Chapter Text
MARCH 27, 2010
16:00
WASHINGTON, DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
It wasn’t warm by any means in the death throes of an east coast winter, but Chris was burning up all the same. Dragging deeply on a cigarette, he tugged at the black tie around his neck, rolled his shoulders a few times, and looked up at the building before him. The Salamander Hotel stood proud and stately along the waterfront, an inlet somewhere between the Tidal Basin and Washington Channel. Its architecture made it look historical, like something important had taken place there hundreds of years ago. To Chris, it blended into every other neoclassical monolith in the city, and there were plenty of them, old buildings full of people who thought they were important, special even.
His little trip to the Arklay Mountains taught him that they were not. No one was.
Despite being the golden boy of a paramilitary organization sanctioned by the U.N., Chris was not exactly a fan of the corporatocracy, the political grandstanding that bled into every part of the capital. It’s why he preferred to stay in Baltimore and brave traffic whenever he had government business to deal with. Today was a bit different, however. Instead of meeting with his superiors for a mission debrief or testifying before congress about the threat of bio-organic weapons, he was meeting his sister. TerraSave, the NGO she worked for, was having some kind of reunion or convention and Claire, being a prominent member, was presenting. Chris gave her the side-eye when she mentioned “ work conference” but the promise of a free dinner, followed by their own Redfield-style afterparty, won him over.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Chris exhaled a plume of smoke, casually touched his hand to where his sidearm sat under his jacket, and turned around. It was an older man dressed in the hotel’s resplendent livery. Chris registered the silver in his flaxen crew cut, the faint lines around his mouth, the clipped expression.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t smoke here.”
Chris lifted his chin, tucked the orange filter between his lips, inhaled. He looked around the walkway, traversing the white pavement that bisected a manicured lawn, stopping at a tiny plaque stating that the landscape was maintained with reclaimed water. He shook his head slightly, held the cigarette aloft and exhaled through his nose.
“No signs around saying I can’t.”
The porter took out a pair of white gloves from his pocket and smiled as he slipped them on. Chris found it highly unpleasant.
“Sir, I really must insist,” the porter said, with real authority this time, holding his palm out. Chris dropped the filter on the ground, pressed his dress shoe to it and twisted, bent down, picked it up, even scuffing the soot away with his sole. He returned the porter’s smile.
“Good thing I was finished.” He dropped the butt into the porter’s palm, watched as the leftover ash sullied the pristine cotton. Chris blinked and the glove turned black, another blink and another, and one more until it returned to white. He picked up the navy duffel at his side, something to hold the clothes he would be changing into once the formal portion of the night ended. “I got it,” he said in a clipped tone before the porter could even attempt to offer his service.
‘Gonna get drunk tonight,’ he whisper-screamed on his way through the entrance, humming the chords to a Metallica song thereafter. Inside, the large rotunda had Chris twisting his head every which way to find Claire, but he was quickly drawn to a bas relief mural above the concierge desk, warm light softening its carved planes into whipped confectionery. He licked his lips and hoped they’d serve dessert with dinner. “Get it together, Chris,” he murmured to himself, wishing he had fewer vices.
“Chris!” He gravitated to his sister’s voice, assessed her tired face before glancing at the plastic name badge around her neck, briefly wondered when exactly they grew up. Their hug was short, but he squeezed hard, a big bear hug that swallowed her up, kissed her temple where the hair fell from her ponytail.
“Hey, sis.”
Her expression was scrunched when she pulled away. “Well, you look happy.”
He chuckled, rolled his arms again. “So happy with this godawful suit digging into my pits.”
Claire groaned. “When are you gonna stop being a child and get one tailored? Seriously. How old are you?”
His head fell back in annoyance. “Woman. How many times have we been over this? I wear this shit once, maybe twice, in a decade. Why would I go—”
She put her hands up. “Alright. Alright. Forget it. I have to get ready to present soon, so I’ll take you in and—”
“Wait. I gotta put this somewhere.” He patted the strap over his shoulder. “My clothes for later.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “What? I’m not driving all the way back to my place. You know how far that is?”
“Fine. You can drop them off in my room, but quickly, please. I want you to meet Leon.”
Leon.
He’d heard all about the famed Leon S. Kennedy over the years, all the heroics at the R.P.D., that airport in Harvardville, the various little ways he’d crossed paths with Claire in the line of duty. Somewhere in the dusty files of his memory, Chris remembered a phone call…or was it an email?...letting him know that Claire was safe and looking for him. There may have also been a picture at one point, something grainy on Claire’s flip phone, of an overly-styled fringe that he couldn't even tell the color of but remembered thinking “poser.”
Then one day, not long ago, Chris had outrightly asked if they were sleeping together. “I don’t give a shit if you are, sis. I’m just asking because the way you talk about him, it kinda sounds like you are and maybe I wanna bring over a house plant when you move in with him.” Claire had crossed her arms, eyebrows furrowed, not in the least amused. Sue me for wanting someone to continue the Redfield bloodline.
Presently, Chris hung his head, scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “I'm gonna go in there and be a good little soldier, but tonight, you're paying for my drinks and the cab and a carton of cigs.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. “You're a shithead.”
“Love you too, sis.”
~
The lack of air in the conference hall was stifling, but Chris wore a painted-on smile as he brushed shoulders with various executives, government and non-government alike. He was quickly getting the impression that this was one big political shmooze fest under the guise of neutrality, a meeting of the minds fixated, hellbent on “a better tomorrow.” Chris repeatedly fought the urge to roll his eyes, speak his mind whenever someone was sounding off. None of them have seen what I have.
Of that he was certain, as he had yet to observe a single soul carrying the weight in their eyes. It was heavy, haunting in the right light, the eyes of a person who fought the undead, ran from them, shot at point blank, gouged their brains out; the eyes that had seen the abominations made in underground research facilities, the sheer malevolence, the pure ego that fed those scientists, pushed them further and further to the unfathomable, the concept of world domination becoming all the more delicious as it approached reality. Claire used makeup to try and hide it, but there were shadows. Always. She had her own score, of course, a body count higher than most of the rank-and-file military, maybe even the upper brass. Redfields are built different. He couldn’t say the same for anyone else waiting around for “Project Kijuju: Outcomes, Modalities, and Future Response.” That was until Claire approached with a man he could recognize by the hair alone.
