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He's on a chopper, headed to his DSO office in D.C., when he gets a text. To his personal phone, no less. He's about twenty-four hours late for a nap and hungry beyond rational thought, so Leon isn't in the best of headspaces when he checks who was texting him at six thirty-seven in the goddamn morning.
Redfield:
have to quarantine. Maybe stay with Claire for a few days.
Quite a few thoughts spiral into Leon's head in quick succession, quick enough to make his fatigue headache just that much worse.
Chris hadn't been deployed when Leon left to play fancy detail for someone DSO considered important enough. Chris was home. Their home, more accurately, a newly acquired two-story just outside of Alexandria, far enough away to be considered personal but still close enough to a chinese place they could frequent. Why the hell did Chris need to quarantine? Where was he, if not home? He scrolls up through their conversation, as if he had missed a text while he was out of state, but no, the last things they said to each other were the typical be safe sentiments they shared whenever one had to leave. There was nothing indicating Chris had been near an infected zone in the last forty-eight hours.
Leon tries to ignore the hum of the propeller as he slumps into a seat, texting back quickly.
For what?
Where the fuck have you been?
Where are you now?
A lot of questions in one sitting but so be it, it's Redfield's fault for springing this on him. For a guy who worked with a team, Chris tended to try and shoulder a lot of crap on his own and yea, maybe pot calling kettle black but it was Chris' spiel six months ago that convinced Leon they were in this together and he didn't have to be alone anymore. Then came the house and the motorcycle and the fucking picket fence, of all god damn things. He swears the next thing Chris will ask him for is a dog. If Chris went off on some mission in the dead of night and didn't say a word to try and "save Leon some peace", Leon was going to be fucking pissed.
His knee bounces as he sits, watching as little text bubbles appear, indicating Chris was typing.
Redfield:
Home. Relax.
Leon lets out a sigh, realizing the tightness in his chest wasn't just from holding in a breath. It was that creeping anxiety that sprouted its ugly head whenever one of the short list of people he couldn't live without faced something he couldn't fix. But relief doesn't really settle, because he's still confused.
Then why the fuck are you in quarantine if you're home?
He's been in enough decon tents to know they aren't exactly five-star accommodations. The sterile soap and hair products were hardly up to his standards, and it wasn't fun stripping naked in front of people in hazmat suits ready to hose you down or put a bullet through your head depending on how you reacted to sterile solutions. Why the hell would Chris have to decon at their house?
Thankfully, Chris doesn't make him wait too long for a reply.
Redfield:
Cold. I think. Feel like shit. Probably contagious.
Relax.
He doesn't miss the repeated order.
Jesus Christ.
Leon rolls his eyes, which only annoys the dull ache behind his eyebrows further.
Could have opened with that, Redfield
Of course Chris would treat something so mundane as being sick like he were some great burden, like he had to isolate himself and deal with it on his own. Like he didn't want to put anyone out, even if that anyone was his partner of the last three years. Friends-with-benefits for god knows how long before that.
Alright, fine, the kettle is black as sin, he knows, but things were supposed to be different now. Leon's not going to just leave a sick Chris Redfield to wallow in mucus and Vicks VapoRub alone, not if he can do anything about it.
And don't tell me what to do.
I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours, I'm tired and I want to sleep in my own bed.
So eta in two hours.
He can see Chris starting to type more, but Leon beats him to it.
You won't win.
Text me what you want to eat.
They touch down not long after, Leon stuffing his phone into his pocket because whatever argument Chris might come up with is moot at this point. Leon was going to finish up his closing report, stock up at the nearest Walgreens on his way home, and then a grocery store for various soups and crackers. Because that's what sick people needed, right? It's been...a long fucking time since he's had to nurse a cold and not a hangover, but they were basically the same thing, right? Lots of fluids and headaches.
By the time he's submitted his report, Chris sent a single text back, and Leon's ego preens in victory.
Redfield:
Lentil soup.
Asshole.
---
The ride home has him thinking more than he would have liked to, but when did he not?
Being with Chris was easier than he thought it would be as the years went on, because so much of their lives revolved around the same things. They got each other on levels that most of the general populace wouldn't. Couldn't. Probably why they started hooking up years ago whenever they crossed paths. They didn't have to explain everything in great detail to be understood, not the uncertainty or the dread or the skeletons stuffed in closets. They understood more than they didn't. But he'd be lying if he said the entire expanse of their relationship, just friends or something else, had always been easy. They butted heads a lot, especially toward the beginning; mostly Leon being stubborn and Chris even more stubborn than that. The unhealthy coping mechanisms didn't exactly help, either. It's probably why they danced around anything concrete for so damn long, Leon too afraid to try and rely on a foundation that he didn't make, and Chris too afraid to let someone down again.
They figured it out. Eventually.
Now, they live together. Going on four months, and it was good. Really fucking good, actually, almost surreal, because when he enters the front door there's a little bowl for their keys by the door, a coat rack above it, a fucking shoe bin and picture frames with friends and a horror movie poster by the entertainment system that Leon thought was just ironic. It was normal. So deliciously normal. Despite the horrific sights they've seen, the people they've lost, the things they've yet to conquer, Leon's managed to carve out this little place that felt like solid ground that he had to trust wasn't going to break open and swallow him whole the second he let his guard down.
But this felt different. Weirdly enough.
Leon was trained in a lot of things. How to cauterize an open wound with a hot knife? Check. How to effectively disarm a man within 3.4 seconds? Check. How to kill the undead without so much as firing a single shot? Check and fucking check. He could do that in his sleep. Taking care of a sick Chris Redfield, however, was new. Domestic. Sublimely mundane. Just like this house. Just like the coffee maker in the kitchen, like the tools in the back shed, like the matching 'C' and 'L' coffee mugs in the cupboard (a gift from Sherry, he'll never admit how much he loves them.) Why was this, of all things, the task he was feeling anxious about fucking up?
