Chapter Text
August 11
Leon sat at the kitchen table, simply because it was the only place he could find his way to in the dark. The surface was tacky, cluttered with junk whose names had long since lost their meaning. Only the bottle and the glass held any real weight. He rotated the glass in his hands, staring at the amber liquid as if searching for a manual for his own life. Ironically, this was where he spent most of his time – in a place meant for eating, though he hadn’t taken a real meal in days.
The alcohol was warm and hollow. It had stopped hitting the way it should a long time ago, now, it served only to drown out that low, constant hum in his ears – a sound Leon had begun to suspect was the noise of his own unraveling. His thoughts no longer wandered onto new paths, they always returned to the same tracks, to the same corpses, the same mistakes, the same cities that had ceased to exist. Every day, tirelessly, they reported to his mind like unwanted debriefings from a battlefield.
He ran a finger across the tabletop, leaving a clean streak in the gray dust. The dust was patient. It knew Leon wouldn't chase it away. Every mission, every final report, every "it's over" was merely a comma in a sentence that always ended the same way: another order, another nightmare, another dose of a virus that turned neighbors into meat. People vanished, then returned as something that shouldn't have a name, and he stood in the middle of this circus, pretending he held the reins.
Bullshit. He never held them. It was easier to live a lie, to feed on the conviction that what he was doing made any kind of sense. That it was right. But it was only a matter of time before evil found a new face and a reason to keep existing, and he would find himself on the front lines once again.
With a sluggish movement, he raised the glass to his lips. The liquid was unpleasantly warm, but Leon drank anyway, past the point where the temperature could actually register as a discomfort. When exactly had this stopped being about saving anyone? Maybe it never was. Maybe from the start, he had been nothing but a marionette tasked only with pushing the inevitable further down the line.
Somewhere along the way, Leon had simply stopped believing that all of this could ever be tied up in some meaningful "end." He had seen too many variations of the same conclusion already, having been in this long enough to realize that his role wasn't to win anything, but merely to delay what always, inevitably, came back. Was that enough to keep going? Perhaps. Was it enough to make peace with it? No longer.
The glass felt warm beneath his touch, the movement pausing for a moment on its way to his lips, suspended above the table. Eventually, Leon lowered it back onto the surface with a soft thud and ran a hand through his hair – a gesture repeated so many times today that the strands had begun to hang in miserable, lank clumps over his forehead.
The silence in the apartment was unbearable. Leon had stopped trying to drown it out intentionally some time ago; the roar in his head had taken on a life of its own and was, as he had discovered, permanent.
It took him several long moments to realize that the knocking he heard was real, and not just some sound in the hallway or a figment of his imagination. Surprised and equally reluctant, he moved with a heavy, sluggish gait through the corridor, expecting no one and nothing.
When Leon opened the door, he blinked twice, slowly. He was certain he’d only cursed in his head, yet the word slipped involuntarily from his lips.
Standing in the doorway was none other than Chris Redfield. That broad frame practically blocked out the entire view of the hallway. Chris's face betrayed nothing, but the fixed gaze was focused precisely on Leon – not just the eyes, but all of him, likely assessing the pathetic sight before him.
"Good to see you too, Leon," Chris began calmly, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Now his gaze was locked solely on Leon’s dull, exhausted eyes. "I was nearby. Will you let me in?"
Yeah, "nearby." Paris was probably "nearby" by his logic, too. Leon felt a surge of anger wash over him. This was the last thing he needed. He didn't want Chris here, he wanted goddamn peace and quiet. He didn't say that, though, and as they stood in the stretching silence, Chris moved closer to the door. Leon instinctively recoiled, fearing that if he didn't move, Redfield would likely just push past him through the entryway.
So he let him in, closing the door slowly in a daze of disbelief. Chris had already disappeared into the living room.
By the time Leon joined him, Chris was standing between the living room and the open kitchen, hands in his pockets, gaze sweeping slowly across the floor. Leon was certain, however, that Redfield had already seen and judged everything he needed to. Here it comes, he thought. Another fucking moralizer.
Chris let his eyes linger on the bottle of whiskey before looking back at Leon. He didn't comment on it, which irritated Leon instantly, he decided to react himself before Chris could utter a single sentence.
"I’m not signing up for another 'expert' gig, sorry, pal," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive stance.
Chris just looked at him for a long moment. Did he have some kind of problem with his reaction time?
"You don't look good," he finally said. The calm in his voice was enough to make the hair on the back of Leon’s neck stand on end, if it even could.
"Thanks for the diagnosis," he spat back, his face tense.
Chris let out a long breath, then glanced at the chair behind him and slowly sat down, his posture almost too straight. "That’s not what I meant. A lot happened in New York, we went our separate ways fast, so I wanted–"
"Don't start," Leon interrupted him immediately. "Same shit as always." Despite his verbal offensive, he caught himself sitting down at the table, mimicking Chris. The whiskey stood between them – exquisite tableware, Leon thought bitterly.
"I wanted to see how you were doing," Chris finished. After those words, his gaze drifted to the living room windows, which were almost completely shrouded by curtains. Despite the daylight outside, a deep gloom hung over the kitchen. The only source of light was a single, dying bulb that buzzed weakly, barely cutting through the shadows.
Leon preferred it that way; light had simply begun to grate on him. He thought that if Redfield commented on the state of his apartment or the decor, he’d break the bottle over his head.
"Now you know. You can leave." Leon’s voice was flat, yet he couldn't hide the edge of irritation at the end of it.
"Did you leave anything for tomorrow?" Chris asked. The way his eyes snagged on the bottle of alcohol left Leon in no doubt about what he meant.
"None of your business, Redfield," Leon hissed through gritted teeth, rising abruptly. Chris came here, sat like some charity case, and what did he expect? The intrusion was unwelcome, losing control in the only place where any remained – his own home – felt intolerable. Retreating from the table simply to clear the soldier from his field of vision, Leon reached the kitchen counter and gripped the edge, head hanging low. The tight pinch in his shoulder blades proved that it had been a long time since his frame had moved with any semblance of grace.
"Close the door on your way out." An order, a simple one at that. Leon hoped he’d take the hint.
He said it and waited. Leon couldn't see Chris, but the absolute silence suggested the soldier was still sitting at the table exactly as before. His hands gripped the edges of the counter a little tighter. Redfield had only been there for a moment, and yet Leon already felt profoundly exhausted. Just as a bitter remark about following orders was forming, the rustle of clothes and a chair being pushed back broke the quiet. At that sound, Leon froze.
Chris, however, said nothing and offered no reply. Leon only heard heavy footsteps heading toward the front door, which closed a moment later with a distinct click, leaving him in the ringing silence he had been impatiently craving for the last few minutes.