“Leon, this is my brother.” Claire was standing close, but her presence faded with his rapidly tunneling vision. It made no damn sense that Chris was standing in front of a Calvin Klein model whose eyes carried the weight, not solely of bio-organic weapons, but something else he couldn’t pinpoint. It piqued his curiosity and Chris rarely felt curious; the less he knew, the better.
“Leon S. Kennedy, Special Agent, United States Strategic Command.” Chris blinked, stumbling over the low, throaty timbre of that voice. His own voice didn’t even skirt that level of roughness and Chris was in the awful habit of chain smoking. Someone cleared their throat loudly. The special agent was holding his hand out in offering, Chris realized.
“Well, I guess if we’re standing on ceremony here—Chris Redfield, Captain, Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance.” Leon shook his hand in the same way Chris gripped a pistol, secure and precise; as they pulled away, the calluses on Leon’s trigger finger snagged against his own, sending a sizzle of electricity into his wrist. Leon blinked, expression steely, and Chris suddenly wanted to see those eyes under different conditions—rain, shine, bright light, low light, sunrise, sunset— to identify the exact color. The flash from someone’s camera went off; several more followed suit. Click. Click. Click.
Shit.
“Glad to finally make your acquaintance, Redfield.”
“Likewise, Kennedy.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He really hoped Leon was good at small talk because Chris barely passed the mandated P.R. training for his captaincy, and with good reason.
“It’s only been, what, twelve years? That tracks. You know what they say about government efficiency.”
Chris couldn’t help the laugh that spilled unbidden from his lips. “From the DoD to the DMV, take a number, son.” Leon cracked a smile, a real one, not the social nicety that automatically came with a hand shake. This one was slight, appreciative. Chris felt something shift within him like zero gravity, that uncontrollable shiveriness during the jump from a C-17, every hair on his body standing on end as he counted down the seconds until parachuting.
“Gentlemen.” Chris’ attention veered to the woman in red glasses and a smart looking pantsuit standing off to the side. Had she always been there? Chris couldn't say, but he was very interested in why the hell she was pushing into their space, jamming a voice recorder between them. “May I get a statement from each of you for President Graham?”
“Uh. No, ma’am. I mean, not unless I know who’s asking,” Chris rebuffed none too gently. The woman and Leon began to speak over each other, but Leon’s voice died quickly.
“Ingrid Hunnigan, Field Operations Support. I assist Agent Kennedy.”
And it's a tight leash, I'm sure.
He shook hands with her briefly, looking to Leon for visual confirmation, which he gave with a tight nod. Chris was socially aware enough to sense that he would not be getting out of this without some form of bad publicity if he didn’t cooperate. He glanced from Ingrid to Leon to an occupied Claire, and then finally back to Leon.
“Of course, Ms. Hunnigan,” Chris replied in his politest tone.
“I'll go first,” Leon declared smoothly. “For the record.” Chris nodded in consent. “I heard about what happened in Africa and on behalf of President Graham, I extend my heartfelt gratitude. The B.S.A.A.’s efforts in the war on bioterror are recognized, Captain Redfield.”
“Very good, Agent Kennedy,” Hunnigan interjected. “Captain Redfield?”
Shit. Fuck. Shit. He hated thinking on the fly unless he was in combat and then it was usually things like when to fall back or advance, suppress or open fire, how to stage the members of his unit during a counter- aggressive maneuver. Those he could do in his sleep, but forming a sentence, one little message that was both coherent and diplomatic, sanitized for the goddamn president of the United States? Herculean. Impossible.
“Captain Redfield, your response?” Hunnigan prompted again. It was now or never.
“Uh…thank you, Agent Kennedy. You've also done a lot for the waronbioterror and you kept my—uh—you’ve kept people safe, so I'm—we—” Chris huffed “—the Bioterrorism Assessment Committee extends their support to the Department of Defense. Shit. Wait. Sorry, can I redo that?” Hunnigan looked at him like he suddenly grew horns and he was well aware of Leon looking down at his shoes, his ridiculous hair falling over his face.
“Let him redo it, Hunnigan,” Loen murmured softly. “Strike it from the record.” When he looked up and shook his hair out, Chris saw his bemused expression.
Hunnigan made a disapproving noise, but still pressed the recorder. “Note that the previous statement has been stricken from the record. Captain Redfield, your response?”
“Thank you. The Bioterroism Assessment Committee acknowledges the support of the Department of Defense in the war on bioterror.” Chris cleared his throat. “And…I personally commend you, Agent Kennedy, for the sacrifices you've made to…combat bioterrorism.”
Hunnigan clicked the recorder. Chris watched as the green light went dark. She looked none too pleased and seemed to be having a silent conversation with Leon before excusing herself hastily. A brief pause and Chris suddenly wished he had an expensive sipping whiskey to fidget with.
“Thanks for playing,” Leon said softly, but with mirth, and something about that emboldened Chris.
“Wanna know what I really wanted to say?” He asked with a roguish grin.
Leon turned his head slightly, moved closer. “I’m all ears.”
Chris looked around, made sure the attendees were lost in their own conversations, lowered his voice considerably. “Well, Special Agent Kennedy, calling it a ‘war’ is just an excuse for the elite to act corrupt. I know I sound like a dumbass half the time, but I’m well aware that the government’s funding the creation of BOWs to profit off staged military intervention. Graham may be one of the good guys, but his efforts are null and void with all those fucks in the house and senate blocking him; so please, don't be like everyone else and tell me we have a shot when this country is going to hell in a hand basket.”
He expected Leon to frown, to rattle off empty platitudes, make excuses, walk away, but that was not the case. Oh, was it ever not. His laugh reminded Chris of sandpaper, chapped his skin pleasantly as it raked him over.
“I was unemployed and living out of my car after Raccoon. It was my first day, Claire may have told you, so no severance package for this rookie. I drove county by county, looking for a precinct that would hire me, but who wants a recruit with “possible T-virus” in their file? I’m not Graham’s lackey by choice. I was picked up by the secret service and given a place to sleep and wash the vomit off my clothes. I didn't go to college. I don't have trade skills, so it was either this or stripping. You catch my drift, Redfield? I know how the country runs and I know it has me by the balls just like it does you, except I’m better at pretending to drink the Kool-Aid than you are.”