Maybe because it didn't require the two-decades worth of training drilled into him to accomplish. It required care, genuine care, and a willingness to be vulnerable on Chris' part. Leon knows from experience how absolutely terrifying that last one can be. They were both pretty shit at taking care of themselves, but for entirely different reasons that Leon is incredibly aware of. Leon ignored his own needs as some form of self-punishment. Self-sabotage. He was alone for so long, he just got used to it. As tragic as it sounded, it worked for him for awhile. Kept him grounded. Safe. Chris, on the other hand, ignored his own needs because he was too busy giving to everyone else. Pouring from an empty cup. He'd peel back his own skin, let his blood run cold if it meant keeping someone else from doing it. Now, sick and vulnerable, Chris was trying to keep Leon away because he didn't want to cause more harm.
Leon wonders, more often than the sun sets, how he got this lucky. He may be shit at taking care of himself, but he'd take care of Chris Redfield, because it was what he deserved. Even if he has...no idea what he's doing.
But! He can do this. No problem.
Probably.
He doesn't announce himself when he shucks off his jacket at the door, then his shoes, which he remembers to put in the stupid bin. Leon can usually judge Chris' mood by the state of the living room, considering the first thing Chris stopped caring about when he was on a tear was cleanliness. Normally, he was all military efficiency, square-folded blankets and books lined up by the millimeter. But he can see the throw blanket still crumpled on the couch cushions, an empty mug on the coffee table not set on a coaster, and when he ventures to the kitchen, there's dishes in the sink and a cabinet door left open above the fridge. A mysterious liquid stain on the counter beside it.
Yea, Chris must really feel like shit.
That fact solidifies when Leon hears a set of coughs coming from upstairs, thick and wet like someone was emerging from a swamp. The kind that never quite got everything out and only made you cough more. Leon sighs, dropping the few bags he brought in on the kitchen counter before heading up the stairs to their bedroom.
Chris is sitting upright in their king-sized bed, bare from the waist up, the nightstand beside him housing a cup half-empty, a bottle of what he assumes to be painkillers beside it, and a box of tissues with a few used ones crumpled in the empty spaces between everything. Even with the limited light from the bedside lamp and what rising sunlight leaks in from the closed curtains, he can see a flush in Chris' face, the tip of his nose, and he's a little slick with a sheen of sweat.
Chris holds up a hand, "Don't get close to me." It sounds like someone was pinching his nose closed, and it was honestly kind of cute. In a snot-filled contagion kind of way.
Leon can't help but roll his eyes, "We've dealt with some of the sickest viruses on the entire planet, you think I'm scared of a cold?" he's stepping closer into the room, but veers to the side where the en suite bathroom is, finding the little trash can nestled between the sink and toilet. When he comes back, he sets it on the floor beside Chris, and uses the tissue box to push the crumpled tissues off the nightstand and into the bin, "I took some immunity boosters at the office before I left. Government grade, good shit. So unknot your fantastic tits, Redfield."
He can feel the glare on him without even looking in Chris' direction.
"How was the mis-"
"Ah, no. This isn't about me," Leon interrupts, sitting himself on the edge of the bed by Chris' feet. Not only does he want to focus on Chris' well-being, his glorified babysitting mission had felt like a complete waste of two days, and he's just cranky enough to not want to talk about it. He leans forward to press the back of his hand on Chris' forehead. It's damp with sweat and Leon frowns, immediately feeling an unnatural heat, "You've got a fever."
Chris heaves a wet sigh, "No shit."
"I'm going to ignore your sass this time because you're sick," he pulls his hand back, standing to his feet, "But being delightfully sarcastic is my schtick, don't get used to it."
He takes that moment to really look at Chris, letting blue eyes narrow in on his face, his body. Chris won't look at him directly, a clear sign he was either annoyed, ashamed, or some grey area between the two. Maybe both this time. He was trying to sit up straight, but there was an unmistakable hunch to his broad shoulders, and he looked...tired. Maybe more tired than Leon felt. His eyes were lined with dark bags and his skin taut from fatigue. This was what had him concerned on the drive home, if he were being honest. This moment of realization between them both; that Chris was not at his best, but it wasn't a wound or a job that he could see. It was something normal, something he shouldn't have to do alone, but something Chris probably thought he should, given their training. And his ridiculous martyr complex.
He just hopes Chris won't fight him. And that Leon won't hover like an annoying gnat. They'll have to find a balance in between.
Leon places a hand over one of Chris' knees under the blanket, and speaks a little softer this time, "When was the last time you ate?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Still defiant. Leon's not surprised. He'll let Chris have that one, knowing the man always felt better when he was taking care of other people.
"Too long. I'll make us something." his way of a compromise without directly addressing the very sick elephant in the room.
Chris doesn't fight him on that, at least. When Leon turns to leave, Chris is reaching out a hand for his, squeezing his fingers gently, Leon's eyes falling back on his partner's face, "...glad you're home safe."
Leon's heart pangs, achingly fond of the sweaty, miserable, but somehow still very attractive-looking man in his bed, "Me too, big guy."
---
Leon's not that great of a cook, most of his meals when he lived alone either came out of a box or take-out cartons. But he could handle canned soup and bread—the good kind he swiped from the local grocery store's bakery with a crust that crunched when you sliced it. He slathers a few pieces with butter and snacks on it while he heats up lentil soup on the stove, portioning out two bowls that he deposits a hefty slice of bread in each. They're the nice soup bowls with handles on the side, Leon easily makes his way back up to the bedroom not long after leaving Chris the first time, and one of his pockets rustles with the pill bottles he stashed in them as he takes the stairs.
Chris is laying down by the time he comes back, but he's not asleep, Leon can see his eyes open as soon as he hears the door creak open, Chris sitting up while holding a hand to his forehead, no doubt sporting a headache along with all the clogged...everything.
"Soup and bread, a meal for the sick and destitue," he presents Chris with his bowl, taking his own to the other side of the bed so he can set it on his much emptier nightstand. Then, he begins pulling medications from his pockets like a fucked-up drug dealer, "I got uh...nyquil liquigels, those are supposed to knock you out good. Some tylenol, nasal decongestant, and I got that vaporub shit downstairs, and some losenges if you want those too. Couple gatorades, those are good when you're sweating like a whore in church. And a thermometer, I didn't know if we had one already, we should check your temperature. Oh, and-"
"Leon," Chris interrupts him, staring at the various medications now settled atop the duvet, "...did you buy the whole pharmacy?"
Only then does he realize that alright, fine, maybe he went a little overboard. There was still half a bag full of products downstairs on the kitchen counter, whatever he couldn't fit in his pockets. Leon stares at Chris as a heat burns the back of his neck.
