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I have a message from Captain Redfield.
Leon's fingers tighten briefly on Requiem's handle before the full sentence passes through his brain. These are friendlies. These are Chris' friendlies, fuck.
He looks the guy in the eye as best he can what with the guy's weird goggles and bandana covering everything up. “Which is?” Next to him, Grace is inching a little bit closer, little hisses escaping her lips. She's in a lot of pain, has to be, but fighting through it like a champ. “It's okay,” he tells her, but not taking his eyes off Chris' man, “these are the good guys.”
She nods. She's very pale and her eyes look huge and sunken. The last however many hours have taken their toll on her – and him, he can't deny that, even with Elpis running through his veins.
“That he's on his way and for you to not pull anymore quote-unquote 'stupid fucking shit, Kennedy',” the guy says, an edge of amusement in his tone.
Ah. Well, that's to be expected.
He resists the urge to roll his eyes and gets to his feet. “Copy that. I guess we're getting out of here now?”
“We sure are.” The guy straightens up too, looks over his shoulder, signals his men. “I'm code name Umber Eyes. These are Lobo, Tundra and Canine. We would've gotten here sooner, but we didn't get looped in until about ten hours ago.” Leon swears the man – Umber Eyes – is smirking under his goggles and bandana. “We've heard quite a bit about you during those ten hours, Leon S. Kennedy.”
Now he does roll his eyes. “Chris talks too much. We roping back up?” He kneels down next to Grace, puts his hand on her knee very gently. “I've got you,” he says. “This might hurt, but I think there's going to be a boatload of painkillers with your name on it up top.”
“I'm good,” she says tightly, only gasping a little when he lifts her up into his arms. She's light, carrying her is barely any effort. “I didn't think we'd get out of here,” she says quietly as Leon follows Umber Eyes back to the dangling ropes. It's way up and he's wondering how the hell they're gonna get up there when he spies harnesses getting thrown down. “I thought we were going to die here.”
“Me too,” he says, glancing at her. “Guess we got lucky, which is all you need sometimes.”
Her eyes squeeze shut when he accidentally jostles her.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It's fine,” says Grace through gritted teeth. She's got one arm wrapped around her midsection and the other around his neck. She, like him, is covered in blood and grime, scratches, bruises and dirty bandages decorating her body. She's in rough shape, but alive. He's alive. It's a goddamn fucking miracle. “This... Captain Redfield is a friend of yours?”
That's not enough to describe Chris, but it'll do for now. “Yeah.”
“How did he know we were here?”
“I left him a message before I left.” A message he'd sent on delay, to make sure Chris wouldn't see too soon and somehow stop him. They'll definitely be having capital-w-Words about that, him and Chris, but right now he couldn't care less about that.
“Then it's not really luck, is it?” she says quietly. “I owe him my life. And you.”
They've arrived at the ropes and the harnesses and Leon gently sets her down on her feet, settling her trembling form against his own, more solid figure. She leans against him gratefully, a shaky hand clutching his waist. He's reminded of leaning heavily on her as they went into that circular golden room, how strong she had to be to carry the bulk of his considerable muscle mass, and he's grateful he gets to return the favor here, now.
“I'm taking her up,” he tells the squad member who's reaching out toward him with a harness. “Can you strap us both in together?”
“Sure.” It's a female voice. This must be Tundra then. “You done this before?”
“Many times.”
“Okay, then you know the drill. How about you?” Tundra asks Grace, who shakes her head. “It's going to be fine. You're injured, so I recommend letting Mr Kennedy here do all the heavy lifting, he's used to it.” The hell had Chris told them about him? “Stand there facing him, we'll hook your harnesses together, and he can carry you, all right?”
“All right,” Grace says in a whisper, moving to stand in front of Leon and slowly raising her arms with a wince. The blood seems to drain even further out of her face and Leon holds her waist, checking to make sure she's not going to pass out since she looks damn close to doing so.
Tundra is quick and efficient at getting the harness on Grace, then she's even quicker helping him get into his. The two of them anchor Grace's harness to Leon's and then he slides his arms around her and lifts her into her arms again, glancing up and wincing as the floodlights hit his eyes. “Grace?” he asks and she murmurs something. “Stay with me a little while longer, okay?”
“Medics are waiting up top,” Tundra says and then she's silent for a few seconds, presumably talking on her earpiece to someone else. “Okay, you're going up. Hang tight.”
Leon grunts as his feet leave the ground and Grace lets out a pained moan as he shifts her weight a little, distributing it a little better. “Sorry.”
“I'm fine,” she says again, but her voice is slurred. “Hurts.”
“I know.” Fuck, does he know what pain is. The T-virus had burned at the end, like his blood was scalding in his veins. “So much good drugs up top, you wouldn't believe it.”
That gets him a shaky laugh from Grace as they ascend into the air at a pretty firm speed, hands pulling them up and over the edge when they reach the top.
“All good?” someone asks them, another one of Chris' judging by the getup.
Leon nods. “Closest medic tent?” he asks.