Oh. Shit.
Chris straightened his stance, giving Leon a deliberate once-over. They were face to face again, yet merely inches apart this time. And then Chris smirked, heart beating out of his chest.
“Guess you're not just a pretty face, Kennedy.”
Right around the age that puberty began to take shape, Chris realized he wanted to grow up to be a man like his father. Captain of the Baker River Hotshots, a highly trained, highly specialized wildland fire crew, Thomas Redfield was a man’s man—capable, skilled, never, ever questioned.
Firefighting seemed like the right choice, even though his pop tried to discourage him, citing his own misgivings. The job was unpredictable, volatile, often a death sentence, difficult to balance with a wife and kids. “I’m not here enough for you and Claire and your mom. You don't want that for your family, do you?”
No one would ask Chris why he was alone. Married to the job. You know how it is. Yeah. That sounded good. He wouldn't have to think about it, why he didn't look at girls the way his friends did, why he didn’t want to kiss them, touch their breasts. The work would exhaust him, keep him numb. He could sacrifice himself, die a hero, leave no trace of what lay deepest in his heart, tucked tight, so tight, reluctant to take up even a microcosm of space, but existing all the same.
Fire was the only way to truly kill it.
That was, until his pop died a few years later, killed in the last big burn of the season. He could not make plans for the same fate and still look his fragile mother in the eye. At sixteen, the guilt was simply too much for a boy who loved his mom dearly, but he was an agile boy, an athletic boy; Chris could pivot.
Apparently, Leon S. Kennedy could as well.
Chris knew it was audacious as hell of him to speak to a government official that way, but it felt right and Chris was prone to relying on instinct. Besides, Leon had known Claire for ages now, been her lifeline all the times Chris couldn't be. So that gives you the right to hit on him? Chris put one foot behind him and then another, ready to backslide down this little friendship summit, but Leon threw him a rope.
“It’s called ‘pretty privilege’ and I use it daily, Redfield.”
This man.
Agent Kennedy flashing his blue-green eyes, flaunting the sheen in his honey blonde locks, showing off those pale pink lips. Chris glanced at his chest, traced the definition over his dress shirt and up, taking note of the rough texture under his jaw, stubble threatening at this not quite five o’ clock hour. How dare Leon go pound for pound in a verbal spar? Good grief. Chris knew he had a type. He learned that very quickly in the Air Force, could no longer deny it to himself by the time he was with S.T.A.R.S., and here Claire’s best friend had his back against the wall, blood pumping, keyed up, ready to fight, ready to fuck. Christ, he hadn’t felt that in…a while.
Not since—
“Seven minutes.”
His head snapped to the side as if he’d been severely shocked, hot chills racing down back.
Seven minutes. Seven minutes is all I have left to play with you.
“Chris?”
He blinked, swallowed, shook it all out, bricks in his head that badly needed to go. How long had it been since his last cigarette? Wasn’t it time for another? “Uh, yeah?”
Claire had placed her hand on his bicep, giving it a soft squeeze. “My presentation starts in seven minutes. See you there.”
Chris nodded, blinked, slower this time. People were beginning to filter into the main conference hall. Leon was eyeing him carefully as he spoke with that uppity assistant. There was no time to sneak out for a cigarette. His stomach hurt from lack of food. He was feeling great, swell. And then Leon was turning, the assistant guiding him away, but Chris caught one last glance as they exchanged a farewell nod. Moments passed as he stood there, rooted to the floor among the riff raff.
“Fuck this shit,” he grumbled, bulldozing his way to a chair in the back corner. He loved his sister to death, but he did not have it in him to listen to her inadvertently spell out the B.S.A.A. 's failures with facts and statistics about TRICELL and African tribalism when he could be playing Tetris. Yeah, that sounded good, the bricks in his head giving way to the bricks on his phone. Briefly, he wondered where that poser-haired punk was sitting, if he was up front with his handler.
Bricks, Redfield. Colorful bricks.
His phone chimed, once, but loud, deafening in the large hall. He cleared his throat, flipped the switch on the outer casing to make it vibrate instead. God, he was a bad brother. How had Claire not noticed? Her voice carried through the microphone, steady, not missing a beat. Maybe she didn't hear it. Maybe she just had a high tolerance for his bullshit. He huffed and tapped the notification banner on his screen, hoping it wasn't anything important.
A text from a number with an area code he didn't recognize.
It’s Leon. Claire gave me
your number.
Something fluttery was going on in his chest, so Chris smacked it a couple of times with a fist, clearing his throat again. A drink would be heaven. He straightened up, tried to act casual as he scanned the audience. Just where oh where was that underwear model with his pretentious haircut?
Sitting at the edge of a middle row where an aisle bisected the seating, apparently. Chris noticed the way he sat, spine curved, hands over knees, legs spread, ankles bent. He knew it well—the stance of a man waiting to spring to action. Glancing at his phone again, he contemplated the possibilities, all the questions forming in his subconscious.
She did?
Years ago. In case of
emergency.
Makes sense.
She said you’re taking
her out tonight.
Getting drinks.
Want me to get those
free?
???
Pretty privilege :)
Chris’ eyes were burning a hole into his screen. Did Leon S. Kennedy just send him a winky face? Very slowly, glacially, he turned his head while resting it in his palm, elbow pressing into his knee. He held up his phone in his free hand, tapping the bottom edge against his thigh in consideration. Leon was looking right at him, lip curled on one side, an action that was frequent in Chris’ presence, he was learning.
Goddamnit.
Chris’ own toothy grin hid protectively under the cradle of his palm, thank God, but he had been told he smiled with his eyes and that was problematic. The fluttery pressure in his chest moved to his stomach, getting into dangerous territory. What in fresh hell? Just what did this guy want with him? They had met for the first time only minutes ago and now he was texting Chris smiley faces?
You’re ducking with me
Fucking*
Not at all.
Want me to get you
drinks or not?
Yeah
Good. Claire already
sent me the address btw
:)
Chris sat up quickly. Leon’s arms were crossed now as he leaned over to speak with his assistant, phone nowhere in sight. Very soon, Chris would have words with his sister. Very, very soon. That meddling bitch.
Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He cracked his knuckles, ran his palms over his slacks repeatedly as he shook his left knee in barely suppressed agitation. He needed this presentation to be over now. It was coming though. A cigarette…or two. A couple glasses of wine with dinner. (There better be a dessert station or someone was getting a nasty email about how to properly cater an event.) Leon’s pretty pink pout sealed around his—
“And that concludes my presentation. I’ll be taking questions now,” Claire’s voice boomed through the microphone.
“Oh, thank fuck,” Chris gasped. The woman in front of him turned fully around to look at him. “What?” She pursed her lips, shook her head and turned away. Her reaction was justified as far as he was concerned. ‘I can’t even stand myself, lady,’ he wanted to tell her. People were raising their hands all over the place, Chris noticed. He wanted to walk up to each and every one and just…force them back down, but gently, very kindly. He wasn't a monster.
“Okay, it looks like we only have time for a few, so I’ll start over here.” Chris followed the line of Claire’s hand as she pointed into the audience. Of course Kennedy had a question. Of fucking course he did.
“Just curious why traditional syringes were used for vaccine distribution when auto-injectors would’ve been faster and saved more refugees before the volunteers had to pull out. Was it a cost-benefit issue?”
Chris started in on nail biting, watching Claire’s expression carefully, her sad smile as she looked at Leon, her response poised and practiced.
“With limited funding, we went with the cheaper option. Auto-injectors cost more per quantity, so we would’ve only been able to get maybe half of the supply we took with us. And, I know what you’re thinking: a lot of the stock was destroyed anyway. Unfortunately, there was just a lot we didn’t anticipate.”
Almost immediately after her response, Chris’ phone vibrated in his pocket.
I’ll talk to Graham about
getting you hooked up
with a different
manufacturer. You need
access to better
wholesale pricing >:(
Shit. That was meant for
your sister.
I figured.
Nice of you to help.
I do what I can.
As it turned out, Leon S. Kennedy really was more than just a pretty face. So. Much. More. And that would sit at the forefront of Chris Redfield’s mind for a good, long while.
MARCH 27, 2010
21:00
INTERLUDE AT DUPONT CIRCLE
Leon was grateful to be naked. Dress clothes were not his favorite and it felt like he was wearing them constantly these days. Unlike the perfunctory rinse that followed his gym session that morning, a long, hot shower would make him a new man. Stepping through the glass door, he threw his head back and moaned when the waterfall spray hit his body.
“Fuck. That's so good, baby,” he groaned, as if the shower itself was a lover who knew how to please.
Shit. Maybe that was why he’d been so desperate with Claire’s brother. It had been far too long since he’d had someone in his bed and the moment a handsome face gives him the time of day, he practically dry humps the whole situation. It wasn't like he couldn't have anyone he wanted within reason. He knew that. He did. But women always clung and he had to be attentive, careful or they’d cry. They wanted a whole entire relationship with him and there just wasn’t room for that in his line of work.
Men were easier, but the kind he went for—Chris Redfield was fucking hot—couldn’t fathom so much as a hand touching their ass, much less anything penetrating it. And while Leon took it just fine, enjoyed it even, he much preferred to be on top, curled around a muscled back that was stronger than his own, rutting into that perfect, strangling heat. Damn. He groaned again, this time from the simmering in his lower belly, and cupped his balls in one hand, cock gripped in the other, head dropping between his shoulder blades as the water pelted his neck.
“Overworked and underfucked,” he gasped out, words meeting a swift, sweet death in the downpour.
MARCH 27, 2010
22:00
SOMEWHERE NEAR ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
He was hesitant to leave the Ducati out in the open, the parking lot being sketchier than he anticipated. Graffiti littered the buildings and it stunk like piss; not a good sign, but that’s what insurance was for, he supposed. Leon rounded his shoulders and popped the collar of his leather jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, warming the parts exposed by his fingerless gloves.
The club was close by at least, a crumbling brick establishment tucked into a cozy main street along the outskirts of Arlington. The area was bustling with nightlife. Too much, in his opinion, but he was here for…Claire. Yes, Claire…and Chris, by association.
One foot in front of the other, Kennedy.
Turning the corner, Leon caught up with a low, pulsing beat that was spilling out into the sidewalk, and of all things to stop him in his tracks, it was a busty blonde woman, a pin-up girl, on the back of a brown leather jacket. Squinting, he could make out “Made in Heaven” in looping cursive across the shoulders. The owner of the pretentious garment turned his head. Oh. Of course it was Chris, leaning casually against the building, flicking ash from a cigarette. To make matters more unfortunate, Leon decided to look down.
Goddamnit.
All around them, a cabinet of curiosities made up the streetgoers; Leon was in no short supply of spectacle there. Yet, here he was, staring helplessly at Chris’ ass and legs, noting how thick and toned they looked in a pair of tight jeans. Chris turned his head slightly, double taking from the corner of his eye, a smile on his lips as he blew a cloud of smoke towards the street. Fuck. He caught me.
“You lookin’ at my blonde angel?” Chris turned around, showing off a black v-neck, tight as sin, revealing whorls of dark chest hair that Leon’s fingers suddenly itched for, so much that his hands tightened to fists in his pockets.
“Yeah.” Leon didn't miss a beat. “Why is she holding a bomb?”
It was electrifying, the way Chris’ eyes raked him over from head to toe. Leon was buzzing with it, the flash of something in the brunette’s eyes, the smirk, the cigarette tucked between slightly chapped lips. Chris exhaled from the side of his mouth, winked, and tossed the filter to the ground, stubbing it under a high-top sneaker.
“Because she’s gonna drop it on your ass, Kennedy.”
Okay. Is he trying to get his dick sucked in the bathroom? Because—
“Will you please stop flirting in front of me?” Claire chirped from behind them.
Chris rolled his eyes, pushing off from the wall. “Fuck off, sis.”
Leon coughed into his sleeve awkwardly as she walked up and flicked Chris on the forehead with her thumb and forefinger. She was wearing a red denim vest with the same design as Chris’ jacket. Maybe he’d ask about it sometime, when Chris wasn’t knocking her hand away and griping about the pack of cigarettes she handed him.
“They were out of the wides, you big baby. You don’t need the extra cancer anyway.”