He huffs, "It's been awhile since I've dealt with infected that didn't involve a gun, ok? Shut the hell up."
Chris, of all things, laughs. Not a loud one, not one to insult him or point fingers, something small and warm that shakes his shoulders. Leon would have loved it completely if it didn't cause a set of coughs to rumble up Chris's throat, who pulls one of his fists up to cough into it. Leon's own chest tightens in sympathy.
"See? That's what you get. Don't insult your nurse."
"S'that what you are, Kennedy? My nurse?"
"Depends on how nice you are to me." He takes a seat on his side of the bed, pulling his bowl into his lap, "Don't ask me to wear a skimpy outfit, I'll call the union."
Chris smiles, "Don't-...make me laugh right now, it hurts."
"Jokes and shitty puns are like, 90% of my personality. That's a tall order."
"Leon-"
"Ok, ok." Leon leans over enough to press his lips against Chris' bare shoulder, just above a particularly nasty scar he knows to be from a knife some years ago. "Eat your soup, and then take some nyquil. You look like you need sleep more than I do."
"Gee, thanks."
"Don't mention it."
---
Chris does a pretty good job on his meal, eats all the bread and nearly all of the soup, but he stops with about a quarter left in the bowl and calls it quits, considering with all the congestion he can't really taste anything and it's more food for fuel than enjoyment. But it's enough to soothe Leon's worry, taking their bowls back down to the kitchen and returning with a bottle of red gatorade (the best flavor, honestly) and replacing the generic tissues on his nightstand with the good ones, the ones with the lotion in it that were too expensive but hey, Chris Redfield was worth it. He leaves Chris to take a shower, not able to convince the man to take one with him because Chris was truly exhausted, and Leon can't fault him for that. He'll make him shower in the morning, hoping a good night's sleep will help.
Standing under the hot water, Leon tries to recall the last time he's seen Chris at less than his best. Which was hard, honestly, considering even beaten and bloodied, he's seen Chris Redfield defy all odds and kill the undead like it was just a fun thing to do. Sometimes, with his bare fucking hands. Before they moved in together, about a year into something "official" between them, Chris had dragged himself to Leon's apartment rather than his own, claiming Leon's had just been closer at the time. Tried to hide the wounds and bruises from another op he didn't want to talk about. He'd been tight-lipped and curt but still let Leon patch him up, let Leon give him shit for not stopping at medical before trudging all the way to him. Let Leon hold him and kiss him and soothe him like they so often ignored. Even then, it felt different, because he expected it. Bruises healed, wounds closed.
A cold was hardly the end of the world, Leon knows that, but it was something he couldn't fix as quickly as he wanted. And even though he's seen Chris bleeding from head to toe, mashed up like a two-week-old banana just begging to be thrown away, something about how tired Chris looked when he first got home hit somewhere entirely different.
Maybe because he was a stark reminder that the man he loved was still just human.
They both were.
Despite the feats he could achieve, the trials he's overcome, the unimaginable he could do, Chris Redfield was still a man. A man who could run a fever and try to ignore it.
He's always known that, tried to remind Chris often when guilt got the better of him that he was only one man and he couldn't fix the entire world overnight, but still. Seeing it with his own two eyes felt oddly sobering. Significantly important. Like this was something even more private than sewing skin back together, or fucking until he couldn't feel his legs. He wonders how many other people Chris has let see him like this outside of himself, and maybe Claire. If he were anything like Leon (and he is, infuriatingly so sometimes), the list was probably zero.
The water eventually runs cold, Leon sprinting through the last parts of washing up before he hops out of the shower. A quick dry-off, he slips into boxers and one of Chris' shirts that's too big for him and that's exactly why he steals them, returning to the bedroom to find Chris already asleep, rolled over toward the window, his broad back rising and falling in even breaths. The sight softens a part of him Leon long thought dead before Chris bullied his way into his life. He rounds to Chris' bedside, cleaning up a few more used tissues and closing his open drink before resting his hand against Chris' forehead again. He's still hot, hotter than Leon would like, but it's not gotten worse from the last time he checked, and he's loathe to wake Chris from a fitful sleep. He sets an alarm for the morning so he can check again, take his temperature if need be before settling himself in bed beside the other.
He's so tired, only after he lays down does he realize how long he's been awake, and it doesn't take him long to drift off as well.
---
Training has him stirring before he even knows why.
Rarely does he have the luxury on missions to give himself a few groggy minutes to rouse himself, Leon long since perfected the art of snapping back into the world at a moment's notice. His eyes are wide and turning to the sudden noise in the room, the shift in the bed. Chris is beside him like he was when Leon fell asleep, but he's clenching the duvet, on his back, writhing like just lying there caused him immeasurable pain. He's talking, repeating words like don't and please between haggard breaths. The mucus and congestion only make it worse, causing him to nearly choke on his own tongue.
They both had nightmares. It was hard not to, considering the lives they led. If it wasn't Chris jolting awake when the darkness came too close, it was Leon jerking full body like the plagas was still trying to take control. It took some time for them both to not really feel shame from it, even longer to let the other be there for them in comfort, but Leon's gotten pretty good at it. Still, this one hurts in a different way, because even when Leon reaches out for him, takes one of Chris' shoulders to try and pin him in place for fear he'll smack his head or his hands on the headboard, Chris is nearly dripping with sweat. He's hot to the touch, the fever no doubt amplifying whatever it was that was raiding his mind, thoughts boiling over in a fever dream.
Ah, that must be why they called them that.
"Chris," Leon tries to talk over his words, sitting up more and leaning over Chris, one hand pressed into his shoulder, the other trying to cup his face, feel his forehead, wipe the sweat from his brow, "Baby, it's ok, look at me."
Only then does he notice with minute shock that Chris was awake. At least Leon thinks he is, brown eyes open but cloudy and pupils wide. Like he wasn't aware exactly where he was. It feels like it takes Chris too long to register it was Leon in the bed with him, it was Leon leaning over him. When he does, something painful crosses his taunt face.
"Don't go—" Chris all but begs, wide eyes glossy and paranoid. Leon has seen this man face unspeakable beasts and all things inhuman, and yet he can't recall a time Chris has ever looked so afraid, "Don't leave, please, don't leave me."
