and went down. Your guys took care of the rest and got you here.”
“Fuckin' Dion,” Chris mutters darkly. “Can't believe me shot me again.” It comes out louder than he wants and he winces when Leon makes shushing noises again. “Sorry,” he whispers.
“Could've been worse,” Leon says. He's still clutching Chris' hand and his next breath comes out shivery and weak. “Claire called me. Came here as soon as I could. She should be back in a bit, she had to take a call from TerraSave.”
Chris loves this man so much he aches with it, feels it even through the blissful haze of the pain medication. “I'm glad you're here,” he tells him. “Can I ask, though, why are we whispering?”
Leon grimaces, flicks his eyes over to the door, and sighs. “Because—” he starts, then stops, closes his eyes and pulls his hand away from Chris' to grip the bed rail tightly. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck it.”
Chris' heart hammers in his chest, his dry mouth suddenly almost painfully dry. “Leon?”
Leon drags his gaze up to him, working his jaw. “I didn't want to—I mean, I had plans—I wanted to do this some other way, some other place, some other time, but fuck it. Fuck it,” he repeats and he digs his hand into his pocket and pulls it back out and flicks something small and shiny at Chris, who utterly and entirely fails to catch it.
“Leon,” he complains, fumbling around for the thing that landed on top of the sheets in his lap. “Don't throw shit at me when I'm this fucking high, what is—” He cuts himself off as he picks up the—“this,” he finishes weakly. “It's—it's a ring. Leon—”
“Marry me,” Leon says abruptly, his pale, wide eyes fixed on Chris'.
The room goes very quiet around Chris. All he can hear is the roaring in his ears. The ring is a simple silver band. It looks like it would fit. He can't stop looking at it, turning it over between his fingers. It's so small, yet feels heavy in his hand. He swallows hard, sucks in air, looks up at Leon, who's staring at him, paler than Chris has ever seen him, but with painful hope on his face, even as he looks as if he's bracing himself for the worst. As if he's expecting a no.
As if that would ever be Chris' answer.
“Marry me,” Leon repeats, quieter this time. “They wouldn't let me see you because I'm not next of kin. Claire's your medical proxy and POA; she fought nearly the entire staff to get me in, but they wouldn't budge. This is the third time I've sneaked in. If they catch me in here again, they're going to fucking ban me from the hospital.” Leon catches his breath, Chris sees him consciously relax his white-knuckled grasp on the bed rail. “I love you, marry me, I don't wanna go through this again.”
“Is that why you keep looking at the door,” Chris croaks, his head spinning. The silver ring sits in his sweaty palm. He's almost afraid to look at it.
Leon huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, keeping an eye out for nurse Ratchet. She's five foot tall and so fucking mean, Chris.” The bed rail rattles as he tightens his grip again. “So, what do you say?” His gaze skitters away from Chris', fixating on a point just above his head.
“This is a terrible proposal,” Chris says, curling his fingers protectively around the ring. His brain has screeched to a halt and refuses to kick start no matter how hard Chris tries. “I was going to—”
“Chris,” Leon says, despair rattling his voice.
Oh, fuck, he's an idiot. “Yes!” Chris blurts out. “Of course, yes. Yes, I'll marry you.”
“Jesus Christ.” Leon sags against the bed, his eyes fluttering closed. He exhales loudly, winces, cuts his eyes over to the door again as if anyone could actually hear him breathe from the hallway. “Give a guy a heart attack, why don't you?”
“Come here,” Chris says, reaching for him, trying to grab his face. His aim is way off, his limbs refusing to fully cooperate with the plans his fuzzy brain is trying to think up, and he ends up flailing for a few seconds before landing his hand on Leon's forearm. It's a nice forearm, strong, muscular, and Chris certainly doesn't get distracted by it for long enough that Leon starts laughing at him. “Hey,” he says, “fuck you, I wanna kiss you. Don't make fun of me or else I'm not going to marry you.”
“Too late,” Leon says, “no take-backs,” and he takes Chris face between his hands and presses their lips together. It's a gentle kiss, steady, warm and sweet all at once, and Chris feels his body drain of tension he hadn't even realized he was holding. “You're stuck with me now.”
“Wasn't I already?” Chris murmurs, chasing after Leon's mouth, clumsily managing to pat his hair. Leon indulges him, kissing him again. “It's always been yes, Leon, it's just that I'm on a lot of drugs.” He waves his hand next to his head. “My brain's not working so great right now.”
Leon's lips twitch in a way that tells Chris he's fighting the urge to make fun of him. “Only right now?” He doesn't quite manage it, the whole not making fun of Chris part, but Chris forgives him immediately when he leans on the bed rail and takes Chris' hand in his, uncurls his fingers, picks up the ring and slides it around his Chris' left ring finger. “Perfect fit,” he murmurs.
Chris' throat is tight. Words seem impossible. He stares down at the glint of silver around his finger, the way it catches the light. It feels so right on his finger. “I have to tell you something,” he says, breaking the silence that's fallen between them.
“Yeah?” Leon's not looking at him, keeps rubbing his thumb across the ring.
It's hard to focus, between his still hazy brain, whatever drugs they're pumping into him, Leon's solid, beautiful presence—and the ring. The ring. From his fiance. “My side of the closet,” he gets out after a moment. “Box on the floor, for those dress shoes, the ugly black ones—”
“They're not that ugly,” Leon interjects.
“You picked them, you would say that, and also shut up,” Chris says, “I'm trying to have a moment here.”
Leon raises his eyebrows. “You are?”
“If you'll let me,” Chris says and he tries to make it come out snappy, but he's too out of it to manage it. It comes out kind of blubbery, it's embarrassing. He forges ahead. “As I was saying. The dress shoes box, there's—there's another box in there. A small one, a very small one—”
Leon's eyes grow wider. “No,” he says flatly, disbelief laced through the single word. “No way.”
Chris nods jerkily, feeling his lower lip tremble. The fucking drugs must be making him emotional. “I got you a silver one too. I measured your finger while you were asleep.” Leon lets out a shaky laugh. Chris swallows against the lump in his throat. “I love you so much. I can't wait to see mine on your finger.”
Leon grips his hand tightly, squeezing his eyes shut. He drops his head, his hair falling into his face. “You're lying. You don't—Chris.” He licks his lips. “Are you serious?”
“I've had it for three months,” Chris goes on. “Claire's been helping me plan. I was waiting for the right moment, but—”
“Work,” they say in unison. It's been especially shitty the past couple of months, weeks where he's only seen Leon in passing, with Chris coming back in just as Leon's going back out and vice versa. Weeks of frantic hello-bye kisses at the door, quickies whenever possible, short texts from burner phones and missions that dragged on far longer than usual. It's, frankly, sucked and Chris is about ready to quit or get himself fired if he doesn't catch a break soon. Leon's not much better off; the DSO is fucking relentless when it comes to throwing their star agent into mess after mess after mess, and Leon's been snappish and irritated and tired as a result.
“You beat me to it,” Chris whispers. “I would've gone down on one knee, though, not thrown the ring at you.”
“Tell you what,” Leon says, grinning at him. “You get out of here, I'll get on one knee right there in the parking lot and ask you again.” He pauses, considering, and adds, “and then when you're home and you're up for it, I'll get on both my knees. How's that?”
Fuck. Chris' whole body quivers at that. It's been a couple of days (five? six?) since they last had time for any of that. “Sounds like a pretty good plan,” he says hoarsely.
Leon's grin grows wider. “I have them sometimes.”
*
Chris walks out of the hospital three days later.
Leon keeps his word on both counts.
~the end