Chris shook his head, slipping the pack inside his jacket. “Whatever,” he muttered, turning his attention back to Leon and inclining his head towards the side of the building. “Ever been to one of these before, Kennedy?”
Leon glanced over at Claire who was walking towards the bouncer. “Not really into crowds or dancing.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. It’s…” he pursed his lips, smiling like he was about to share a secret, “...a good way to blow off steam. God knows I need to after the fucked up year I’ve had.”
Before Leon could even open his mouth to retort, a sudden influx of people rushed from the venue next door, pulling him into their wake. Adrenaline spiked his heart, stomach twisting, nausea hitting him square in the chest. He cursed and reached into his jacket on reflex, sharply aware of both himself and Chris, the mirrored change in posture. A solid, combat-honed arm reached out and grabbed, anchoring Leon before he was swept away. When the ravers finally cleared, Chris dropped his hold.
“Yeah,” Leon said, shaking his hair out like a dog. “Should probably stick to drinking alone in my underwear.”
Chris snorted, slapping Leon on the back and pushing him towards the entrance. “Sounds depressing as hell.”
Leon quirked his lip. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
It was dingy and packed inside, the bass from the speakers palpable in Leon’s chest and throat, a bouncy techno-pop that he remembered being popular during his early twenties. That didn’t seem too long ago, and yet here he was staring at the door to his mid-thirties, adjusting the snap closure of the stupid neon wristband a bouncer had given him. At least Claire had paid the guy off to avoid being searched; he wasn’t ready to flash his badge and cause a fuss just to keep his pistol on him.
“Find a table, I'll get the drinks,” Claire yelled over Leon’s shoulder, her hands squeezing his arms assuringly, as if she could sense his trepidation under the strobing lights.
“You sure?”
Another strong squeeze. “Take my brother with you. He needs taming and I think you're the only one brave enough to try.”
Leon tensed at that. Am I that obvious? A hand slapped his back hard, too strong to be Claire. When he looked back, she was already sidling up to the bar.
“Think I see something in the corner, pretty boy.”
Leon’s hands curled in his pockets, white knuckles ready to slam into concrete or delicate cartilage, but he growled and shrugged Chris off instead. “Don't fucking call me that, Redfield. Yeah. I'm pretty. I get it. Could also fuck you up if I wanted to.”
Leon sneered at him, wavering slightly as he watched Chris shift gears without a hitch. He crossed his arms, the brown leather jacket straining hard across his biceps, dark eyes narrowing as a shadow crossed over his face. “That so?”
“Don’t push it.”
Chris looked like he wanted to and Leon wished he would reach out and try. It would be better that way, resolving this thing between them with swift kicks and punches and mumbled apologies rather than something hot and heavy and personal, something he might never fully untangle from.
“Jesus fuck,” Chris yelled, fists over his eyes as he shook enough sense in for both of them. “Alright, just…calm your tits. Let's sit the fuck down.” It ran cold through his veins then, something in the middle of disappointment and anticipation that Leon didn't care to decipher. Instead, he pushed his way through the throngs of ravers and normies.
The table was small, the kind meant to be stood at, with a ring around the base to rest a foot. Chris pressed himself into the corner while Leon stood opposite, looking anywhere and everywhere. It felt strange to Leon, not the atmosphere itself, but the fact that he was thirty-three and in a dance club that was probably meant for people ten years younger than himself; everyone around them just looked so…young.
Chris was bobbing his head to the music, shoulders moving, staring right at him, he could see it out of the corner of his eye. Leon didn't know how to do this, not with someone he had any sort of prior connection to, someone he would likely run into again. Claire needed to get there with the drinks immediately.
“Oh shit,” Chris yelled. “That looks dangerous.” Leon finally looked over and followed his line of sight. Claire was beelining towards them, carrying a grip of double sized shot glasses that were filled with something pink and cloudy. “The fuck is this?”
Claire rolled her eyes.“They're shooters! Hpnotiq and raspberry vodka.”
Leon and Chris shared a grimace.
“Looks like a hangover from hell waiting to happen,” Leon groaned.
Claire scoffed and handed them two shooters each. “Relax,” she cooed. “This is just to loosen you up for dancing!”
Chris snorted, pinching the shooter between his fingertips, the glass comically small compared to his hand. “Yeah. Gonna take more than this to get Kennedy out there, I’m sure.”
Claire held out her glass. “Cheers, boys. Thanks for putting up with the conference earlier.”
Chris made some kind of dismissive noise while Leon briefly sung her praises.
Clink.
At least it tasted decent, a candy flavor, almost like taffy, that went down easy. Gonna hate myself tomorrow.
Clink. Clink.
The second one was too sweet, too sugary, and he could tell by the set of Chris’ lips that he felt the same. Leon almost gagged as he finished it while Chris made an actual gagging noise.
“That was trash, sis.”
Claire scoffed at her brother and then looked at Leon for support.
“It was fine,” he said with a shrug, thinking that Claire would prefer the lie.
“Oh my god,” she yelled, shaking her head. “You two.” Her shoulders began to bounce, hips swaying, ready to jump out of her skin, so alive and carefree as Leon had ever seen her.
He glanced over at Chris, and that was a mistake, witnessing his full-bodied grin, the kind of smile that happened in the eyes as well. Fuck. He’s…
“Alright. Go dance, little rascal. We’ll catch up with you,” Chris said in a booming voice.
Claire shimmied over and hugged him. She was saying something to him quietly, face turned to his ear, but Leon heard nothing, could only observe as Chris kept nodding and smiling at him. When she turned around, she moved over to Leon for a hug and their own little rendezvous. “Hey. You better wear a condom. I don’t know where my brother’s been and I don’t want to know.”
“Jesus Christ, Claire. Are you…you want me to fuck your brother?”
“Oh, sweetie. Have a good time.” She kissed his cheek then, hooting and hollering as she bounded for the dance floor, arms already in the air.
A beat as they watched her go and then Chris cleared his throat noisily and bumped his shoulder against Leon’s. “Alright, not ‘pretty boy’. You gonna use that privilege to get those free drinks or what?”
Leon stood up straight, hands shoved in his coat pockets once more. He was here…with Chris.
He’d made that choice hours ago.