"I'm not, Chris, I'm right here, look at me and breathe," he tries to reassure, voice firm and louder than he'd like, but he has to try and speak over the commotion, "I'm not leaving, I'm right here with y—"
"It should have been me," Chris says suddenly, a broken sound cutting his words like a hot knife. His eyes water, his face shifts to something more sad than afraid, and he chokes on saliva, "Should have been me, Leon, it always should have been me."
If he were anyone else, Leon's certain he wouldn't quite understand just what Chris was talking about. Unfortunately, he's not anyone else, he's Leon Kennedy, who has buried more bodies in his life than any one person should. The only person he thinks can beat him in the length of his iron chain of regrets is the man lying beneath him.
Chris once called himself a death sentence. The Executioner. Said he had a reputation in the BSAA for sending men to their doom considering the tight spots they always found themselves in. No matter how many times Leon assured him Chris had done everything he could with the knowledge he had at the time, it didn't erase the lives Chris had lost under his command. Lives that Leon knew he took personally. Lives Chris carried with him every day he drew breath. He didn't like talking about it too often, because it made Leon consider his own guilt, how often it ate at him if he didn't actively try to not think of it. How he chose to cope with it with a bottle. Something he's thankfully tried to reign in the last few years but there were still times he struggled. The same reason there was still a bottle of whiskey downstairs was the same reason Chris still had a pack of red's in the nightstand.
Some things just followed you no matter how fast you ran.
Hearing Chris all but wail underneath him, wishing he had been the one to die instead, thinking he deserved it instead, hurts in a way Leon wasn't prepared for. In a way he probably never could be prepared for. Leon feels his throat tighten, his eyes burn. Chris has never said anything like this before. Where Leon tended to carry on in some desperate attempt to remain useful, Chris barreled through everything with a determination that rivaled an orbit. Steadfast, headstrong, like he knew it was his purpose. Had Chris always felt like this, deep down? Did he only keep going because he was afraid to stop? Leon swallows the urge to fight him on his words right then and there, knowing Chris wasn't in his right mind.
"Chris, please," Leon swallows down his own grief like spikes, instead focusing entirely on Chris below him, who's lost some steam the longer he went on, but still obviously distressed in the soft whimpers he makes, the tears still leaking from his eyes. His entire face was red and blotchy, his body still warm to the touch, "It's going to be ok. Just try to breathe."
Chris' desperate pleas, beggings of it should have been me pitter off after a minute or two, body no doubt exhausted, and eventually, Leon doesn't have to hold Chris in place anymore. Chris settles as well as he can, but not before coughing so hard it wracks his entire chest in heaves. Leon tries to ease his head to the side, in case any phlegm dislodged and tried to choke him, waiting until Chris was mostly quiet before reaching across from him and grabbing the acetaminophen off the bedside table.
It takes some coaxing, Chris all but boneless, but Leon manages to sit him up, make him swallow a few pills in hopes of reducing the fever. Only when he's satisfied Chris has swallowed them all does he let the man lay back down again, urging him onto his side facing Leon so he can keep an eye on Chris' face. He grabs a few tissues, gently sopping up the tears and saliva and mucus, trying to ignore how hot Chris' skin felt under his fingers. The captain had tired himself out, something Leon isn't sure if he should be upset or thankful about, it doesn't take him much longer before he's snoring again, his face far more relaxed than it had been ten minutes ago.
Leon doesn't fall back to sleep for a long time.
---
Judging by Chris' demeanor in the morning, he doesn't remember any of last night. At least, not the part that was playing on repeat in Leon's head since he woke from the few hours of rest he managed to get. Part of him wants to bring it up, knows he needs to, but he can't quite bring himself to when Chris was still miserable and barely conscious most of the day. At least his fever broke during the night, one quick temperature check before Chris chokes down some eggs and toast reads a hot but not alarming 99.8 degrees. Chris tried to be cute when he claimed he ran hot with a piece of toast in his mouth.
"I'm well aware," Leon quips back, tossing him another gatorade. To Chris' credit, even sick as a dog, his reflexes are up to par. He catches it easily, "Eat your eggs, then strip."
"Leon..." Chris tries to sound incredulous. Fails miserably considering it still sounds like someone put a clothespin over his nose.
"You stink, you sweat like a hog all night and you need a bath." he leaves out the rest of the events of the night, at least for now, and motions to the bed, "I'll change the sheets while you're in there."
"I don't need a bath, I'm not a child."
"Also well aware, but I'm not joining you, and I don't trust you not to fall over like the old man you are in the shower."
"Old man? I'm only a few years older than-"
Leon cuts him off, miming a phone by his ear, "I can hear it now, oh help me officer! I've fallen and broken my hip!" a pillow is swiftly tossed at his face, Leon catching it just in time before it collides.
"You're the worst nurse I've ever had."
"Uh huh. Well, you're stuck with me. I'll get you a life alert for your birthday." he lobs the pillow back on his side of the bed, turning to head for the bathroom, "You're taking a bath."
He doesn't hear the sound of Chris' groaning as he runs the water.
---
The bath was a good idea, for more reasons than one. It lets Leon be alone with his thoughts for a little bit while he changes the sheets, trying to decide if what Chris had dreamt about the night before was just a one-off thing, or if this was something he struggled with normally. In either scenario, Leon wants to talk about it, which was a first because like hell he ever wanted to talk about shit like that. Emotions deeper than a puddle were not his specialty, it was usually Chris trying to drag out the darker parts of himself to see the light of day for the first time in years. Not like either of them were good at expressing feelings, Chris just had a better approach, considering he was a leader more often than he wasn't. Lead by example. Chris went to company-mandated therapy more to show the other recruits it was ok to do so, not because he wanted to. And even then, Chris picked up habits that, as loathe as Leon was to admit it, were helpful. Like not letting things fester and become resentment. Leon didn't want this to become one of those things.
The bath also rendered Chris pretty pliant and tired, the warm water and steam helpful in breaking up some of his congestion and sore body. By the time Leon got him back into bed, Chris barely was awake long enough to take some more medication before he was passed out again. If Leon wanted to bring anything up to him, he wasn't given the opportunity. Which is fine. Thankfully Chris doesn't repeat the same episode as he slumbers most of the day away, only a few tosses and turns and grumpy groans when Leon wakes him periodically to feed him more medicine, more water, something resembling a full meal. Box macaroni and cheese might not be a balanced dinner, but Chris ate most of it and that was a win in Leon's book.