Only now did Leon realize he was letting out a breath through his nose that he had been holding for quite a while. He had no idea what that was supposed to be. Had Redfield turned sentimental?
Despite everything, the tension didn't leave Leon immediately. From the moment the door closed, he spent the first few minutes doing nothing that made even a modicum of sense. He remained rooted to the spot, his body seemingly unable to accept that this sudden intrusion had actually vanished. To his annoyance, it turned out that the silence in the apartment didn't bring relief, only a change in pressure.
Leon stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the counter as if searching it for some trace of the conversation that had just taken place. He corrected himself in his mind – calling it a "conversation" was an overstatement.
His gaze settled on the bottle of amber liquid; though it stood in the exact same spot, for some reason it looked different – like some screaming piece of evidence rather than an object one keeps at home and brings out for occasions. Leon realized he had made an occasion out of every single day.
Leon suddenly caught himself realizing that he didn't actually remember the exchange between him and Chris, though the amount of words hadn't been overwhelming anyway. He remembered only the tone, not the content. And it irritated him more than Chris’s presence itself – his stoicism, as if he had walked into a total clusterfuck and pretended everything was perfectly fine.
Wanting a change of scenery, he moved from the kitchen to the living room sofa, the bottle with the remains of the liquid in his hand. His thoughts were fragmented, refusing to settle into any logical line, circling only around a few repetitive points stuck in his head: that Chris shouldn't have come here, that he’d acted as if this were a casual visit when they both knew – and neither wanted to admit – it was a lie. Most of all, he was incensed by his own behavior, that he’d folded and let him in, exposing to Chris that pathetic part of his life that no one was ever supposed to see.
Leon couldn't stay seated either. He took a swig from the bottle and went to the door to lock it. Then moved to the window, pulling back the edge of the curtain for a moment, as if wanting to check that the world outside his apartment was still there, truly existed, and was doing just fine without him. He continued to pace aimlessly through the apartment, checking things he didn't need to check, straightening a picture on the wall that he hadn't even hung, it had been there since before he moved in.
Another swig. No longer even for the sake of drinking, it was about the gesture – the simplest, mechanical motion that interrupted thought. He poured it down his throat, drinking too fast, it didn't taste like it usually did, yet at the same time, it had no taste at all.
Time slowly began to blur. Leon was sitting on the kitchen floor, his back leaned against the fridge. An unopened can of beer stood by his hip. He wasn't resting, wasn't doing anything specific, he was simply existing in time, which in turn seemed to stand still. His "favorite" state of suspension, a ritual practiced to perfection.
The first sound of knocking didn't reach Leon as an audio signal at all. It blended with the hum and the pressure in his ears, like a background element that didn't fit and therefore shouldn't exist, his brain simply rejected it. Only the second, much firmer strike broke through the layer of his numbness. Leon slowly turned his head toward the door, listening.
At first, he didn't move. The moment of hesitation was brief – was there even any point? Wouldn't it be better to pretend it was something that could be dismissed from space by the mere decision to ignore it?
Leon didn't remember the moment he walked to the door, yet undeniably, that was where he found himself. He opened it with a careless yank of his hand. He knew it wasn't the neighbors, he avoided them like the plague, only leaving the house when he heard the hallway was silent. So, Redfield again. And again, he had opened the door for him, even though he hadn't wanted to.
But when he focused his gaze ahead, he saw no one. The corridor was empty. Leon snorted under his breath, amused that he’d fallen for his own paranoia. He was about to head back into the apartment when saw grocery bags on his welcome mat.
Leon froze and stood there for a while, as if expecting Chris to step out from around the corner or speak up from somewhere further down the stairs. Nothing like that happened, though. The silence around him was pure and unbroken. And before him, sitting exactly where they’d been placed, were two bags, lined up neatly.
Leon didn't know what to do. So he did what people with grocery bags do – he bent down without haste and picked them up. The handles dug slightly into his fingers, the rustle of the paper bag was the only sound tearing through the silence. Closing the door behind him, Leon glanced at the hallway one last time, as if that would somehow change anything.
In the kitchen, he set everything down on the table and for a moment just stared at the sight before him, the bags were heavier than they looked. Leon didn't open them right away, the mere fact that they were standing there was enough to stir a suffocating anxiety within him. Only after a moment did he decide to pull one of the bags open and look inside.
The items were painfully ordinary. Cheap bread in plastic packaging, eggs, milk, some cheese – everything he could toss in a pan, things that required no thought. Nothing that required a decision. A bunch of tomatoes, a few apples. Just food that could be assembled into something edible without effort.
Leon sluggishly pulled out one item after another and rearranged them on the counter without much purpose, more to keep his hands busy than to organize any of it. He paused for a moment at the coffee and the effervescent electrolyte tablets, which for some reason stood out against the rest of the basic products. A moment later, he pushed them aside along with the rest.
Finally, Leon opened the beer he’d picked up from the floor moments ago, even before he finished unpacking everything. With his other hand, he reached for the bread, tore open the packaging, and took a slice without even looking at it.
The first bite was dry, heavy, as if the mouth had forgotten what to do with solid food. It was washed down immediately, more out of reflex than need. Leon stood like that for a while, bread in one hand, beer in the other, staring somewhere into the empty space of the apartment, anywhere but the table, anywhere but the groceries.
The apartment looked the same as before, yet Leon had the impression that something in it had broken. The items on the counter didn't fit the rest, they didn't fit the dust on the surfaces of his furniture, they didn't fit the empty fridge. They were too normal. Leon didn't try to hide them or put them away, he left them exactly as he had laid them out.
He sat down more heavily than he should have, leaning his elbows on the table. Another swig, another bite, now devoid of even that initial reluctance. He ate more out of habit than hunger. His thoughts remained stubbornly fragmented, returning now to a single scene etched in his mind – the door, the empty hallway, the bags on the mat.
August 15
The stairwell was quiet, the air heavy and somewhat stifling. Chris walked slowly, without haste, as if he knew exactly what he would find at his destination – even if he didn't care to put a name to it. Last time had been worse than he’d expected, but not enough to just walk away. There was no point in lying to himself, he wouldn't have been able to anyway. That was the problem with Leon; nothing was extreme enough to justify an intervention, yet it was more than enough to prevent leaving him in peace. He paused on the landing for a brief moment, as if weighing something without even realizing it.
Standing before the apartment door, he knocked once – short, sharp, and decisive – then waited. He’d be a complete fool to think Leon would be happy to see him this time. At that moment, he was simply counting on him to open the door.
The door creaked open after a long while. To Chris’s genuine surprise, Leon looked a bit better than before, though it wasn't a real change – more like a ripple on the surface. His face was still pale and sallow, his hair disheveled and slightly greasy. But his eyes. His eyes were clearer. Leon’s movements, however, remained heavy, as if every action was half a second delayed. Chris registered it instantly, though he didn't let his thoughts dwell on it. For a moment, he had the impression that Leon was standing in the doorway more out of surrender than any actual desire to open up, as if the mere act of knocking had triggered a reaction he could no longer stop, much like during Chris’s first visit.