“Right over there, Mr Kennedy,” replies the guy, snapping him a quick salute. “Good to finally meet you,” he calls out after them as Leon walks Grace over and allows her to be swarmed by the medics. He shakes out his arms as he moves away, suddenly in dire need of a moment of solitude, some fresh air, some way to calm his churning brain. One minute he was dying, laid out on the floor, twitching faintly, drifting in and out of consciousness; the next, he's up and Grace is leaning over him and something burns through him, clearing the infection, the persistent brain fog, the aches that had been plaguing him since his symptoms got worse, the shakiness, the permanently dry mouth, the low, insistent throbbing behind his eyes, gone, all gone, all of it, in the space of a few seconds.
Fuck. He feels amazing. He keys Sherry and gives her the latest, promising her a dose of her own and extras for Claire, and makes sure she'll get it to anyone else who needs it as well. A helicopter flies low overhead, rotors chopping through the air, and Leon watches it come in for a landing a couple hundred feet away. He strips off his dirty, torn gloves and tosses them aside, rubbing his hands together. They're warm for the first time in a solid month. He quietly marvels at it, turns his hands over to look at the scars crisscrossing his palms. They're light and will hopefully fade away with time, but the sight is a million times better than the black bruise-like tendrils that had slowly been crawling their way up his arms, to meet where the bruising was crawling down from his neck and shoulders.
Jesus. Fuck.
He sits down hard on the ground, right there, and tucks his head between his knees, breathing deeply. He can properly breathe again, deep lungfuls of air, and he balls his hands into fists, intensely grateful at feeling his body the way it was before the virus. Back to normal. Back to his old self. He'd almost forgotten what it feels like to be healthy, or as healthy as a man in his profession could be. “Fuck,” he whispers. He really does feel like a million bucks.
He allows himself a few more minutes of quiet euphoria, then he pushes himself to his feet and lets himself be checked out by the medics too. They get really concerned when they hear about him getting shot full of Elpis, but he waves them off, allows them to draw his blood, and then he makes his escape before their noises about admitting him to a hospital become reality.
He finds Grace in the back of an ambulance, already looking a hell of a lot better than before.
“What, they give you Elpis too?” he asks, quirking his lips.
She laughs, clutching her mug between her hands. “No. No, they stitched me up and gave some of the good stuff, as you called it. The wound turned out to not be as bad as it looked. Feeling much better right now.” She gives him a once-over and shakes her head. “You look... a lot better. That stuff really worked, didn't it?”
“Glad you weren't wrong about Elpis,” he says and she lets out a sigh of relief.
“Me too.”
“Sir.” Chris' man, Umber Eyes, appears at Leon's shoulder. “There's a motel about five miles from here. We've rented a couple of rooms for the night, figured you all might want to get out of here. And uh, Captain Redfield is sending Night Howl to pick up your... car and drive it over too.”
Leon narrows his eyes. “What did he call it?” he demands, having a feeling about this.
Umber Eyes is quiet for a few seconds. “Your 'fuck-ass Porsche, assuming it's still in one piece',” he says, his gloved hands making the quotation marks this time.
“It is,” Leon says, deciding he does not sound grumpy about it. “Thank Night Owl for me and tell him he better not scratch it.”
“The captain not a fan of your car?” Umber Eyes asks as he and Leon flank Grace on their way to the car that'll get them to the motel.
He liked me riding him in the backseat that one time, Leon manfully does not say out loud. He has no idea if Chris' team has any idea about their relationship (such as it is) and if they don't, he's not going to be the one to tell them. “He thinks it's impractical and too expensive.” And he's not wrong about either, but dammit, Leon likes nice cars and the DSO pays him a lot (a lot) of hazard pay. “Too flashy for his tastes.”
Umber Eyes snort. “Night Owl's a good driver. He'll take care of it, don't worry.”
Grace slumps against the car door during the drive to the hotel, staring unblinkingly out of the window. Shock, probably, Leon knows the signs all too well. He shifts over toward her in the backseat and carefully reaches out to press his fingers against her forearm. She startles, body twitching, before she relaxes again.
“It's gonna be okay,” he murmurs, modulating his voice so their driver can't really hear them. “Good night's sleep, things will look better in the morning.”
“If you say so.” Grace's voice is hollow and she wipes at her eyes. “I don't think I'll be able to sleep anyway.”
“Knock on my door anytime,” he says to her, giving her his most reassuring smile when she turns her head to look at him. He's pretty good at this, he knows, and he can see when she softens a little bit and gives him a hesitant nod. “I mean it. Anytime. Months from now, years from now. Grace.” He makes sure she's looking at him before he goes on, “you're going to get through this.”
She nods again, but doesn't say anything. The aftermath of this kind of thing can in many ways be even worse than the actual experience. The dreams he's had in the aftermath of some of his more dangerous operations... It can fuck you up. It has fucked him up, more than he'd like to admit to even himself. This was her Raccoon City. It'll stay with her for the rest of her life.
Leon finagles a double room with a king size bed for himself. He's not a small guy and he likes to spread out if he can. It borders Grace's room and Umber Eyes takes the room on Grace's other side. It seems to relax her, knowing that they're both within feet of her should something happen. Even though nothing should happen. They're out of Raccoon City, out of Wrenwood, in some rundown motel off a quiet night-time highway. They have no luggage, but Chris' squad was smart enough to bring some spare clothes and toiletries, so Leon takes the duffel bag with gratitude and heads inside his room.