After dinner, he has a thought to call Claire. They talk more frequently than they used to, which wasn't saying much to be fair, but Leon was indeed trying. Better than texting once every two months and then disappearing for another two. As much as he loves her, as close as she is to him, she felt almost dangerous with how he felt about her brother. Back in the beginning, he had this stupid notion that, if he talked to her more, she would somehow figure out that he was sleeping with her brother, and slowly but surely growing more attached to him than he realized. Something Leon hadn't been ready to admit to himself for a stupidly long time. The whole idea was stupid, he knows that now, but some habits were hard to break.
Plus, what would he say? If Chris hadn't reached out to her for help while Leon was gone, then he probably did so for a reason. It's not even the sickness he wants to talk about. He wants to ask what kind of guilt her brother carried. If Chris ever shared with her secrets he never told anyone else. Which was also stupid, it would only alarm her more than some stupid cold, and Chris would be pissed at him for it. As close as the Redfield siblings were, Leon knows better than most how hard Chris tried to protect Claire from heartache, even from himself.
He dramatically flops himself face-first onto their comfortable couch in the living room, groaning into the cushions. He remembers how long it took them to pick this one out at the furniture store, because they needed one that could fit them both. He remembers Chris putting his glorious ass in about 15 different types before sitting on this one and deciding it was a winner. Leon had pretended to not give a shit what they picked out but Chris was so stubborn on making them choose together, he tugged Leon down into the floor model and tucked him close under his strong arm, like they weren't in the middle of a Rooms-to-Go showroom in buttfuck nowhere, Virginia.
...it was a comfortable couch.
Leon rolls onto his back, pulling out his phone, texting Claire instead of calling. Texting was safer.
has your brother always been a grumpy fucking bear when he's sick?
He rests his phone on his chest, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't expect a reply right away, not even sure what timezone Claire was in at the moment, so he's a little surprised when a few minutes later, his phone buzzes.
Claire:
Oh yea.
stubborn and smelly.
Leon can't help the soft chuckle that gets out of him.
I mourn the days you lost in your youth to that.
Claire is texting back pretty quickly. She must not have been busy at the moment.
Claire:
You need any tips?
He bounces back quick, usually. Just a couple days of grumpy, then he's back to regular amounts of grumpy.
He likes that they can go awhile without talking, only to start up again like they hadn't missed any time. Claire was good at that. He only feels moderately guilty that it's usually him who lets the space accumulate more often then she does.
good to know. I think I got it under control.
A pause. Then he types:
thanks, Claire.
Not just for this brief respite, but for more than that. For the things he can't say, the things he's never said. For keeping Chris going longer than Leon has. For keeping Leon going, sometimes. Claire can't know all that weight, and still she responds without hesitation.
Claire:
always.
---
By the third day, Chris is up more, but rarely leaves the bedroom. He is awake enough to eat breakfast, though his cough sounds worse. Which, from what he remembers, is kind of good considering all the congestion is breaking down, but it sounds absolutely horrid and Chris' throat is raw, he can barely talk. He's eating cough drops like candy and drinking more water than a fish. Leon runs out to get more gatorade at some point, more tissues and some pistachio ice cream that they both eat almost the entire carton of like they're kids again. Leon slips away at one point to text Hunnigan, and ask she keep him off call for the next few days if she could swing it. She's not happy about it (she rarely is) but as usual, comes through and tells him to let her know when she can put him in rotation again. Thankfully, she doesn't ask why.
When he comes back into the room, Chris looks up from watching something on his phone, pointing to it and then Leon with a questioning look on his face.
"What's that? Is Timmy in a well?" Leon jokes, catching on quickly that Chris was trying to mime what he wants to know rather than talk. Chris is not nearly as amused, brows knit together in a half-hearted glare, "Is there a leak at the dam? What is it, Lassie?"
"F'ck 'ou-" Chris groans, his voice sounding positively ragged. Enough so Leon drops the joke and gives in quicker than he normally would have. It must hurt to talk.
"It was Hunnigan," before Chris can try and ask further, Leon clarifies on his own, "Just asked her for a few more days, that's all."
Chris doesn't look happy about that either, for some reason. It takes Leon a few seconds before he thinks he understands why.
"It's not a problem. I'm owed more PTO than I think I have years left to live."
Ok, bad joke. Chris rolls his eyes as Leon comes over to sit in the bed beside him.
"Stop acting like you're some big inconvenience, Redfield. Weren't you the one that told me when we moved in we're in this together? Let me take care of you, for once." Chris can't hold his lazy glare any more at that, because they both know he said it, because Leon got all teary like an idiot when they walked through the front door for the first time. It was all Leon could do to convince Chris not to carry him in like some new blushing bride.
Chris raises a hand, cupping the side of Leon's face, dragging his thumb just under his eye. Leon stares at him a moment, Chris managing to garble out, "I love you," and Leon can't think of a time he's ever believed someone more. He leans into Chris warm palm before turning his head enough to press his lips in the center of it.
"Love you too, boss. I got you covered. Just rest."
And he does. They don't really follow a schedule as the third day bleeds into the fourth, both Chris and Leon sleeping when they can, Leon checking in every so often to bring something to eat, more medicine, fluids, he even offers a neti pot at one point, something Chris is both confused and horrified by. Even the fact it was shaped like a baby pink elephant didn't entice enough to use it, but Leon stashes it under the bathroom sink anyway.
----
By the end of the week, Chris is mostly through the woods. Not at his best, but even Chris Redfield's subpar was better than the average Joe's prime. His head was clearer, he was awake more, and Leon had even caught him pecking at his laptop that morning over coffee in the kitchen, trying to respond to emails and catch up on work despite taking sick leave that probably collected so much dust it could have been considered antique. Leon was quick to take the device from him and store it under the bed. As handsome as he found Chris to be in his reading glasses, squinting at a laptop screen like an old man just learning what a cell phone was, Leon knows he deserved some peace and quiet. At least for a little bit longer.