"Your kitchen light’s out," he said, sparing Leon the task of asking why he’d come back.
This time he didn't ask, he simply stated it, figuring it would be simpler that way. Chris stepped inside, brushing past Leon, who looked as if he’d started playing the role of a boulder, trying his best not to intrude upon his space.
Leon finally took an automatic step back, though he didn't close the door immediately, as if considering for a split second whether to throw him out this time. He didn't, though. The door closed with a delay, a good moment after Chris had entered the apartment.
The kitchen was indeed dark, the bulb over the dining table barely glowing, exactly as it had been a few days ago during Chris’s first visit. He set the backpack he had slung over his shoulder against the wall and pulled out a new bulb. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leon standing at the edge of the kitchen, hands in his pockets.
"Don't do that," Leon’s voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time.
"Already doing it," Chris replied, switching off the light. For a moment, almost complete darkness took over, illuminated only by the faint glow of a floor lamp in the living room.
"In my apartment?"
"Yes."
Leon didn't answer. Chris figured he’d caught him off guard with his bluntness, so he continued, slowly pulling back a chair and stepping onto it before carefully unscrewing the burnt-out bulb. Leon stood at the edge of his vision, leaning against the counter, watching him. The bulb in Chris’s hands was lukewarm, he set it gently on the tabletop and began screwing in the new one with a quick, fluid motion.
The light he switched on a moment later was almost harsh compared to the gloom that had previously reigned there. Chris noticed Leon instinctively squint and shield his eyes with his hand, turning his head slightly; the change seemed physically challenging for him. Refraining from staring blankly at Leon, Chris swept his eyes across the kitchen, where the better light made the mess far more glaring. A shift in the air brought a sudden doubt about having done the right thing, a rising tension took hold at this exposure of Leon’s disarray and vulnerable state, something that hadn't been part of the plan. It was too late now, anyway.
Chris saw Leon move a bit further from the light source, likely so it wouldn't fall directly on his face. He didn't comment, though.
Chris grunted under his breath and stepped down from the chair, then stared solely at the result of his work for a moment – not out of satisfaction, but because the prospect of locking eyes with Leon now, when they could perfectly see each other's expressions, made him uneasy. He wanted to help, yet these encounters were overwhelming. At least he hadn't botched the lightbulb.
"I’ll take this so you don't have to throw it in the trash here," he finally spoke, still not looking at Leon, as he grabbed the old bulb and stowed it in his backpack.
"Didn't know you collected things like that," he heard Leon’s voice behind him, less abrasive now, with a hint of his characteristic irony bleeding through.
Chris snorted and straightened up, holding a small canvas bag in his hand, which he saw Leon’s gaze fixate on. "You know, you’ve got to have a hobby," he replied softly, then lifted the bag with a quick gesture. "I brought a few things, in case you were running low."
Leon, who until then had been pressed into the corner of the kitchen, approached him hesitantly, though undoubtedly with curiosity, and took the small bag from him, peering inside. Chris took a brief moment, using Leon’s diverted attention to get a better look at him. His face had no glow; it was simply gray, robbed of any deeper expression. The shadows under his eyes didn't even look like shadows anymore, they were beginning to blend into his skin. His lips were chapped, his stubble longer than usual. Even as he focused, looking through the bandages and disinfectants in the bag, he looked as if it required some unspoken effort. Chris involuntarily felt a tightening in his throat at the sight, Leon looked like shit, there was no point in lying to himself.
Before he could pull himself together, Leon’s questioning gaze was resting on his face, he felt his lips involuntarily tighten into a thin line.
"What do I need this for?" he asked.
"Maybe they’ll come in handy after a mission," Chris replied, slightly caught off guard. "What, do you have your own first-aid kit?"
"No," Leon replied truthfully.
"Then don't mention it. Put it away so you don't forget and lose it later."
Leon just stared at him, brows furrowed, a hint of contemplation in his eyes. "Thanks, mom," he muttered, then took the package and headed to the bathroom with it.
Chris felt a secret wave of relief that Leon hadn't made a scene. He hadn't brought it with missions in mind, where medics usually patched them up on the fly. He just knew that stumbling around drunk all the time was an invitation for an accident.
Taking advantage of the moment Leon vanished, Chris pulled a clean glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, placing it on the table next to the ever-present element: the whiskey. He had half a mind to take the bottle and pour it down the sink. But he knew that would only make an enemy of him, and that wasn't his goal, he was trying to make sure Leon saw him as support, not a foe.
Leon returned to the kitchen and stood on the other side of the table, facing Chris. He casually swept his gaze over the extra glass that had appeared during his brief absence, then, with a pointed movement, reached for the bottle of alcohol and took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Chris only clenched his fists, he didn't react. It wasn't his call to make. He allowed Leon’s display of "authority" to take place in the silence he had chosen, though he took a step back, making space for himself that he didn't need.
Redfield felt his presence here beginning to stretch, he’d already done what he’d come for, checked what he wanted. Leon set the bottle down, crossed his arms over his chest, and sank into a chair. Chris leaned one hand on the counter, considering whether to head for the exit, his gaze wandering somewhere past Leon’s silhouette. Only after a moment did he blurt out:
"Have you slept?"
Could that question possibly sound like anything other than concern? Though in reality, it was just a confirmation of what he already knew. Leon didn't answer right away, he reached for the bottle, examining it for a moment as if weighing whether there was any point in answering at all. The way Leon stood and shifted his weight spoke for itself.
"Can't you tell?" His gaze, however, didn't reach Chris, fixed instead on his own hands.
Chris pushed off from the counter and, without much hurry, pulled the trash bag from the bin, tying it tight. Inside, almost nothing but the clink of glass could be heard. He did the first thing that came to mind just so he wouldn't stand there like a statue.
"I’m going downstairs," he muttered, heading toward the door. "Do you want anything?" Chris knew it didn't sound like an enticing offer, there was no pressure in it, anyway.
Leon’s response was reflexive, he shook his head. Chris nodded back in understanding, he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn't expected as much. He left without lingering. The door closed quietly behind him.
Chris let out a breath through his nose as soon as he stepped out of the apartment, he felt as if he were afraid to even breathe around Leon. He went out in front of the building, tossed the trash into the nearest bin, and paused for a moment instead of heading back immediately. He decided to walk to the shop just around the corner, he didn't need to look into Leon’s fridge to know there was likely nothing in it but light and alcohol.
He grabbed some ready-to-heat tortillas from the shelf – the kind that required no thinking – judging it the simplest solution he could come up with. He refrained from doing a full grocery run like last time, expecting Leon wouldn't react well to it, especially if he had to confront not just the bags, but Chris himself.