He drops it on the middle of the bed and contemplates just passing out. He's tired enough he'll be out like a light in no time, but he's also fucking filthy and he hates waking up feeling dirty. So. Shower first.
The bathroom is cramped, not really made for a guy his size, and he grumbles as he bumps into the sink while peeling out of his gear. He keeps Requiem within reach, loaded on the counter top, and locks the door before turning on the water and getting in. The pressure is okay, he's been in worse motels. He braces himself against the wall, closes his eyes and lets the water stream down his body, washing away most of the filth and crusted blood.
“Shit,” he whispers. This had been a close one. Fuck. The nightmares are going to be something else this time around.
He has to wash his hair three times before it's fully clean and scrubs himself down thoroughly. When he gets out, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, dripping wet, and looks at the scars that have replaced the slithering black tendrils of the T-virus. The medics that cleared him agreed with him that they would fade with time and given him some ointment to speed up the process. He smooths it over the damage, massaging it in. They're not even his worst scars. They're not deep, but they spread out across most of his upper body. The ones in his neck and on his palms, where his symptoms first started showing, are the most visible. He stares at them for a long moment.
Eventually, Leon dries off and heads back into the room, pulling the duffel bag open and rooting for the promised night clothes and outfit for tomorrow. There's a few shirts in there, boxers, pajama pants, jeans, alongside a shaving kit (pass), toothbrush and toothpaste. He grabs a shirt and is about to pull it on when he pauses because—fuck. It's one of Chris'. He recognizes it, because there's a tear at the collar that Leon put there with his teeth.
“Hell, Chris,” he mutters and puts it on, followed by a pair of clean boxers. He chows down five energy bars he finds at the bottom of the duffel, drinks about a gallon of water, brushes his teeth, and then finally, finally collapses in bed.
He wakes what feels like minutes later when there's a sharp rap on his door. He reaches for his handgun under his pillow and rolls out of bed, stumbling a little as he makes his way over to the peephole. He has no idea what time it is, but his body is telling him he has definitely not had enough sleep.
“Put the gun down, Leon,” says a low voice on the other side of the door. “It's just me.”
Chris.
Fuck.
Leon rests his head against the door for a second, taking a couple of deep breaths, then stands back and opens the door. Chris' imposing form almost fills his whole vision, but Leon can just see Night Howl, presumably, standing near his Porsche, keeping watch. His head is turned their way, but he doesn't say anything, looking away as Leon steps back and lets Chris in, reaching past him to re-lock the door.
“Can we save the yelling for tomorrow?” he asks, letting the exhaustion he feels creep into his voice. “Not in the mood for—” He's cut off as Chris wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer, one of his hands on the back of Leon's neck, the other sliding around his waist. Leon's gun hand drops limply to his side as he's caught in Chris' desperate hug.
“You're okay,” Chris says, voice muffled in Leon's hair. “Fuck, Leon.”
“I'm okay,” he says quietly, tossing his gun on the bed behind him and hugging Chris back. “I'm okay.”
They stand like that for a long time, clutching at each other. Leon hadn't realized how badly he needed this, needed Chris, until right now. He breathes in shakily, fighting to not utterly lose his shit. Chris smells faintly of cigarettes and his usual cologne and the scent is so achingly familiar it makes his heart hurt, burning in his chest. Three months since they last met up, spent a blissful three whole days talking and eating and fucking before their jobs separated them again. Texts after that, pretty much daily, but that's never the same. And then—his illness. The infection, spreading fast. Sherry and Claire, also infected. Chris had started texting him more, Leon had been answering him less and less.
It's fucked up. It's unfair. He knows this. Chris has every right to be pissed. He's not sure what to call their relationship – decades of hooking up interspersed with months of not seeing each other, weeks of not even getting a text – but at the very least, Chris is a friend. A good one.
And Chris – Chris is shaking. Almost imperceptibly, but Leon can feel the tremors underneath his hands. He strokes up and down Chris' broad back, murmurs again, “I'm okay, Chris.”
“Shit,” Chris gasps out, tightening his grip on Leon. “I could kill you, you know.”
“I know. Tomorrow, okay?”
Chris pulls back to look him over, hands sliding up to Leon's shoulders, cataloging every detail of him and comparing it to the Leon he knows intimately well, assessing him, adjusting his mental picture of Leon the way he always does whenever they see each other again. “The cure worked?” he asks, the words coming out so carefully it's like he's not quite buying it just yet.
“So far,” Leon says and Chris makes an incoherent noise and grabs Leon's face in both hands and kisses him, hard and wanting, like a man possessed, like he'll never get the chance again. It's overwhelming in its intensity and Leon can't do much more than helplessly clutch at Chris, opening his mouth for him, letting Chris take whatever he wants, whatever he needs.
Eventually, Chris pulls back, rests his forehead against Leon's. The lines in his face are deeper in the darkened motel room, lit only by a glimmer of light pushing in through a gap in the curtains. But his eyes are bright and alive and bore into Leon's. “I've read a whole lot of reports in the past however many hours,” he says, “and I need to hear it from you too. But... sleep first?”