When he comes back into the kitchen, Chris is still sitting at the table, sans laptop, a mug of coffee in his hands. Leon steps closer, close enough to press the back of his hand against Chris' forehead, who just blinks up at him a few times. The lack of heat he feels is comforting, mind settling on the fact that Chris really was on the mend. He didn't look nearly as miserable anymore.
"I feel fine." Chris tuts into his cup. He even sounded better.
"I've heard you say that with a bullet in your shoulder before, sorry if you're not the most reliable source."
Chris sets down his mug, grabbing for Leon's waist before he could move out of range. If he wanted, he could incapacitate Redfield in about fifteen different ways due to the proximity, but thankfully, he doesn't want to, instead allowing his body to be tugged closer. Chris' face burrows toward Leon's side, Leon feeling a slight pinch over his shirt as teeth nip in a playful gesture. Leon flinches, but stays close. Even allows Chris' strong arms to drag him into his lap, body now stuck between the edge of the kitchen table and Chris' broad chest.
They've been avoiding too much contact during Chris' cold, despite Leon insisting he felt fine and, really, the boosters he took at the office six days ago were doing a fine job. You just couldn't be too careful. They've gone longer without physical touch before, missions turned to weeks turned to months, and still his body recalls how much it missed his partner's the second he's wrapped in Chris' arms. Not an ache, a reminder instead, like remembering where you set your keys down when you first came home. Safe and secure, right where you left it. What started as laugher pitters off into a content sort of noise as Chris buries his face against Leon's neck, the gentle scratch of grown-out stubble almost as satisfying as the lips that kiss his pulse.
"Still the worst nurse I've ever had," Chris murmurs, breath warm, stealing a few more kisses to Leon's throat before letting him go, "But you're fun to look at."
Leon stands, hand to his chest as he sucks in a dramatic gasp for added effect, "Well I've never." He snatches Chris' coffee from the table, which elicits a feeble rebuttal from Chris. Leon pays him no mind, turning back to the counter to dump out the last dregs of it, and pour Chris a fresh cup from the pot. They went with an old-fashioned diner coffee maker, always thought the taste was better and considering they drank the stuff like it was going out of style, a full pot never went to waste. One spoonful of sugar and a dollop of milk later, he returns to the table and presents the fresh cup.
Chris is watching him with an expression Leon can only describe as warm. Relaxed, face soft and unbearably fond. Leon's chest tightens a little, remembering how this same face looked at him six nights ago, covered in sweat and tears ans insisting he deserved to be dead.
"You're thinking."
Leon must not have schooled his expression like he usually does, Chris catches on his mind wandered. Sometimes, he loves that Chris knows him as well as he does. Others, it just makes him feel exposed. They don't hide things from each other anymore though, he reminds himself. They weren't supposed to anyway. Not about things like this. He takes a moment, trying to decide the safest route to approach, sitting himself beside Chris at the table. The air in the room shifts almost audibly, like it were making space for the two of them.
"You ever think about dying?" he just comes out and asks, deciding to rip the band-aid off all at once. Leon wasn't always tactful when he spoke, he doesn't think he has to start now. It makes Chris stop and look at him full on. Confusion is evident on his face, but he at least answers with honesty.
"...kinda have to, considering what we do. Where's this coming from? It was just a cold."
Chris is right, mostly. Going up against undead cults and demon bugs and all manner of unsightly, it was a gamble every time they stepped outside. Maybe he should have phrased it better, but that's not what he was asking. He has a feeling Chris knows that. Leon chews on the inside of his cheek a moment, realizing deep down the only way they'll get through this conversation without avoidance or something more sinister was offering a piece of himself up, first. A white flag, a hand extended over a void he's not sure Chris has ever stared straight into.
"You know, after Raccoon City, I thought about it a lot," he starts, "not just all the people that died, but about me dying. If...if I wanted to, or not."
Chris has gone eerily quiet, so much so he can hardly hear him breathe anymore, even over the lingering mucus in his chest. Leon doesn't look at him right away, for fear the expression will stop him cold.
"It fucked me up for awhile. Still does," so much so he rarely talks about it, one of the few things neither Chris nor Claire ever press him on even though they had a right to, "I was a terrified kid, barely twenty-one, I didn't know anything and it...stole a part of me, you know? A part I'm never gonna get back. And then the government put me through training so fucked up it almost did the job for me. And the hits just kept coming. After Spain, after losing my first real team, being betrayed over and over again, after...after everything. I thought about it sometimes."
He leaves it vague, not wanting to clarify just how often sometimes was. Their lives have been far from kind, that wasn't exactly a secret between them. Granted, there are things they still didn't say out in the open but knew existed. Like a hole in a road you didn't own—steer past it, or pop a tire. It was your choice. Just because they didn't speak life to them didn't mean they didn't exist.
"Would have been easy, too. We know where to shoot, to make it quick. We know things people shouldn't. But then I'd think about Sherry. About Claire. About how I owed it to the people that relied on me, the people that I saved to keep going. Especially for the people I couldn't save. I owe it to them to keep going, you know?"
Chris remains quiet. Leon chances a glance to him, and surprisingly, he's not as horrified as Leon thought he'd be. Sad, sure, he can see it in the creases in Chris' forehead. But he's not shocked. Like a part of him was expecting what Leon said, which only hurts Leon all over again, like he's back in bed, holding Chris down while he cries over the guilt he shoulders.
"...do you still think about it?" Chris asks.
"Sometimes," he answers honestly, "but now I know I wouldn't do it. Couldn't, really. But the thought still happens. Like the sun setting, it just does." Leon pauses, watching Chris' expression before he speaks again, "Do you?"
For a moment, Chris looks surprised. Like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, a kid up past bedtime or a wife caught lying with a lover. Chris trains his face pretty quickly, more confused now than anything, but Leon had seen it.
"I wouldn't."
"That's not what I asked."
Deep down, Leon trusts Chris enough to believe him. That he wouldn't ever go that far, no matter how bad the hurt got. He had too much in this life, more than Leon thought he did at one point. But that didn't mean the pain he carried hurt any less.
When Chris doesn't offer any more right away, Leon continues.
"The first night. After I got home and put you to bed. You spiked a fever. Had a nightmare-"
"S'not the first time."
"You told me it should have been you. That is always should have been you. You've never said that before."
Chris' mouth closes quickly after that, snapped shut and jaw tight. His lack of an answer is answer enough.