A few minutes later, he was back. Leon was sitting exactly as Chris had "left" him. Without waiting for an invitation, he tore open the packaging and stood by the stove.
"Where do you keep the pan?" he asked, scanning the cabinets.
"I don't remember."
So Chris began rummaging; on the second try, he hit what he was looking for. He tossed the tortillas onto the pan and began warming them up. The scent spread through the kitchen quickly, the smell of cheap Mexican food slowly hit their nostrils. Chris caught himself thinking that it didn't fit this place, which for some time now had functioned without things like cooking. Redfield didn't look at Leon, focused entirely on browning the wraps evenly on both sides, flipping them with a fork. Behind his back, he heard the bottle being set down on the counter time and again.
Finally, he turned off the stove and turned to Leon.
"I’m going to wash my hands. Put them on the plates." That was all he said before disappearing into the bathroom. He scolded himself on the way, his tone had probably been too sharp. Besides, he’d likely have to do it himself anyway.
A brief glance into the mirror revealed a reflection partially obscured by dried water spots, left untouched for a long time. Chris ran a hand through his hair in a quick gesture, a sudden thought crossing his mind – after a few more meetings with Kennedy, he’d start drinking with him.
To his surprise, when Chris returned to the kitchen, he noticed the tortillas were on the plates Leon had placed on the table. Well, look at that, maybe a firmer hand was needed after all?
Once again, Redfield took his place across from Leon and they began to eat in silence. Chris had to force himself not to eat too fast – he wanted to get this over with. He wasn't hungry at all, in fact, felt even less like eating while at Leon’s. All he cared about was that this stubborn mule had something in his stomach besides a distillery. Chris tried not to stare at Leon, but he watched nonetheless: how Leon reached for the food, how fast he ate, whether he stopped after a few bites. He didn't want to make it an issue, but it was the reason he was here, the man was wasting away before his eyes.
Regardless, he considered the "mission" a success; Leon had eaten almost all of it. Chris was glad it hadn't just been a few bites to get him to back off. Finally, he stood up when only crumbs remained on his plate, took his own plate and Leon’s – who was holding the last bite of tortilla in his hands – and began cleaning up after them, standing at the sink. Short, quick movements, making no noise, without disrupting the relatively calm atmosphere.
Eventually, Chris picked up his backpack, zipped it, and slung it over his shoulder. He walked to the hallway and paused for a moment. Leon was sitting at the table, though this time his hands were out of sight, resting on his thighs beneath the table. He didn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the flat surface before him.
"That's enough for now," Chris said briefly and left.
The door closed slowly, returning Leon to his full autonomy. The apartment, though it remained in the same state, suddenly felt hollow, as if Chris’s departure had left behind a void that Leon wasn't yet ready to name.
August 19
A remarkably mediocre day, indistinguishable from all the ones that came before it, was ruined by Chris. He appeared at Leon’s door without warning and without that brief ritual of knocking that Leon had come to recognize as his own personal prelude to irritation. Leon had been just about to head down to the store to patch up his pantry when he nearly collided with Redfield upon opening the door. Leon froze, staring at him in silence, the sentiment was mutual. Finally, a curt “let's go” broke the stalemate, delivered in a dry, soldierly rasp. Chris didn't wait for an answer, he simply waited by the stairs as if this were a pre-established plan rather than a unilateral decision made just seconds ago.
Leon didn't argue, he just followed. Though he felt this was another one of those situations he could – and should – cut short with a single sentence, the energy simply wasn't there. He merely grunted something under his breath as they descended the stairs. It wasn't consent, but it wasn't resistance either. To his own embarrassment, Leon caught himself realizing that over the last few days, he had wondered when Chris would return. It had been a certainty – Redfield had to come back. The realization had hit him during a hungover morning under a cold shower, when his gaze had involuntarily drifted to the now-restocked first-aid kit. Damned Redfield was worried about him. Did it surprise Leon? Not necessarily. They’d known each other a while, had shared a particularly grim "adventure" on a recent mission; it was understandable in a way, as Chris was one of the few who had seen him at his absolute worst during his "time off." But Leon never imagined Redfield would start haunting him in his own home. And now? He didn't even want to guess what the man was scheming.
They reached the car and set off toward an unspecified destination. In the cramped space, Leon could clearly smell the cologne and the scent of cigarettes that seemed to have permeated every inch of the upholstery. The silence between them wasn't new – Leon had accepted it as a permanent fixture of their meetings – but it felt different than it did in the apartment. He decided not to overthink it, instead staring out the window, feeling the whiskey painfully evaporate from his brain. Ironically, he was already suffering from its deficiency.
Leon watched the city smear past the glass, focusing on nothing in particular. The world moved by without significance, he wasn't in the mood to ask about their destination. He would simply take whatever Redfield had prepared for him.
Chris drove calmly, and Leon was grateful he didn't try to fill the void with conversation. In fact, Leon realized he hadn't uttered a single word since they met. It should have felt comfortable, a silent protest against the invasion of his sanctuary, yet he had the nagging feeling that the lack of words said more about him than he cared to admit.
Leon raised an eyebrow when he realized they had pulled up in front of a local shooting range. Nevertheless, he appreciated the idea – Chris had chosen an activity they both knew well, something that wouldn't be awkward. A small, inexplicable spark of joy flickered in him. Perhaps he could finally do something he was actually good at, other than drinking.
Inside, at this hour – early afternoon – it wasn't crowded, a fact Leon accepted with relief. The hall was filled with a rhythmic, familiar thunder and the lingering acridity of gunpowder. Chris shoved a pistol into Leon's hand and a box of ammunition, saying nothing. He merely jerked his chin toward the targets ahead and offered a brief, knowing smirk.
Leon spent a moment adjusting his grip. It had been weeks since he’d held a firearm; he had missed the heavy, metallic, cold texture. For years, a weapon had been an extension of his own arm. He slid on the ear protection, took his stance, aimed briefly, and fired. One, two, three. All tens. For a fleeting second, he felt a surge of pride, a flush of satisfaction, he still remembered how to do this – how to kill, where to hit – even if his mind tried to forget it at times. So maybe he was still useful? He felt like a human machine, still performing its function despite a radiator flooded with alcohol and bile.
He was doing great, emptying two magazines without a hitch. That is, until Redfield pulled out a shotgun, apparently needing a shot of adrenaline after the pistol warm-up.
Chris’s first shot ripped through the air, the percussion felt even through the muffs. The second sounded – and looked – like a rapid follow-up, Redfield entirely focused on his targets, eyes narrowed. It was the third shot and its echoing roar that hit Leon square in the chest, shattering his temporary confidence. He tried to continue, but the edges of his vision began to fray. The targets ahead took on strange, unnatural shapes – composed of meat and blood. The hall turned dark, transforming into a filthy street where the sounds of tearing muscle echoed. Gunpowder mingled with the stench of death, lazily hitting his nostrils. Leon held his breath, he didn't want to smell it, not now.