“Hang on then,” he groused. Chris stretched his arms behind his head.
“Hanging.”
~
The heavy bass felt different, a pleasant vibration under his skin, no longer overwhelming. Maybe the sickly sweet shooters were to blame, making it easier to smile with feigned intent at the bartender, ogle her pushed-up tits, ask for her name, where she was from. It was worth the effort, to see Chris’ mouth drop open when he approached with highball glasses, two in each hand, a torn scrap of paper pinned to a cocktail umbrella.
(703) 555-7493
xo Jessica
Chris whistled, loud and obnoxious. “Damn, Kennedy. You work fast.”
Leon only shrugged. “Hm. Yeah. The face helps.”
Chris had laughed hard at that. Another dazzling smile that liquified Leon’s insides, heart hammering when Chris suddenly turned serious. Their eyes locked and it was a heavy, dead weight, muscled and bulky, pressing Leon down. No escape. Leon picked up the glass, grabbed the phone number garnish and flicked it to the floor.
“What? You don’t wanna get lucky tonight?” The tip of Chris’ tongue darted between his teeth, eyes practically twinkling, spurring him on.
Leon gripped the glass hard, fighting with himself to keep it from shattering. “Not with her, Redfield.”
A shift in the air, hot and cloying, a current running just under the surface. Chris bit his lip and the seat of Leon’s jeans tightened, too small, no room to breathe. Chris picked up a glass, no phone number, no bullshit. “Let’s do this.”
Clink.
For Leon, it was a smooth slide into the haze. Jessica had been generous with her pours, drinks strong enough to make Captain fucking Redfield wince and gasp. “Holy shit this chick wants in your pants.”
Leon tried to suppress a laugh and failed. His vision was quickly turning soft around the edges, blood fizzling, carbonation in his veins, music blasting, but his brain—it felt so good, cotton or wool tickling his gray matter, tracing every ridge and fold. Chris slammed his empty glass on the table, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Alright. Stand fast, soldier.”
Leon blinked slowly. “Huh?”
A hand on his back, right below his nape, cupping, guiding. They were moving now, into the dark, into the flash bang, the music, the bass vibrating in his diaphragm, his vocal cords, robbing him of speech. There were too many people, everywhere—people—and he couldn’t—he couldn’t swim like this.
Chris pushed him into the pool.
It was closing up, sealing around them, humid and sticky, nowhere to escape. Stupid. So fucking dumb, this was. Leon’s eyes darted back and forth, throat constricting as he waited for it, people becoming nothing but bodies, dead, regenerating, ready to claw, ready to bite. The hot brand in the middle of his back turned into a deep warmth, spreading outward, blanketing his entire backside, and then pressure. His belt loops. Two thumbs hooked like carabiners, securing him, holding steady.
“Close your eyes,” Chris commanded, voice trampling over the chaos.
Briefly, Leon considered if it might sound like that in combat, competent and cocksure, oozing authority.
“Why?” He bit out in question. Loss of sight was the last thing he wanted.
“Come on, man. Trust me. Just for a second. I’ve got you.” Chris tugged on his belt loops, fingers fanning out over Leon’s hips like angel’s wings. A blonde angel.
Fuck. Just do it. Let go.
Leon closed his eyes, giving the alcohol full permission to rush his synapses, the beat thumping, rising intensely. It was there, in his fucking jaw and teeth and tongue, everywhere. There was no one and nothing, only waves in open water, and Christ, it felt nice to be buoyed for once. That must have been it, the reason his legs were moving, following the ebb and flow of the weight against his back, his hips. He took a deep breath. No blood. No rotting flesh. Just sweat and a mix of perfumes and colognes, bodies that were very much alive. His mouth parted slightly. And then there were lips against his ear, dry and warm, burning, reducing him to shivers. Chris Redfield. Christopher. Fucking. Redfield. Claire’s older brother. Reckless. Wolfish. Protective.
“Don’t sink, Kennedy. Swim.”
The pressure on his waist loosened, the blaze along his back turning cold by slow degrees. Leon snapped his head to the side, cheek bone grazing Chris’s stubble. “Stay,” he yelled into the void, Ioud, so loud that his voice shook, raw and inflamed, eyes squeezing tight, tight. “Dont…” He licked his lips. “Just, stay. Like this.” He could feel the snap of his belt loops as Chris pulled his thumbs away. His stomach dropped—unmoored, no life vest—“Chris!”
Two palms, large and strong, gripped him fully around the hips, digging in as they hauled him backwards, easy, as if Leon wasn’t sturdily built himself. Back he went until his ass connected with Chris’ pelvis, cradled in the basin of it, Leon’s spine fused to that bulky torso. Another brush of lips against his ear, breath steaming, almost wet. “Like that?”
He could swear Chris’ teeth were touching him as he spoke. It had to be why he shivered so aggressively, that and the Long Island iced teas. Had to be. He would never act like this, so relaxed and free that a moan burst from his throat, choking him with something he wasn’t looking to name.
“Kennedy.” Chris’ growl rumbled along his back, a soft vibration, a preamble to the grind of his hips as they moved and swayed. Leon could feel it then, hard and unmistakable, under the thick seam of Chris’ jeans. Fuck.
Leon pressed back, wiggled his hips like he was giving a lap dance. The hands at his hips moved upward, under his jacket, skimming along his flanks. And then Leon drew breath, a long inhale through his nose, and there—the scent of tobacco and spice, herbal, almost woodsy, an undertone of sweat, of Chris.
“Hey,” Leon yelled, throat working, finding courage. “Do you…you wanna see my new bike?”
MARCH 28, 2010
00:00
I-395 NEAR PENTAGON CITY
Chris was flying. Not in a literal sense. He wasn’t taking off from Joint Base Andrews or anything. No, he was speeding recklessly down the interstate at midnight on the back of a Ducati Streetfighter, buzzed, definitely, and without any kind of protection. They had argued endlessly about that—who would wear Leon’s helmet. Chris insisted he didn't need it since he wasn't driving, but Leon claimed it was against some kind of ridership code, that his passenger’s safety was paramount to anything else. “You got a fucking taxi medallion on this thing, Kennedy?” He asked, blowing smoke in Leon’s face. The helmet stayed locked to the side of the bike, digging into the back of Chris’ thigh, a constant reminder of his idiocy.