"I'd be a real fucking hypocrite to tell you not to think like that, but I still want to tell you anyway. Especially since you pulled me back from places like that before. How do I do that for you? You're...you're so damn good, Chris. You're the best person I know, and I wish you didn't feel like it's always your fault."
"How is it not my fault?" Chris' voice sounds thin. The closest to scared Leon can recall in a while, "When you're in charge, it comes with it."
"Don't do that," Leon warns, "You can't blame yourself for the fucked up shit other people do. No one can predict just how messed up these people are. The fact you keep coming back to stop them is what matters-"
"But I keep coming back, that's the problem," Chris holds his mug so tight Leon can see white over his knuckles, moderately afraid he's strong enough to break the hole thing, "Not just me, squads. People I trust. People I have to get to know because I'm supposed to protect them and I don't. I can't. I-" a pause. Chris takes in a slow breath through his nose, and he doesn't continue speaking right away. Leon knows to be patient, if he just waits Chris will find the words.
"...I didn't think about it a lot. Tried not to. Not before—not until Piers." He says the name like something religious. Quiet, slow, as if speaking his name into the world would make him die all over again. Leon's heart falls crooked, watching Chris stare down at his still steaming cup of coffee like it would sprout hands and choke him at any moment, as if he deserved the shame. Leon knew Piers. Not like Chris did, but he knew the kid was as dedicated as the rest of them, maybe even moreso. Someone Chris had put so much hope and trust into because he wanted to leave the world better than he found it, and he believed with his whole chest that Piers Nivans was a man who could do that. The same man who helped draw Chris out of a hole Leon himself wasn't able to and trusted Chris as much as Leon did.
And then he died to save Chris' life.
For some reason, Leon thinks of Luis.
"He made a choice." Leon says after a moment, cautiously, despite knowing he was right. Doesn't make it hurt less.
The huff Chris lets out is bitter, head shaking gently, "You don't think I know that?"
"I'm not trying to say it was the right one or the wrong one, Chris. What I'm saying is it was his, not yours. Carrying it like it was your decision would piss him off, and you know that."
Chris doesn't speak for awhile. The silence is thick, thick enough Leon thinks he might choke on it if he took too deep a breath. Just as Leon avoided talking about Raccoon City, Chris avoided talking about Piers. About Edonia. All the work Chris did to get his memories back, and it still hurt him in the end. Sympathy felt pointless, sometimes. Like pity's ugly stepcousin, too close to something like a wound. But Leon feels it all the same.
"...I wouldn't." Chris repeats after a while. Leon knows then that was all he was going to get from the man, at least for now.
Maybe he should insist, try to make Chris understand just how highly Leon thinks of him even at his lowest. Even sick and feverish, angry and obstinant, or lost in his own mind, Leon always trusted Chris to do the right thing. Because he always had. A lesser man would have turned tail and ran the moment they escaped hell the first time in the mountains, but Chris dove back into the deep end, head first, despite everything he could lose. Leon was coerced, Chris had gone willingly because he couldn't stomach the thought of doing nothing. Chris isn't the kind of man to take sentiment like that head-on, though. Call it stubbornness or humility or some shade between the two. Every war won had casualties, and Chris weighed each one on a scale that never tipped in his favor. Just because someone you cared about saw the best of you didn't make them suddenly have your eyes. Chris saw what he saw. All Leon can do is remind him of what Leon sees when he looks at Chris. Continue to take care of him in ways no one else could.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
Leon reaches over, fingers curling around one of Chris' wrists, urging his death grip on his coffee mug loose so he can take his hand, "Good." his fingers tighten a little, urging with his eyes for Chris to look at him. When brown gaze rises to meet his own, Leon leans over in his chair, close enough to take Chris' lips in a kiss. Firm, purposeful. A return to the status quo, "I love you."
Chris softens. Leon can feel it in his posture, in his mouth, his entire presence. Even rubs their noses together, and Leon's body warms, not realizing how cold the conversation made him until it's passed, "I know."
Leon leans back, eyebrow raised, "...did you just Han Solo me?"
The joke is an offering. A bridge over the void. The topic not closed but shelved. Chris chuckles, soft. Familiar, "What of it?"
"Oh, well, you're feeling better if you can quote Star Wars at me when I'm trying to be emotional with you."
"Yea, well, maybe my nurse wasn't so bad after all."
"You're damn right," Leon crosses arms over his chest, not bothering to dim his smug expression, "I didn't put you in an assless gown or make you wear those grippy socks."
He stands from his chair, turning toward the kitchen counter, only to feel a hand reach out and land on his waist, turning him back around again. Leon easily lets Chris guide him, who has turned sideways in his chair so Leon can slot effortlessly between his spread knees. Arms rest along Chris' broad shoulders, hands clasped behind his head while brown eyes stare up at him. Clearer than they have been in days. Soft. Warm.
"Thank you," Chris says eventually, breaking gaze to lean his head forward, pressing it just below Leon's sternum, "for taking care of me."
Leon cups his hand against the back of Chris' head, nails scratching gently between short brown hair, just to touch. To soothe. He tries not to think of how many times this skull has been cracked open, how many thoughts weigh it down, relishing in the moment he can bring some kind of peace to their otherwise noisy reality. He leans down enough to kiss the crown of Chris' head.
"Someone has to," he murmurs, voice undeniably soft, "since you suck at doing it yourself."
"Says the guy who thinks two cups of coffee and a snickers bar is a full meal." Chris' voice is muffled in his chest.
"Eat me."
Hands around his waist tighten, "Ask nicely."
"You stink," he teases, gives the hair under his nose a sniff for dramatic effect, "Shower first, then you can pay me back for the five-star service I provided."
Chris leans back just enough to look at him, for a moment Leon thinks he's going to mock offense, claim he smells like roses or something, but instead, gaze is dewy and warm. Leon would make fun of him if it weren't so fucking endearing.
"Join me?"
And he's utterly defenseless, he can't possibly say no, "Yea. Alright."