Leon’s finger hovered over the trigger. The barrel of his pistol began a slow, noticeable descent, even though his hand was gripping the frame so hard his knuckles ached. What the fuck? He had just seen the target, he blinked, and now the vertical shape that should have been white-and-red circles looked like a blurred, faceless creature – one of the thousands he had seen in his life.
“Kennedy. Secure your weapon,” he heard Chris’s voice, but it sounded distant, as if coming from deep underground.
Leon tried, but he couldn't move. His body had stiffened, rejecting every command he tried to issue. Chris gave another order, sharper this time, but Leon only recognized the tone, not the words. He remained motionless, battling the images flooding his vision. He felt his hands sweat, the pistol beginning to slip despite being certain he was holding it with all his strength.
Suddenly, he felt other hands – massive, rough, and hot. Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed someone standing over him. Logically, he knew it was Chris, but the man was behind a fog. The weapon was wrenched from his grip in a swift, decisive motion, Leon felt like a child having a toy taken away.
“That’s enough for today.” Redfield again. His hands vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind a burning sensation on Leon’s skin.
Leon shook his head. Taking advantage of his free hands, he ripped the earmuffs off and dropped them onto the counter in a panic. He stared straight ahead at the targets, which, with every blink, began to resemble paper again.
He reluctantly turned his face. Chris stood beside him, watching intensely, as if waiting for a signal that – fortunately for Leon – hadn't come yet. He was back at the range, but he felt an overwhelming need to leave. He fixed his gaze on the floor and rubbed his wrist, a wave of shame heating his ears. So, even the one thing he had done for all these years was something he was no longer fit for.
As they headed for the exit, Leon felt an unpleasant pulsing in his ears; his legs didn't feel like his own, they had turned to cotton. He lunged ahead of Chris, not wanting to look at him or hear him, should Redfield decide to say anything. Reaching the heavy, steel exit doors, he reached out to push the handle, but his fingers slipped clumsily across the metal, thudding dully against the frame. Leon stumbled forward, losing his balance, he was saved from slamming face-first into the door by Chris’s reflexes. Redfield grabbed his forearm instinctively, holding him in place for a moment before opening the door himself, stepping aside for Leon to pass first.
In the car, Leon slumped into the passenger seat, arms crossed over his chest. He avoided eye contact at all costs, terrified Chris would bring it up – though if the man wanted to, he would have done it immediately back there. Chris didn't start the engine for a good minute, just sat with his hands clenched on the wheel. Leon wasn't sure if he was weighing his words, if he was, he chose not to use them, eventually driving off in silence. Leon didn't want to analyze what had just happened, it was too exhausting. He was left only with the bitter realization that he could no longer trust even his own senses. Great. Redfield’s probably going to start treating me like I'm completely broken.
Somewhere along the way, Leon closed his eyes, but the moment he did, the roar of the shotgun echoed through his skull again, stabbing painfully. He winced and shifted in his seat. He needed a drink.
He was jolted out of his lethargy by the sudden silence of the engine. Leon instinctively reached for the handle and pushed the door open, swinging one leg out before he froze, looking around uncertainly. This wasn't his neighborhood.
“What’s the deal? Did you forget where I live?” he growled, confused.
Chris unbuckled his seatbelt and slowly climbed out of the car. Leon instinctively followed suit.
“I need a smoke. Let’s walk,” Redfield muttered, heading down the sidewalk as he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket. Leon followed without a word. The cold air kept him from complaining, clearing his lungs, while the light wind hitting his face kept his thoughts from drifting. Though every step was initially an effort, he felt significantly better after fifteen minutes, even if the people he passed seemed unreal, like extras in a film. Spooked by the thought, he stayed close to Chris, who moved with a steady, ship-like gait, ready to ram through anything in his path.
Back in the apartment, Leon bolted for the bathroom. He locked the door and turned on the shower. He shed his clothes – they smelled like gunpowder and corpses to him, though he was sure it was just his imagination. He cursed through gritted teeth as he stepped under the freezing water, quickly twisting the knob the other way. The heat, bordering on scalding, wasn't exactly pleasant either, but at least he was used to that temperature. Steam quickly filled the room while Leon scrubbed himself with fast, mechanical movements until his skin turned a violent red. He desperately wanted to erase the day – his strange impotence and the subsequent humiliation of Redfield having to disarm him. Leon didn't want to know what the man thought of him now. Though ironically, it probably couldn't get any worse.
Stepping out, Leon felt the sting of his skin, treating himself with more gentleness while toweling off. A hand sifted through a pile of clothes on the laundry basket – in "Leon-limbo," too clean to wash, too dirty to fold. Grey sweatpants and a shirt unseen for a week were pulled on, the internal verdict being that the fabric wasn't a biological hazard yet. When he walked into the kitchen, brushing wet hair from his forehead, he froze for the second time that day.
Chris was sitting at his table. The surface had been cleared – or at least a section of it. A mountain of cans and papers had been shoved to the other side, the previously matte surface even gleamed slightly where it had been wiped down. Redfield sat amidst the chaos with his laptop and a black notebook. He looked absurdly casual, as if he were in his BSAA office rather than the stagnant den of an alcoholic.
“You’re still here?” Leon rasped, his voice a battle between genuine surprise and pure exhaustion.
Redfield didn't even look up. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the keyboard.
“I'm not finished yet,” he replied curtly.
Leon snorted. Was there any point in fighting him? He doubted it. He walked to the counter, where everything was now crammed into one corner, and picked up his whiskey glass. It was so dirty and sticky he decided to grab a fresh one from the cabinet.
Sitting down across from Chris with clean glass, Leon noticed a cup of coffee Chris had made for himself on the cleared side of the table, as well as a glass of water pushed closer to Leon's edge – a silent, meaningful signal. Leon raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, sitting opposite him and pouring a solid portion of whiskey, careful not to let the clink of glass betray the tremor in his hands. He desperately wanted to return to the routine that gave him a semblance of peace.
He drank, glancing occasionally at Chris, who was exceptionally quiet even for him. Every so often, however, Redfield would peek over the laptop, take a quick sip of coffee, and return to work. The white light of the screen softly illuminated his features. Leon began to stare at the glass of water; its presence was ruining his "feng shui," he thought. He took a sip of whiskey, feeling the familiar burn, and then, almost out of spite for himself, reached for the water and took several large gulps. It was icy and surprisingly pleasant. Before putting it back, he raised the glass again and drank slowly. He noticed that for a brief moment, Chris stopped typing, though the man still didn't offer a single word of commentary.