“Sleep first,” Leon agrees and he kisses Chris one more time, slowly, steadily, before lacing his fingers through his and tugging him toward the bed. He crawls back into bed, pulls the covers over himself and rests his chin on his pulled up knees as he watches Chris shed his overcoat, boots, jeans and shirt, leaving him bare chested in just his boxers. Fuck, Chris is magnificent, all strength and muscle, and Leon briefly contemplates foregoing sleep in favor of getting railed through the mattress.
But then Chris is climbing into bed with him, one of his big hands gently pushing Leon down into the pillows. “Sleep,” he says. “You look like you've been run over by a truck.”
“Hey,” Leon protests, the word coming out around a yawn, “I cleaned up and everything.”
“How much sleep did you get?”
“Uh, no fucking clue. What time is it?”
Chris reaches for Leon's phone on the night stand and taps the screen so it lights up. “Nearly 1.30am.”
That doesn't really help him, Leon realizes, since he has no idea what time he went to bed. So he just says, “an hour, I think. Maybe two.”
Chris presses a kiss against his lips and settles down next him, wrapping a broad arm around Leon's waist and pulling him closer. “Sleep,” he repeats and okay, Leon can follow an order as easy as this.
He's woken up again some time later, this time by scraping sounds, and whispered voices, a small sob echoing around the room. He blinks his eyes rapidly, casting his gaze around the room. He's alone in the bed, Chris' side cold. It's still mostly dark, but the small light on the desk is on, the lampshade tilted away from the bed. Chris is sitting in the desk chair, having pulled it over closer to the one other chair in the room, which is occupied by Grace. She's still very pale and her hair is messily combed out of her face. Her eyes are red. She's wrapped in a blanket and she's clutching Chris' hand very tight.
Leon doesn't move, keeps up his even breathing. They don't seem to notice he's awake, wrapped up as they are in a hushed conversation. He watches them through his lashes, Chris' profile and incredible jawline, Grace's eyes, huge and luminous by the muted light of the desk lamp. He's a fairly proficient lip reader, though he hasn't had to use this particular skill in a number of years, and it's pretty dark still, but he's pretty sure she's talking about Gideon right now.
“... thought I was going to die down there,” Grace whispers. “He screamed at me, chased me down—” Her voice catches, then dies away and she curls up into her blanket even further. She looks so small, Leon thinks, and young. Was he ever this young? He thinks she's older than he was, that night in Raccoon City damn near thirty years ago, but right now that's hard to believe.
“But you escaped,” Chris says, voice soft but firm. “You did it, Grace. You did a hell of a lot tonight. You're a hero. You figured out Elpis and I don't think you've quite realized just how much that is going to change the world. How much it's going to save the world.”
“I just wanted to save Leon.” Grace bites her lip and in the dim light of the desk lamp, Leon catches tears rolling down her cheeks. “He—he was—” She swallows hard, goes on, “it was bad, Capt—Chris. He saved my life and he was d-dying. I couldn't—I couldn't save Emily. I had to save him.”
Chris frowns at the name Emily, but doesn't press. “And I'm very glad you did.” Leon watches him fold his hand over their clutched hands and squeeze gently. “Thank you for that,” he tells her, his voice subdued. “I'm going to kill him tomorrow, but for now, thank you.”
Grace lets out a hiccup-y, watery laugh. “What? Why?”
Leon feels this is a great point to intervene, before his reputation gets too tainted. He intends to defend himself, argue in favor of the way he left the message for Chris, but what comes out is, “I got scared.” His voice is soft, but it carries in the silence of the motel room.
Chris goes very still. He's not looking at Leon, just stares down at the threadbare carpet, still holding Grace's hand.
Grace glances between them and Leon can see the exact second she decides not to say anything.
Fuck. His turn then, still. “My symptoms got worse. The bruises started showing. It got pretty bad, pretty fast. I didn't want anyone to see me like that.” Out with it, Kennedy, you're already doing it. “I didn't want you to see me like that,” he adds, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. “Only Sherry knew what I was doing, and some DSO higher ups. I kept Hunnigan out of it too.” And she'll definitely has something to say about that, as soon as reports about yesterday start hitting her desk in the morning. That'll be a fun dressing down. “I'm sorry.”
Chris exhales loudly.
“Well, that's my cue,” Grace mutters and she stands up, keeping the blanket wrapped around her. She hesitates, then leans toward Chris and gives him a quick hug. “Thank you. I think I'll be able to sleep now.”
Chris gets up, towers over her and wraps her up in a brief hug too. “Anytime. I'll walk you to your room.”
“It's right next door,” she protests and she gives Leon a quick wave and a smile. “Get some sleep, Leon.”
“I will,” he promises, slumping down into the mattress. His phone tells him it's near 5am. He has no idea what time they'll roll out in the morning, but he does feel a little more rested. His head's clearer, anyway. He looks up when Chris comes back and locks the door and turns off the desk light, moving over to the bed with a sigh. “I really am sorry.”
“I know,” Chris murmurs, lifting the covers and sliding in, his body big and strong and warm pressed up against Leon's. “I'm still mad, but I know why you did it. Think I might've done the same, under the circumstances. It just... sucks.”
“Yeah,” says Leon because what else is there to say? He made the call. Would he make the same call again? Maybe. Maybe not.