It was a tight fit, the bike seats. Chris was far too big to get at the grab straps underneath himself, so he used Leon’s belt instead—
—the front of it.
“Better hold on tight…Redfield. Think you can do that?”
“Oh yeah,” Chris rumbled, lips hovering over Leon’s nape, the tip of his nose brushing sweaty blonde tips. “And you seem like a cuddler, so I’ll squeeze you real good.”
Leon started the engine. “But no homo,’right?” He twisted the throttle a couple times, warming it up.
Chris pressed his mouth right behind Leon’s ear. He could see himself nibbling on it later, if the mood was right. “Think you’ve got me all wrong, Agent Kennedy.” He could feel the twitch in Leon’s neck, the hard shiver passing through.
“Good.”
And then Chris held on for dear life as they rocketed forward. It really was foolish, riding bitch under the influence, Leon driving them under the influence, but he couldn’t bring himself to care with another mission on the horizon. Any day now, he’d get the call to report for duty, another fire to put out, more lives lost, inevitable. One wrong move and it would be his own body in a casket. No, an urn. Quick, efficient, burned to ash like his father.
But what did all that matter, when they were zooming around the Pentagon, hooking a hard left onto the parkway, pools of light glittering along the riverfront, wind in his hair, rubbing his crotch against Special Agent Underwear Model Circa 1996. Where they were going, he didn't know. But it didn't matter…
…because Chris would go anywhere with him…
…because one way or another, Captain Redfield would get those pink lips wrapped around his cock…
…because no one defied his orders.
MARCH 28, 2010
00:20
ACT II AT DUPONT CIRCLE
It made sense to Chris that Leon S. Kennedy basked in a penthouse at the top of a high rise, all modern shapes and lines, colors stark and aloof, hollow rooms with museum echoes, the likes of a chain hotel with the trappings of five-star luxury. A designer obviously came in and furnished the place, but it was too generic for any one person in mind. Surveying the kitchen and living area, there was nothing around, either displayed or left out accidentally, to expose President Graham’s lap dog.
Chris whistled as he looked around, winced as it bounced harshly off the walls. He turned back to Leon, watched him as he stuck his coat in the hallway closet, the way his upper body twisted almost artfully, like it belonged in this private gallery. When he shut the door and faced him, Chris noticed the straps of Leon’s shoulder holster, the way they curved up and over prominent trapezius muscles, shirt bunching slightly around his chest.
Leon reached up to adjust it and Chris’ eyes were drawn to the strip of exposed skin above his jeans, the trail of hair peeking out was darker than expected. Dirty blonde. No translucent sand…no sunglasses at night…no posh overtone in his voice…Chris swallowed hard, shook his head a bit, refocused on the name across the waistband of Leon’s underwear. Calvin. Fucking. Klein.
“So this is what Graham’s payroll gets you.”
“What?” Leon asked, all short and prickly.
“Nothing,” said Chris. He cleared his throat. Just…nevermind.”
Leon tilted his head, hair falling over his eyes, coy, teasing, and if that wasn't enough to fan the flames in Chris’ belly, he bared his teeth, using them to pull his gloves off. “You want a drink then?”
“Want that pretty mouth.”
“What was that, Redfield?” Leon asked with narrowed his eyes as he reached into a nearby cabinet, pulling out two glasses and a bottle—whiskey, mid-shelf—that he poured neat.
Chris removed his jacket and tossed it on a chair, cracked his knuckles as he moved closer. “You heard me, Kennedy.”
People often stared at Chris’ muscles. He was used to that kind of attention from women and men alike, but apparently not from Leon. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. It was too much for him, sensitivity ratcheting up. Chris was keenly aware of his shirt, the fabric brushing against his chest, his jeans tight and constricting his cock. Goddamn. Why is he making me so fucking horny?
Leon emptied his glass in one go, eyes never leaving Chris’ arms. They were shining now, blue-green pools that Chris felt magnetized to. That must be it, why it felt like hooks sinking into every sensitive place on his body, yanking him forward.
Chris reached for the offered drink, knocked it back with impressive speed, wiped his mouth on his forearm. His instinct was to grip those pronounced traps and push them down, force Leon to unzip him. That pretty mouth would surely water when he saw what Chris was packing. They always do.
Needless to say, he was taken by surprise when Leon’s hands met his chest, pushed, crowded him, Chris walking backward just to keep upright. Leon didn't have Chris’ brawniness, but he was strong enough and what he lacked in mass, he made up for in speed. Scrappy little shit.
So this was how he wanted to play.
Chris’ back hit the wall, rattling the paintings on display. He blinked rapidly, trying very hard to orient himself. Leon’s hands were…
“The fuck, Kennedy? Are you frisking me?”
“Mhm. Got anything sharp on you? Any contraband I should know about, Captain?”
Chris barked out a laugh. “Yeah, unzip my fucking pants and find out.”
Leon’s fingers picked at his belt buckle, working quickly. Then came the button and zipper and Chris was reaching out, attempting to put him on his knees, but Leon slammed Chris’ arms into the wall and then Leon’s hands were everywhere. Chris looked down in shock. There went his spare clips, tac knife, wallet, keys, phone, lighter—
I’m done.
Chris growled, using all his weight to bring them down to the floor with a shared groan, belongings scattering all over the hardwood as he tried to pin Leon with his arms and legs. He pressed with all his might until they were flush from chests to hips, Leon’s wrists caught in his hands.
“The fuck is wrong with you? You do this to everyone you bring home?” Leon blew at the hair over his face, grit his teeth.
“I don't,” he swallowed, catching his breath. “I don’t kiss and tell, Redfield.”
Another impatient growl from Chris. “Enough. If you're looking for my gun, it's in my jacket, but I got one in my pants that needs inspecting first.” He squeezed Leon’s wrists in emphasis, ground his hips down. Chris was hard again, angry, turned the fuck on. Leon’s wrists were corded, but soft and it only made him itch to get his fingers in that equally soft hair. He could just tell, knew it would feel like spun silk. And then there was Leon’s cock. Shit. Velvet wrapped steel, no doubt. God, it had been so long, but maybe he could blow Leon too. It would be different. Chris would be different. It wouldn't be like in S.T.A.R.S…like…
Leon hung his head and laughed, a rich, dark sound. “You corny motherfucker,” he rasped in all seriousness. “I'm stealing that line.”