They sat in silence for a good fifteen minutes. Leon alternated between the two drinks while Chris scrolled through electronic documents, nearing the dregs of his coffee – at least, Leon assumed so, given the bitter grimace the man made when he drank.
“That coffee is terrible,” Chris summarized.
“You bought it,” Leon replied with a hint of amusement.
Redfield answered with a sigh, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his neck. He gave Leon a brief look before tapping the table next to him.
“Move over here,” he said, making some space. “The Minesweeper record is waiting to be broken.”
The proposal amused Leon so much that he forgot to consider a refusal. “I didn't know you could do anything with electronics besides opening your email,” he joked, sliding his chair over before he could think twice.
“Evidently, you don't know me well enough yet, Kennedy,” Chris countered, getting up with his mug to put on more water for coffee. As he moved around the kitchen, he refilled Leon's water glass. Leon remained focused on the game Chris had pulled up for him.
Though Leon had wanted to mock him at first, clicking the little squares proved to be simple, repetitive, and safe. Sitting side by side in the cramped kitchen for the next two hours, they spared no biting remarks whenever a wrong move cost them the game. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed when Chris reached for his coffee. To Leon, it felt like a strange static discharge, he couldn't remember anyone being this close for a long time, yet he didn't pull away. The heat radiating from Chris – though still an intrusion into his sanctuary – began to act as a weight, keeping him closer to the surface and dampening the sense of total emptiness, if only slightly.
Later, the food arrived. This time, Chris had ordered a proper, thick beef stew with roasted potatoes – it finally smelled like a real dinner not plastic chemicals from a microwave. To his own surprise, Leon ate almost all of it, feeling the heavy, warm meal settle in his stomach. Chris silently slid Leon's container over and finished the rest.
After the meal, they moved to the living room. Leon collapsed onto one end of the sofa, sliding down until he was half-lying. Chris, to his surprise, didn't take the "safe" armchair a few feet away; he sat on the other edge of the sofa, leaving a solid meter of untouched space between them. Leon turned on the TV, not wanting to sit in silence, staring at a colorful game show and pretending to understand the rules.
Chris leaned back comfortably and pulled out a small, black pen, beginning to jot things down in a notebook resting on his thigh, occasionally absentmindedly gnawing on the end of the pen.
“What are you writing?” Leon murmured, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. He decided he needed some form of interaction. “A list of my sins?”
Chris looked at him with an arched brow, a shadow of amusement in his eyes. In the glow from the television, his face seemed a little less stern to Leon than it had this morning, but more tired.
“This notebook doesn't have enough pages for your sins. Logistics, Kennedy. Go to sleep.” He returned to his notes as if nothing had happened.
Leon, of course, wanted to argue that he wasn't tired at all, but the image before him began to blur against his will. He switched the channel to some action movie, hoping it would wake him up, but to no avail. The last thing he registered was Chris, focused on his scribbles, and the steady scratching of the pen on the paper.
Leon bolted upright. His heart was hammering against his ribs, as if the last few hours had been nothing more than an exceptionally vivid hallucination. He propped himself up on an elbow, having slid down into a full lying position during his sleep. It was only then he noticed he was covered with a blanket, he didn't remember having one within reach. Rubbing his face, he stood up and tossed the blanket aside, and that was when he heard a quiet clink on the floor.
He leaned down, unable to see clearly what was at his feet – the apartment was dark, the only light coming from the still-flickering TV with its volume nearly at zero, and the kitchen lamp Chris must have left on. Leon grasped a small, hard object. It was a cheap, black pen with a BSAA logo – the same one Chris had been using, judging by the chewed plastic. It must have fallen out of his pocket.
Leon squeezed it so hard he nearly snapped it. It wasn't a dream, and certainly not a hallucination. Redfield had been here.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring into the dim living room, clutching the damn pen like a treasure. For the first time in months, the silence that Leon found unbearable on a daily basis felt a little less dead. It had started to become a silence waiting for someone to break it.
August 26
A week had passed since his last visit to Leon’s. Seven full days during which Chris tried to convince himself that what was happening at Leon’s place – or rather, to Leon – wasn’t his business, and he shouldn't be meddling this much. Meanwhile, he was finishing his mission with a phone clutched in his hand. Everything had been dragged out by goddamn logistics and reporting errors, he should have been home two days ago, yet only now was he shedding his gear at the extraction point, waiting for the chopper.
He’d sent a text to Leon early that morning, once he was certain he’d be back that same day. Leon likely didn't give a flying fuck, but Chris needed some peace of mind. He kept it brief and clinical: "Mission ran long, I’ll be there tonight." That was it. Zero response. It didn't surprise him, every few hours, as often as he could, he glanced at the screen only to confirm the persistent lack of notifications. Leon was Leon, after all – what was he supposed to write back? He was probably contemplating the bottom of a glass again, having long since abandoned communication with the outside world.
When Chris finally pulled up to his own house, he didn't even settle in. He dropped his heavy gear bag in the entryway and took a shower – the bare minimum he needed to feel human. He packed a board game he’d bought specifically for the occasion into his backpack, despite not being a player himself, and tossed a book in as well, just in case he had to share another silence with Kennedy. Then, he got back in the car and drove straight to Leon’s.
It was past 10 PM when Chris pulled up to the building, the night was thick and strangely stifling. The stairwell greeted him with the familiar scent of cheap cleaning supplies and the sterile, harsh glare of fluorescent lights. He walked with a steady pace, though on the last landing, he instinctively sped up, taking the stairs two at a time.
He knocked briefly but firmly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his jacket sleeve. Given the hour, Chris suspected Leon was likely "partying" hard and would take his time getting to the door, but today he was being exceptionally sluggish.
Silence.
A moment later, he knocked again – harder this time, three sharp raps on the edge of neighborly tolerance. "Leon?" he called out uneasily. It felt like he’d been standing there for minutes, and his own voice, echoing down the hallway, began to irritate him.
To hell with it. This time he slammed his fist against the wood so hard the door shuddered. Again, the only reaction was a hollow silence. Chris strained his ears, he couldn't hear a single sound from inside the apartment. No clink of glass, no scraping of a chair, no drone of a TV – the sounds he’d grown accustomed to recognizing the moment he disturbed Leon’s peace.
Chris pulled out his phone and simply called him. Instead of putting the receiver to his ear, he pressed his head against the door. A moment later, the sound of the connection drifted from inside the apartment – the ringtone cutting off and starting over, looping. Leon had to be home.
When the voicemail kicked in, Chris didn't hesitate. Driven by a surging tide of anxiety, he stepped back and delivered a short, technical kick with all his might, aiming right next to the handle. The frame snapped with a dry crack. The door flew inward, slamming against the wall and swinging loose, letting a sliver of light from outside spill into the hallway.