“I would've done whatever I could to help you,” Chris says, cupping Leon's jaw and forcing eye contact. “Anything,” he says lowly. “I know the DSO simply loves dropping you off alone in the middle of Fucktown, USA, with nothing more than two matches and a butter knife, but you can have backup, Leon. I could've been right there with you. I would've wanted to.”
Fuck. Leon's heart clenches. “I had a big gun and a hatchet this time,” he deflects, trying to look away from the intensity of Chris' dark, dark eyes. It's an impossible task and he gives up after a few seconds, sighing. “I thought I was going to die and I didn't want—” He clears his throat, which suddenly feels raw. “The infection was spreading fast. It was ugly. It was taking over, changing me, inside and out. I didn't want that to be how you remembered me. If I turned.” There, it's out, and it was awful to say, hard to hear himself say it out loud. “What if you were there and had to watch me die? Or kill me? I couldn't—I couldn't take that risk. I'd rather die alone.”
Chris looks shattered and he pulls Leon close, guides Leon's face into his neck, smoothing a broad hand down his spine. “Fuck,” he says roughly. “I get that. I get that, Leon.”
Leon slides his arms around Chris' waist and takes a handful of shuddering breaths. “Please don't kill me in the morning.”
That makes Chris laugh a little, body shaking with it. “Fine, you're off the hook. I forgive you.”
Christ. “That easy, huh?” Leon mutters into Chris' neck, tightening his hold on Chris' waist. He wants to stay like this forever, if he could.
“You know me,” Chris says, still running a hand up and down Leon's spine, “notoriously terrible at holding grudges.”
Neither of them speaks for a few minutes. Leon feels lighter than before. He suspects this was the first conversation of many about the things that went down in Raccoon City, but for right now, they're good. Fuck, his DSO assigned therapist had been right. It does feel good to talk about things. He's gotta give the man credit next time Hunnigan forces him to attend a session.
“What time do we leave tomorrow? Or... today, I guess.” Leon asks, catching a glimpse of a sky slowly turning a lighter shade of blue through the curtains.
“Not that early,” Chris says, “maybe around 10 or so. We figured you two would need the rest. Which you do. So go get some more sleep.”
As if on cue, a yawn escapes Leon's mouth. “Fine. You're staying?”
Chris nudges his chin and says, “yeah, of course.”
No nightmares. Thank fuck, no nightmares. Leon wakes slowly, stretching under the covers and God, he really needs to piss. Chris is already awake, sitting up against the headboard, an unlit cigarette between his lips, typing on his phone. There's a deep crease between his eyebrows that Leon wants to kiss away.
“You and your oral fixation,” Leon says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Jesus, it's good to see his own damn legs without the black infection spread all over them. A fucking miracle. He owes Grace so much.
“You like my oral fixation,” Chris mutters, his gaze fixed on his phone.
Leon rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it. Why lie? He freshens up in the bathroom, gives his teeth a good scrub and turns his head to the side to check his neck. Part of him still reels at the infection being gone for real. He can hardly believe it, drags the tips of his fingers across the scarring. It's not pretty, but it's a damn sight better than what it was before.
He leans in the bathroom door opening and crosses his arms over his chest, watching Chris for a moment. Two decades of their... whatever the fuck is happening between them thing, and the guy still makes him weak in the knees. His shoulders, his broad chest, the grooves in his face, the dark hair (going a little gray at the temples, sexy as hell), his strong legs stretched out in front of him, blankets kicked down to the foot of the bed, dressed in just his boxers... Leon wants. And Jesus, doesn't that feel good, because in addition to every-fucking-thing else, the T-virus had also killed his libido.
Leon is suddenly very, very aware of the fact he hasn't come in oh, about five weeks. His dick starts fattening up in his boxers. He stares at Chris, willing him to look up, meet his eyes, pull him onto the bed, read his fucking mind.
It takes him a solid twenty seconds to realize Chris is ignoring him on purposing. It's the little twitch in his jaw that gives him away, the tiniest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Leon groans and drops his head, exhaling.
“There something you want?” Chris inquires, voice all innocence.
He works his jaw and finally asks, “how much time do we have?”
“Time for what?” Chris asks. He's still entirely focused on his damn phone, typing and swiping.
“Chris,” Leon says and his voice doesn't crack even a little bit. He takes in a handful of shivery breaths, squirming a little as his cock gets even harder. It's been weeks. This is going to be over so embarrassingly fast if he's not careful.
“Leon.” Chris crooks a finger at him, still not looking at him. “C'mere.” It's not a command, barely an order, because Chris' voice is soft and gentle, but it still makes Leon's spine straighten and he moves over to the bed, stopping when his knees bump into the edge. Chris finally looks up at him, switching his phone off and tossing it aside before fisting his hand into Leon's shirt and pulling him down to eye-level. “Is there,” he asks again, his voice the kind of low growl that gets Leon going like nothing else in this world, “something you want?”
Leon braces his palms on the mattress and tries to keep his breathing under control. He feels light-headed already, Chris' overwhelming presence making his heart beat out of his chest, his mouth going dry. “Fuck me. Please,” he adds, seeing Chris' eyes narrow. He reaches up and plucks the cigarette from Chris' mouth, tossing it over his shoulder, climbs onto the bed and into Chris' lap, grabbing at his face. “Please,” he repeats and crushes their mouths together. Chris' hands find their way into his hair, pulling and tugging and angling him just so, and then their tongues brush together as Leon deepens the kiss. He wants to press impossibly closer to Chris, wants to feel him everywhere, and he loops his arms over Chris' wide shoulders and settles his knees on either side of his thighs. The fact this spreads him open all nice for Chris to take advantage of is just a pretty solid coincidence.