Chris was on his back before he could even intuit what had happened. Leon had somehow levered himself up and then Chris was reeling, the edge of the area rug barely dampening the impact. The alcohol. That was why Chris was slow, unable to overpower. Must be. But what did it matter when this stupid gorgeous man with his stupid pretty poser hair was rubbing his clothed hard on against Chris’ and biting that pretty pink lip and Jesus fucking Christ were they holding hands?
“Chris,” he pleaded, low and throaty.
Chris grabbed him by the hips and helped him grind.
“This what you want, Kennedy?” Fuck. His head was swimming all over now, the shooters, the mixed drinks, a couple fingers of whiskey and all that sudden movement. How was Leon still coherent?
“Jesus. At least call me ‘Leon’ while we do this.”
Chris shook his head, undid the blonde’s belt and fly. “Gotta earn that, son.”
Their cocks rubbed together through soft cotton, wet and weeping and turgid. Leon choked on a breath, tried to lift up, but Chris’ hands moved to his ass, gripped hard and pushed down.
“We should…”
“Nuh uh. Like this. This. M’ head’s fuckin’ spinnin’. Can’t believe my dick even works right now.” Chris closed his eyes, bucked his hips as much as he could under Leon’s weight. He felt his underwear go, the waistband snagging under his balls.
“Fuck, Chris. You’re—” Chris chuckled, teeth snagging against his bottom lip.
“Oh,” he laughed breathlessly. “I know, sweetheart.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Leon snarled, but it was cut off by a moan as he gripped their cocks together in one hand and jerked, spreading their precum down and all over.
Chris exhaled hard through his nose followed by a hitching sigh. “Yeah. Oh yeah. That’s gonna work, baby.”
A sharp inhale from Leon and then Chris could feel him moving closer, the tips of his fringe grazing Chris’ forehead, the apple of his cheek. For a moment they just breathed, but then Leon let go of them and started rutting, desperate, like he needed more than this.
Chris scrunched his eyes, keeping them closed, keeping himself anchored. “Here,” he mumbled, holding his hand up. “Spit in it.” Leon huffed, but obliged him for once. “Now gimme your hand.” Chris laced their fingers together around their shafts, gripping tight as they both jerked. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”
They were sharing breath now and Chris could sense Leon’s mouth inches from his own. Those pretty, pink lips. So plush, and he’d taste so sweet, bitter from the whiskey, but underneath that…Chris turned his head away, gripped harder, hips moving in abortive thrusts, a groan catching in his throat.
Leon was loud. Deep, guttural moans, desperate and controlled by turns. “Chris,” he rasped out. “Chris I…you’re…”
“Shshshsh. Don't talk. Just…don't talk. I’m close. Fuck. Been edging me all night.”
“Faster,” Leon demanded. “Harder. Fuck. Get me off.”
Chris picked up the pace, the slick squelch of it rising up the hollow walls and reverberating back, nowhere to land but squarely in their ears, the din of heavy breath drowning underneath. Chris twisted their hands on the upstroke, flint striking at steel, sparks bursting. The pressure at the base of Chris’ spine reached a breaking point, pleasure unfurling fast and hard in his groin, a sail gusting, picking up the highest of winds.
“Gonna come,” Chris gasped. “ Want you to. With me.”
Leon’s forehead dropped to the edge of Chris’ stubbled jaw, breath hot against his neck, hair falling all over, the softest silk on Chris’ bare skin. “Yeah. Yeah. Per favore, bello.”
And before he could consider what that meant, Chris went completely still, a choked off moan escaping, followed by several hitches of the hips, wet heat sliding along scarred knuckles, so much wetness, too much to be only from him.
Leon was cussing, broken voiced between desperate little sobs, jerking his hips in time with Chris and god, that felt so good, coming together, feeling it with someone else, someone so impassioned.
“Yeah, baby,” Chris rumbled, one more tiny spurt from his cock before going limp like a ragdoll. They caught their breath for a moment before Leon was moving around on top of him. Chris could have fallen asleep easily, but a muffled sucking noise made him crack an eye open until he was blinking rapidly into focus. Leon was sucking his fingers, licking his palm clean. “Fuck. Don’t do that, Kennedy”
“Why not?”
“Because. Don’t wanna think about it later. Gotta be clear headed when I ship out.”
Leon made a noise in the back of his throat. Chris blinked slowly, realized with sluggishness that Leon had slipped out of his holster and was pulling his shirt off. “Okay, well, at least let me clean the jizz off your hand before you do.”
Chris laughed, but it died in his throat when something silver flashed before him. Barbells. Small, subtle things that flanked Leon’s red nipples, hard and shiny and fuck. What the fuck?
Leon chuckled softly. “Surprised?” he asked as he wiped off Chris’s hand with his shirt.
“Christ, Kennedy.”
He forced himself to look away then, but the image, the pierced nipples, the sculpted pecs and abs with an iliac crest that could cut glass, the dense smattering of hair, weaving brown and gold through the center of his torso, fanning into a thin, tawny layer over his chest. There were scars too, and little nicks and cuts, moles and freckles, but Chris didn’t want to study all of that too intently. He couldn’t. He had places to go, things to do. He came, he saw, he (sort of, drunkenly) conquered. Time to pack it in.
“Hey,” Leon said, a firm hand on Chris’ sternum, keeping him settled. “Take it easy.”
Chris shook his head, eyes bleary as he fought to keep them open. “Can’t. Gotta…report in the morning…maybe. Gotta be…ready.”
Leon snorted, lifted up and over, pulling something off the couch. Chris tried to lift up again, only for his head to fall back on the softest of throw pillows, a thick, fuzzy fabric settling over his body. He breathed in slow and deep, consciousness giving way, spilling out from his mind like a sieve.
There was a warm pressure against his side now. He was wrapped in a warm cocoon that smelled like sex and Leon. Leon S. Kennedy, USSTRATCOM. Leon S. Kennedy with pierced nipples and possibly a drinking problem. Leon S. Kennedy who keeps Claire safe, who pulls rank to support her humanitarian efforts.
Leon S. Kennedy with angel wings…
Chris slept.