Inside, the darkness was impenetrable. Chris pulled the door shut as much as the shattered lock would allow, then scanned the apartment as if he were still operating in a combat zone. The place smelled like a distillery that hadn't seen an open window in years. The kitchen was pitched in black, while a small lamp glowed in the living room – but Leon wasn't there. The only traces of him were a finished four-pack of beer cans strewn across the couch and a kicked-aside blanket partially decorating the floor. No light in the bathroom, either.
Chris’s gaze instinctively shifted to the last room – the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Without a second’s hesitation, Chris bolted forward, practically falling through the doorway into pitch-black darkness. Unable to see a thing, he fumbled along the wall until his fingers found the switch and flicked the light on. The sight that met him made him freeze.
On the crumpled bedding lay two bottles of whiskey – one completely drained, the other partially emptied. On the floor, facing the side of the bed, lay Leon. He looked as though he’d tried to climb onto the mattress and failed, or perhaps he’d slid off. A section of the sheet was tangled around his legs. He was twisted in an unnatural position: one arm crushed beneath his body, the other bent with the elbow jutting upward, his forehead resting awkwardly against the wooden frame of the bed. Even from this distance, Chris could see his skin was ghastly pale. He was unconscious. Chris couldn't even see his chest moving.
Redfield reached him in two large strides. He grabbed Leon’s jaw and tilted his head slightly to see his face, his fingers practically digging into the carotid artery. For a second, he had to hold his own breath, his trembling hands made it difficult to find a pulse. Fortunately, Leon was breathing.
His face was slick with sweat, his skin cold to the touch. His temple was split, a trickle of blood having tracked down his nose to dry on his cheek.
"Fuck. Leon! Leon, look at me. Can you hear me?"
Chris instinctively tried to lift him. He grabbed Leon under the armpits and hauled him into a sitting position, intending to prop his back against the bed frame. Leon’s head lolled back first, like a rag doll’s, then slumped forward, hanging lifelessly against his chest. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides. Chris didn't let go, holding him steady, but as he reached out with one hand to lift Leon’s chin, he felt the body – previously heavy and limp – tense uncontrollably in a short, sharp spasm.
Before Chris could react, without any warning, Leon vomited violently, drenching himself and Chris’s shirt. The wet remains soaked in instantly, leaving dark stains. It was practically pure alcohol spilling from Leon’s mouth; the stench of stomach acid and whiskey hit Chris’s nostrils. Leon choked and wheezed for a moment while Redfield shifted him slightly to the side, trying to keep him from vomiting all over himself. After a moment, Leon went even more limp, leaving only the sound of his raspy, uneven breathing. There wasn't a single sign of consciousness on his face.
Chris decided not to risk lifting him back onto the bed just yet. Instead, he slowly moved Leon into a recovery position, laying him on his side on the floor. He bunched up the tangled sheet into a makeshift pillow and slid it under Leon’s head, pulled his knees closer to his chest, and sat back on his heels. He watched every tiny movement, every shift in the body, terrified of what might happen next. Monitoring his breathing, Chris placed one hand between Leon’s shoulder blades, feeling the tremors rippling through his frame.
Chris flinched when Leon’s hand moved uncontrollably – a short twitch of the wrist, as if he were trying to grab something in the air – but the hand dropped back onto the floorboards as quickly as it had risen.
"Keep breathing. Just keep breathing," Chris muttered, his voice hoarse. He found it hard to catch his own breath, his lungs felt constricted, his heart lodged in his throat.
Only when Leon’s breathing became heavier and more rhythmic did Chris cautiously stand up and throw the window wide, letting in the sharp night air. He went straight to the bathroom, grabbed the nearest towel from the rack, soaked it under freezing water, and wrung it out mechanically before returning to the bedroom.
He started with the face, moving with extreme care. Holding Leon’s jaw steady with one hand, he used the other to wipe the forehead, then the dried blood from the cheek, and the remnants of vomit from his mouth and chin. Chris’s eyes drifted to Leon’s t-shirt, now practically glued to his body by sweat and the contents of his stomach. Deciding that undressing him would be logistically impossible in this state, he gripped the collar firmly with both hands and tore it open. The sound of ripping fabric was the only noise in the room for a moment. It was much easier to remove the shirt this way, and it gave him a moment to look at Leon’s torso. He looked haggard – slender, but too slender even for Leon’s frame – and far too pale, now coated in a glistening layer of cold sweat.
Without another thought, Chris wiped down Leon’s front and slid off his pants, which had also been caught in the crossfire, leaving him in just his boxers. He pulled the duvet off the bed and covered him, tucking it in tightly. Then he sat down on the floor beside him, leaning his back against the bed. For a moment, he saw a shoulder move under the covers, Leon’s eyelids twitching slightly, but otherwise, he remained motionless.
"What have you done to yourself..." Chris breathed in a whisper he could barely hear.
He didn't know how long he sat there; he’d lost track of time, but he guessed an hour had passed. Leon hadn't moved, so Chris decided to try putting him back on the bed, more carefully this time. He cleared the bottles from the mattress and set them on the nightstand, uncovered Leon, and, gripping him under the knees and back, lifted him in one slow motion. He laid him on his side on the bed, making sure his head didn't tilt back too far. It worked.
He positioned him on his side in case the nausea returned, then wrapped the duvet up to his chin. Standing for a moment to survey the room through his exhaustion, his gaze settled on the dark stain on the floor. He didn't have the strength to clean it yet, but it reminded him that he needed to change his own clothes.
For now, however, all Chris could manage was to sink onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, and clenched his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. After a moment, he rubbed his face and ran his hands over his forehead and through his hair, sitting motionless for a long time, trying to regulate his emotions. Behind his back, he could hear the quiet, raspy sound of Leon’s breathing.
Rousing himself from his lethargy, Chris pulled off his own shirt in one fluid motion and tossed it into the corner for now. He sat there for a while, feeling the chill from the open window bite at his skin until goosebumps prickled across his flesh. Or perhaps they had been there all along.
***
The light piercing through the window stung Leon’s eyelids even before he managed to open them. He tried to swallow, but it was futile; there wasn't a single drop of moisture in his throat. His temple pulsed rhythmically, giving him the sensation of being struck by a hammer with every heartbeat. The unpleasant throb dragged through his skull down to his stomach, which burned and stabbed. For a moment, Leon didn’t know where he is or why he felt this way.
When he finally forces his eyes open and squints to take in his surroundings, reality hit him like a blow to the cheek. He immediately regretted waking up. Running a tentative hand over his body, he realized he was wearing nothing but his underwear.
And then, he saw Chris.
Redfield was sitting at the other end of the bed, his back resting against the headboard. He looked suspiciously unlike himself. One leg was stretched out, the other bent at the knee, supporting his forearm and his head. He was wearing Leon’s navy blue cotton t-shirt, stretched so tight across his shoulders that Leon could swear the rhythmic creaking of the seams with every breath Redfield took joined the unpleasant ringing in his head.