Leon rolls his hips down against Chris, feeling Chris' growing erection bump up against his own. He grins against Chris' mouth, sinks his teeth into Chris' lower lip before kissing him again. “You plan on doing something with that, big guy?”
“Fuck,” Chris says eloquently and he slides his hands from Leon's waist to his ass, squeezing him hard enough to bruise, and then he palms Leon's dick through the thin material of the boxers. “Jesus, you're ready for it, aren't you?”
Leon throws his head back and bites back a loud gasp. There's neighbors, these walls can't be too thick. “It's been—a while,” he manages after a few seconds, letting out undignified whimpers as Chris massages him, strong fingers knowing just how to play him. “The virus did a number on my—ahh, fuck, Chris—” Because Chris has slipped his hands into his boxers, one hand wrapping around his dick, the other spreading his cheeks apart, pinky finger teasing at his hole. “Chris, Chris, Chris—” Leon shudders, full-body, and buries his face in Chris' neck, moaning as Chris keeps working him over, stroking and teasing and just barely pressing a finger in dry.
Leon sinks his teeth into Chris' shoulder to keep quiet, because he's getting loud and he knows it, and oh God, Grace is on one side and Tundra on the other and neither of them should hear what they're doing, even if they can probably guess, since Chris did spend the night here in Leon's bed.
“Quiet,” Chris murmurs, pulling the hand playing with his ass away and Leon whines, his breath catching. He's still got his arms wrapped around Chris' neck, his fingers encircling his wrist hard enough to bruise because he doesn't want to let go, wants to stay just like this. “Don't want anyone to hear us, right? Can you do that?”
Leon nods like a liar, and says, “'m trying.”
He feels rather hears Chris laugh and then there's sounds of a bag being rummaged through. “I can gag you if you think you'll need it.”
Fuck, Jesus Christ, fuck—Leon rocks down desperately, rubbing against Chris' hard dick, grinding his hips, twisting them, seeking friction like a man possessed. “I'm good,” he gasps, “I'll shut up, swear.”
“Great,” Chris says and then the world spins and Leon finds himself flat on his back, Chris' looming over him, his hands pulling Leon's shirt up and over his head, making short work of his boxers afterwards. He then pauses, his hands on his own underwear, which tent up, the head of his dick leaving a wet spot. He arches an eyebrow at Leon, eyes glittering underneath his heavy brows and says, “as much as I like you riding me, I wanna do it like this, okay?”
“Yes,” Leon says, “yes, please, whatever you want.” He spreads his legs wider in invitation, smirking when Chris' breath audibly catches, and reaches up to grab the headboard. “You're going to have to take that off, though.”
“Maybe I'll wait a little bit,” Chris suggests, crawling on top of him, planting his hands on either side of Leon's head, caging him in. “How does that sound?”
“Like fun,” Leon agrees, a little bit dazed, “but not something we have a lot of time for.” He lowers his right hand, reaching for Chris' boxers, but Chris catches his wrist and brings it back up to the headboard, gently pressing it there. “Okay, all right, fine,” he grumbles. “Will you just get naked and fuck me? Please?”
He's shied away over the years from trying to define this... whatever this is he has going on with Chris ('fuckbuddies?', he hears Claire say derisively in his head, 'you two are so fucking stupid. When are you getting your heads out of your asses?' Neither of them had dignified that with an answer). It wouldn't work, anything serious, anything real, not with their jobs pulling them away from each other and apart at the seams. So he didn't think about it, kept texting Chris, kept meeting up with him, kept fucking him whenever he got the chance. And it worked. It's been working and it would to continue to work after this.
He doesn't want to keep going like this.
He nearly died, again, for real. He wants—he wants—
He wants. Fuck. Leon swallows hard and lets his eyes travel down Chris' chest, to his happy trail, to where his hands are still on the hem of his boxers. “Take it off,” he says hoarsely and then has to close his eyes when Chris does exactly that, revealing his thick, gorgeous dick, fully erect, slick at the tip. He's aware he's panting like a dog, struggling to completely fill his lungs with air, and only opens his eyes again when he feels Chris touch his cheek with his knuckles. “Sorry,” he gets out eventually. “It's—a lot.”
That makes Chris' concerned gaze melt into a smirk and he glares.
“Not that,” he says pointedly, “just—” Christ, there's no good ending to this sentence, so he just plows on ahead, “—you. I mean. Jesus.” He cuts himself off and stares at the ceiling, shivering when Chris presses his mouth against his and kisses him very softly, a feather-light brushing of their lips, a brief sweep of his tongue against Leon's.
“You okay?” Chris asks quietly. “We can stop.”
Leon's dick twitches in protest at the idea of fucking stopping and he shakes his head. “I don't want to stop, I want your dick inside me.” There, that's a pretty clear message.
Chris levels him with one last look, but then grapples around for a packet of lube, which he tears open with his teeth.