---
They set the water in the shower just hot enough to not be considered scalding, steam rising before they even get in. It was a standing shower they spent a little money putting in, with an overhead nozzle that felt like rain if you closed your eyes and used some imagination. Chris is all hands when they get in, Leon barely closing the glass door before fingers tug him by his hips. But it's not a desperate kind of need, the kind they slip in to when returning from an op, sliding past calls too close for comfort. It was something more muted, but still prominent, Chris pulling him close to his chest, dipping his face into Leon's wet neck. Touching just to touch, not a fevered need. A reminder. He feels lips over the scar at his shoulder, a gunshot wound that never healed right, just as Chris brushes calloused fingers over the dips in the small of his back. There's a scar that spans over his left hipbone, a claw he thinks, curling from back to front, and Chris runs over it from memory, slow and steady. Up, then, up his ribs that would have tickled if the hand wasn't so warm, Chris taking time to feel each bump of bone under his wet skin.
Leon realizes very quickly that this was Chris' way of taking care of him in return. Taking care of himself, too. Leeching a solid warmth, a steady heartbeat, something a man who feared emptiness more than death needed like a spring needed rain. It was a reminder for Leon as well, that Chris was here, he was here and present and he would be for as long as they could cheat death. I wouldn't Chris said. And Leon believes him. Maybe it was fucked up to put your worth in someone else's hands but so be it, Leon's been fucked up for awhile and he's ok with that. Because someone like Chris Redfield could hold him like this, in a way that kept all the pieces together, and Leon would do the same.
"Chris," he breathes up to the showerhead, feeling lips trail along his throat, settling his hands on Chris' biceps. He's not sure what he wants to say, there's too much on the tip of his tongue. Chris seems to understand anyway.
"Yea." breath splashes warm over his pulse.
The rhythm is familiar after that. The glass of the shower door is cool against his bare chest, his cheek, breath hot and quick. Chris takes his time, pulls him apart with the efficiency he does everything with. He breathes warm praises into Leon's shoulder blades while his fingers work him open. Efficient, practiced, methodical. Chris doesn't tease, he doesn't beg, he just takes exactly what Leon gives, and when he finally presses inside, Leon is struck with the relatively new, but intense satisfaction of coming home. He's never had that feeling before, not until this. How the hell they went so long without just giving in and having this for themselves, he has no idea. If he could go back in time and smack himself at thirty-two, he would do it twice just for good measure.
His hand pressed against the glass is taken by a larger one, fingers slotting together as Chris grips fast.
"Please." the tug of pleasure pulls taut behind his gut, forehead resting against the shower door, eyes closed tight. Chris' thrusts are full. Deep. Slow in the way someone savors.
"I've got you."
Leon feels a hand take his length and pump, his body trembling with a release that slams into him so hard his knees almost buckle. Chris' firm arm around his waist keeps him upright, and it doesn't take long for Chris to follow after. He is malleable in the other's grasp, letting Chris pull him up, back toward his warm, panting chest. His reward is lazy kisses along his cheek, his neck, eyes closed so the soft spray of water can cascade down and wash the remnants of the act.
By the time he finds his wits again, the hot water has turned lukewarm. They have to rush through actual scrubbing, but Leon doesn't waste the opportunity to wash Chris' hair with his own products, not letting the captain stick with his all-in-one nonsense he swore by. When they exit the shower they both smell a lot better and Chris doesn't bother to hide his amusement that Leon's legs are still trying to get with the program. It's been nearly a week since he's been dicked down, give him a little slack.
"Don't look so smug, your face might stick that way." Leon tosses a towel at said face once he's finished drying off his hair. He's nearly in bed when Chris comes up behind him, collecting Leon in his arms at the waist and all but tugged Leon back against his chest.
"Sorry, just like knowing I did a good job." Leon's head tilts to the side to allow lips on his jaw. Sometimes, Chris' affection was overwhelming. A steady need for reassurance through touch. Thankfully, he's had time to get used to it. Crave it, even. But he can't let Chris catch on, of course not.
"You're like a dog, I swear." he tries to sound annoyed, fails, turning himself in Chris' grip to face him, "Shave, your beard gave me rugburn." He pinches Chris' face between his thumb and pointer finger. The five-o'clock shadow had sufficiently grown past a mere shadow and was trudging into 'homeless man' territory by now. Chris pouts of all things. Leon rolls his eyes, "Otherwise, ten-out-of-ten performance."
That perks Chris up again. An actual fucking dog, praise and all.
---
"Leon." Chris' voice sounds far away the next morning. Leon's head feels heavy, and he's alarmed at how long it takes him to resurface from sleep. Sluggish, bogged down, when he cracks his eyes open, his head protests almost immediately.
"Five more minutes-" he whines.
"Leon, you're burning up." a hand presses flat on his forehead, under his bangs.
"'mpossible-" he presses his face against his pillow. When he tries to swallow, he finds the back of his throat irritatingly dry, and his tongue feels like it doesn't fit quite right in his mouth.
...Shit.
"Yea, shit." Chris huffs. Did Leon say that out loud? "So much for those immunity boosters."
Leon heaves himself up into a sitting position, trying but failing to ignore the steady pound in his head. Chris is already leaving the bedroom, mumbling something about I told you so that Leon tries not to hear. A breath through his nose is near impossible, both nostrils stopped up harder than the Hoover Dam. He steals one of the tissues from Chris' nightstand, but blowing into it does nothing but irritate the growing headache.
Chris returns with a bottle of gatorade, and two pills in hand, "Guess it's your turn then."
Leon groans, nondsicript and irritated, and he refuses the pills at first on principle, "M'fIne."
"Leon I swear to god, take these and go back to sleep or I'm calling Rebecca over to drug you."
"Kinky." They stare off for a long stretch, neither backing down until eventually, annoyingly, Leon rolls his eyes, headache be damned, and takes the pills and bottle. Chris makes quick work of transferring his sick essentials from his own bedside table to Leon's. By the time he's finished, Leon's already laying himself back down into their plush mattress, ready to sleep it off like he's done many a hangover.
Later, he'll blame the fever, but before Chris can move too far, Leon grabs his wrist, and squeezes.
"...lay with me?"
Chris only contemplates the request a moment, barely a second, before giving in without much fuss, "You're gonna be a big baby the entire time, aren't you?" he sighs. Hands are steady but gentle when they scoot Leon toward the center of the bed, making enough room to nestle beside him. Leon immediately turns toward his solid mass of a chest and buries himself against it. Chris shifts, pulling the covers back up over them both.
"Probably."
"Can't wait."
And Chris actually sounds happy about it.