On the nightstand, right next to the discarded bottles of booze, he saw an empty, crumpled pack of cigarettes, beside it lay another, open, with a few filters poking out. Only now did Leon realize the scent of tobacco had completely claimed the bedroom.
As the images, sounds, and smells finally reached Leon’s senses, a wave of shame and anxiety washed over him. What the hell was Chris doing here? They didn't see each other yesterday – did they? Leon didn't remember letting him into the apartment. It had been a long time since he finished himself off so thoroughly that he remembered absolutely nothing.
Instinctively wanting to escape the awkward situation unfolding before him, Leon tried to sit up, but his body felt like a heap of lead. A piercing pain shot through his muscles, resulting in nothing more than a short, raspy groan.
Redfield straightened up in a split second. One moment he looked like a hunched boulder, the next he was cautiously surveying Leon with a gaze so heavy Leon wanted to vanish beneath the duvet.
"Don't move," Redfield’s voice was low, nearly parched from the tobacco smoke. He immediately reached for the glass of water he’d prepared on the nightstand – the one Leon had missed earlier – and pressed it to his lips, almost forcing the glass against his teeth. Leon didn't even protest, he drank greedily. For the first time in memory, the taste of water was better to him than alcohol.
"What... what are you doing here?" Leon managed to croak out the words once Chris finally pulled the glass away. His voice sounded pathetic.
Redfield didn't answer right away. He stood up from the bed, the shirt – far too small – rode up, exposing a strip of skin and the line of his pubic hair. Walking to the window, he pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. He lit it in silence, throwing the window wide open again as he propped his elbows on the sill. A deep drag followed, and he slowly exhaled the smoke outside.
"I couldn't see you under the bottles, Kennedy," he said gruffly, his back to Leon. "You overdid it."
Leon involuntarily clenched his fingers around the edge of the duvet. Shame began to pulse in his head more painfully than the wound on his temple, which he could now clearly feel beneath his fingertips. He should have expected this. Drinking himself into a blackout was nothing new, but he had always managed before – just like he always did. Yet, driven by persistent embarrassment, he decided he needed to disappear from this room and from Redfield’s sight.
"I'm taking a shower," he announced, trying to force his limbs into some semblance of obedience.
Leon stood up slowly, steadying himself as the world spun before his eyes. Chris didn't answer; he only glanced over his shoulder to make sure Leon didn't faceplant onto the floor. He let him reach the bathroom on his own strength, even though Leon was practically sliding along the wall.
Inside the bathroom, Leon slammed the door shut and leaned against it before deciding on his next move. He was glad he was only in his underwear; if he had to strip completely naked, he was certain he’d vomit. Nausea surged in his throat anyway at the realization that Chris must have undressed him down to these boxers. Shaking his head, he shed the underwear and stepped into the shower, not waiting for the water temperature to even out. He needed to wash away whatever he could – beyond the physical filth, he wanted to rinse off the degradation and the sense of humiliation that won't leave his side. He stood there for a long time, one hand braced against the tiles, watching the water slip lazily down the drain.
Leon emerged from the bathroom in sweatpants he dug out from the bottom of a laundry pile. The water didn't help at all – his hands were still shaking, his skin felt dry and foreign under his touch. One thing was certain: at least he smelled less. In the meantime, Chris had moved from the bedroom to the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with a first-aid kit spread out – the one he’d restocked for Leon himself. Fucking Samaritan. In that undersized shirt, he looked utterly grotesque, but Leon lacked the strength for any snide remarks, the thoughts alone cost him the last of his energy.
"Sit," Redfield said without looking up. His voice left zero room for argument.
Leon sank into the chair opposite him. Chris took out a soaked gauze pad and leaned toward Leon’s temple, cupping his face with one hand. His fingers were rough and cold against Leon’s freshly warmed skin, he smelled of tobacco, the outdoors, and a vague, deep exhaustion. At the touch of the gauze, Leon instinctively tried to pull back, but Chris’s hand tightened on his jaw, pinning him in place. Was Redfield angry at him?
His touch was hard, raw, and efficient. Chris cleaned the split brow without unnecessary tenderness, for a moment, Leon was certain he felt Chris’s hands tremble. He chose the safest option and stayed silent, staring at a point over Chris’s shoulder, trying to ignore how close their faces were. Frustration slowly built within him – not just from Redfield’s presence, but from this forced, unnecessary care. He can take care of himself.
He had to ruin it. He had to reclaim at least a piece of himself.
"Next time, just call a maid, Redfield," he croaked, attempting a crooked smile that only came out as a sour grimace. "It'll be cheaper, and you'll save yourself the laundry."
Chris froze, the gauze pressed to Leon’s temple. For several seconds, Redfield stared straight into his eyes with that heavy, inscrutable gaze. There was no anger in it, though, Leon only saw regret and weariness. He immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
"There won't be a next time. I’ll see to that," he answered quietly, letting go of Leon’s face.
He snapped the first-aid kit shut with a loud click. As he stood, his chair scraped against the floor with a shrill screech that drilled painfully into Leon’s brain. Chris threw his jacket over his shoulders and his backpack over one arm, then slid into his boots.
"The locksmith is coming at noon. Be home," he said sharply, not bothering to give Leon a look.
Leon blinked slowly, trying to process the words through the pulsing pain in his ears.
"What? What are you–"
Redfield didn't answer. He turned on his heel and headed down the hallway toward the exit. Leon sat in a daze for a second, then lunged forward on a sudden impulse – perhaps a scrap of pride, or just as likely, a panicked fear of being left alone. Following him, he wavered on his feet, staying upright had never been this difficult.
"Chris, wait!"
Leon stopped halfway down the hall, seeing Chris already out on the landing, his silhouette vanishing into the gloom of the stairwell. Leon wanted to shut the door behind him, telling himself it’s for the best, that it's better to cut off the sound of those stupid, receding footsteps and that dumb, sympathetic look, and...
Then he noticed it.
In the daylight pouring in from the hallway, the destruction was merciless. The door lock was completely shattered, the metal plate bent at an unnatural angle, splinters of wood protruding like small thorns. The door hung crooked, slightly ajar and impossible to close fully.
Leon froze, his hand still raised. He stared at the sight before him in total bewilderment. Only now, with the physical proof of Chris’s intervention right in front of him, did it hit him what actually happened. So he didn't open the door. Redfield got in himself. Though "got in" was an understatement. The sound of the door splintering – a sound he hadn't heard – and the desperation Chris must have felt – a desperation he’d known nothing about – finally registered.
He remained there in the silence, staring at the undeniable, eloquent damage, while the muffled sound of a car engine starting drifted up from below.