Fuck, that's hot. Leon suspects that right now he'd think that Chris scrubbing a toilet is hot, he's that worked up.
“You just had that lying around, did you,” Leon says pointedly.
“You wanna complain about it or you wanna get fucked?” Chris asks, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Both,” Leon says, and he hooks his right leg around Chris' waist and hauls him closer, laughing when Chris' knees skid across the mattress. “Fucking boy scout.”
“Always be prepared,” Chris says and he picks up Leon's leg and throws it over his shoulder, pressing between his legs, hooking his hand under Leon's other thigh and spreading him wider, completely open for him.
Leon's heart stutters in his chest and he arches up, choking on air. “F-fuck,” he says, biting his lower lip. His dick pulses hard, twitching against his thigh.
“That's the plan,” Chris agrees and he tries to sound composed, but Leon knows him, recognizes the shakiness in his voice that means Chris isn't as in control as he likes to pretend. He slicks up his fingers and drags them across Leon's hole, pressing his other hand on Leon's stomach to settle him when he starts squirming. “How long has it been?” he asks and then winces. “Shit, fuck, sorry, that's none of my business, I just meant—”
“Three months,” Leon blurts out before he loses his nerve. “Not since Madrid.” With you, he doesn't add. “Just do it already, Redfield, fuck.” He throws his head back and stifles a groan when Chris grins and works two slick fingers inside, just on that edge of roughness, the way Leon likes it.
“Madrid, huh,” Chris murmurs, twisting and sliding his fingers inside Leon, deliberately slow, taking his time. It's fucking torture but Chris' firm hand on his stomach keeps him from bucking up, from grinding down, from doing anything but take what Chris gives him. Chris flicks his eyes up to meet Leon's, a tiny smile on his lips. It's knowing. It's sweet and maybe a little sad. “Me too.”
Fuck. Leon can't deal with that right now, so he doesn't, just arches his back, lets Chris' fingers slide in deeper, groaning when Chris eventually pulls out and takes himself in hand. He waits until Leon's watching him, lips parted, and slowly strokes himself, eyes fluttering closed, before shuffling closer and pressing the head of his cock against Leon's slick hole. His sheer bulk spreads Leon open wide and he readjusts Leon's leg over his shoulder before finally, Christ-fucking-finally, sliding in.
They both groan as Chris pushes inside. Chris is big everywhere and it's been a few months for Leon, but it's far from their first time together and it only takes a few moments to remember how this works, how they work, how they fit together. It doesn't stop Leon from letting a throaty moan escape when Chris bottoms out, doesn't stop Chris from panting helplessly into Leon's neck as his dick pulses and twitches inside Leon. He squeezes around Chris, drawing out a beautiful incoherent moan, and he lets out a couple of shivery, wet breaths.
“You feel so good, fuck, Leon—” Chris wraps himself around Leon, one hand sliding around his waist to press against his lower back, the other cradling his head and Leon whimpers as he's pressed down in the mattress by Chris' full weight, all 200-something pounds of it. He wraps his left leg around the back of Chris' thigh and Jesus, it's perfect like this, skin to skin, Chris buried so deep inside him Leon can feel it in the back of his throat, moving erratically like he can't control it.
Leon braces himself against the headboard, struggling to keep himself under control. He's achingly hard and Chris' heavy weight blanketing him almost entirely is making him lose his goddamn mind. It always does, Chris on top of him like this, keeping him in place, taking him apart with his cock, his mouth, his hands. Leon's mouth says something without his permission, he's not entirely sure what, and Chris crushes their mouths together frantically, thrusting into him hard, unrelenting, his pace picking up until the bed's squeaking rhythmically, headboard banging against the wall. Fuck. Someone's going to hear.
The wooden bed creaks as Chris keeps moving, rolling his hips, fucking Leon steadily, deeply, his mouth pressed against the scar pattern in Leon's neck. The sensation of Chris' tongue tracing them, the tip dragging across the raised flesh, committing them to tactile memory, is making Leon shudder all over, all his nerve endings on fire. A low moan escapes Leon's lips as Chris' hand slides into his hair, tangling his fingers in the strands. He tugs on Leon's hair, gently, trying to get better access to his neck, but Leon doesn't give him that, doesn't want that, resists the pull, and Chris grunts hotly against his skin and yanks, wrenching Leon's head to the side, baring his neck to him properly.
“Let me,” Chris growls, voice nearly cracking, and he goes back to sucking and biting at the scars, all sharp teeth and the slick, hot drag of his tongue.
“Chris, Chris—oh, Chris—” Everything fades away, his whole world narrowing down to just this. He is aware and alive in his body for the first time in months. It's all his again. His blurry vision. The sweat gathering on his brow, sliding down his temples. Chris' deliciously painful grip on his hair. His sweaty palms wrapped around the bars of the headboard. His dick, painfully hard, pulsing, trapped between their bodies. His leg over Chris' shoulder. Chris' cock moving inside him, thick and hard and perfect, every inch of him scraping against his walls. Being fucked to within in an inch of his life. “Please,” he says, “please,” he keeps saying.
“I got you,” Chris pants in his ear, “you're alive, you're okay, I've got you—I thought I'd lost you—you're here—”
A gasp tears from Leon's throat and he throws his arms around Chris' wide shoulders, pulling him close, tight against him. There's a ringing in his ears and sparks shoot up his spine as Chris fucks him harder and faster. He's close, he's close, he's so fucking close, he's going to come untouched, for the first time in weeks, and it's going to be with Chris, because of Chris, who's right here with him, right when Leon needs him the most, wants him the most—
He comes with a shout, cut off midway through by Chris slapping a hand over his mouth, his whole body tensing, arching, legs kicking out, head thrown back into the pillows. He moans loudly against Chris' palm, breath coming out in harsh pants, his come spilling out hot and sticky between them.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chris gasps, kissing him wildly, messily, and keeps going, keep fucking into Leon, whose body has stopped cooperating with him in the wake of his spine-bending orgasm. He's limp, floating, just lies there clutching at Chris' shoulders, whimpering softly as he lets Chris use him, his relentless pounding on the edge of painful. Stars explode behind his eyes and he — “I'm going to come,” Chris grinds out, hips smacking into Leon's — drags in deep, heavy breaths, mouth open, eyes closed, and he squeezes around Chris' dick, milking it, making Chris whine low in his throat.
It's over for Chris then; Leon watches him bite his lower lip through half-lidded eyes, teeth sinking into the flesh, sees the long line of his throat as he jerks his head back, feels Chris' hands tighten hard against Leon's scalp, the other one now braced against the mattress as he presses in as deep as he can and comes with a choked-off moan, harsh, wet breaths escaping his lips. It always feels so good, so incredible, getting filled up like this, and Leon can't stop his own embarrassing noises from pouring out, though softer than usual.
Chris slumps down on top of Leon, panting, relaxing his fingers to card them through Leon's hair, his hips still twitching erratically as he comes down. They stay like that for a while, Chris' dick still deep inside him, and Leon loves it, loves the feeling, hates that they'll soon have to separate and get up and go back to their respective agencies and fucking debrief and—he stops himself right there. It'll be different this time. He'll make sure of it.
“You're heavy,” he says after a minute and the words only come out slightly slurred. Chris grumbles something and doesn't move. Leon slides a hand down his bicep and squeezes it, feeling the muscle twitch under his finger tips. “You with me, Redfield?”
“No,” Chris mumbles, pushing himself up on his elbows to take some of the weight off. He leans down and kisses Leon, soft and easy, and adds, “that was amazing. You good?”
“Never been better,” Leon murmurs and hisses when Chris starts to pull out of him. “Ahhh... fuck.”
Chris rolls over onto his back next to him and scrubs his hands down his face. “These walls are pretty thin. You think anyone heard us? You got pretty loud there a few times.”
“Fuck off,” Leon says, slapping half-heartedly in his direction, managing to hit him on his chest. “I don't care.” Surprisingly, it's not even a lie. “You spend the night in my room, if they didn't know before, they do now.”
“They did,” Chris says quietly. “I never told them directly, but they did. They know. They don't care. None of their business who their boss is fucking when he fucks off for a couple of days between missions. Or even during missions,” he adds, a smirk in his voice.
“That was one time.”
“It was twice.” Chris rolls his head to look at Leon. “We got away with it, though.”
“That we did.” Leon grins at the memories, then stretches languidly and grimaces as he feels the result of getting well and thoroughly fucked between his legs. “Dibs on the shower.” He sits up and looks down at Chris, his mouth suddenly dry. Shit, is he feeling fucking shy all of a sudden? Hell, Kennedy. He's 49 years old, this shouldn't be difficult. He clears his throat and looks away, aware of Chris' facial expression turning a little worried.
“Leon?” Chris asks, pushing himself up on his elbows.
“This is stupid,” Leon mutters to himself and he takes a deep breath. “Do you want go out for dinner sometime?” He throws the words out in a rush. “With me,” he clarifies like an idiot.
Chris stares at him and drops his gaze, frowning at the mattress between them. “You mean like, on a date?” It's the careful way he asks it that makes Leon ache somewhere deep inside.
“A real one,” Leon says. “Dinner and a movie, maybe. We've never done that before.”
“We haven't.” It's not a yes. It's not a no, either. Chris glances back up at him and his tone manages to be deadly serious and teasing at the same time. “Well, it depends.”
“On what?” Leon gets the words out with some difficulty, his heart pounding in his throat. It's as if he's fourteen again and asking Lily if she wanted to go to the mall with him after school.
“Are you gonna bring me flowers and candy? I don't like roses but I do love chocolate.”
“But only dark chocolate.”
“That's right.” Chris leans in and cups his cheek and brings their mouths together for a lingering kiss that makes Leon's eyes slide closed. “Yes. When and where?”
“Mhm, give a man some time to plan,” says Leon, wrapping his fingers around Chris' wrist. “But soon, yeah?”
“Yeah. Yes. Soon.” Chris pulls back and looks him straight in the eye. “One question, though.”
Leon narrows his eyes. Something about Chris' tone is setting off multiple alarm bells. “What?”
“Do you put out on the first date?” Chris asks, very seriously.
“Oh, my God,” Leon says, pushing Chris away from him and sliding out of the bed. “Only if you're very lucky, Redfield.”
Chris grins. “I think I already am.”
THE END