Chapter Text
“No, absolutely not!”
Leon is livid, standing in Hunnigan’s office, grinding his teeth together so forcefully he’s surprised he doesn’t chip one of them.
“Leon, would you listen to me for one minute?”
She tries to get through to him but he doesn’t want to hear it, it’s enough that they’ve canceled his vacation again, but to ask this of him– is utterly humiliating.
“I said, I am not doing it!”
He digs around in his pants pocket, grasps the dark blue chip he finds there tightly between his thumb and index finger and bangs it on Hunnigan’s desk, leaving it between them like a beacon to remind her of what she’s demanding.
“You might as well just take it now.”
Six months of sobriety. Weekly AA meetings. A prescription for SSRIs, he isn’t dumping in the trash. He’s really trying to be better, he is , but he knows having to accept this mission, will make all of that be for naught.
“I wouldn’t ask you, if I wasn’t sure you could do it.”
She slides the coin back towards him. ‘To thine own self be true.’ Is embossed on one side and Leon wants to believe it’s not just an empty phrase.
“It’s not you calling the shots here though, is it? They know Ingrid, I don’t know how but they do. And now they send me on this ludicrous mission just to prove it, because they think none of the others would do it.”
He balls his hands into fists, fixating on the shimmering blue coin, not looking at Hunnigan.
To thine own self be true.
It says but this feels more like he’s cattle being herded to the butcher. He hadn’t even officially come out at work, had no intention of doing so either, but some rumours must’ve made it through anyway, which was why his superiors saw it fit to assign him to this ridiculous mission to begin with. In his left temple, he can sense a migraine building up.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
Hunnigan doesn’t get it, hasn’t seen how people tend to look at him, one glance usually enough for them to clock him as something ‘Other’ , even if they don’t have the correct words for it right away. Ever since he’s been with the DSO though, luckily it stayed within the realm of derisive comments. He can live with the whispers behind his back but he doubts he can keep it together should one of them cross a line.
“Besides, it’s just gathering intel, I thought you’d be relieved.” She continues.
Except it never is just that, how often has USSTRATCOM, or DSO, or whoever called the shots at that time, sent him into a ‘quick’ and ‘easy’ mission just for things to go tits up, as soon as he arrived? Hell, even Spain had started as a scouting mission.
“It doesn’t matter, I said I’m not doing it.” He shakes his head, resolutely crossing his arms.
Hunnigan looks at him like she’s trying to figure out how to tell him, he doesn’t have a choice. But Leon already knows, if he’d really wanted to avoid this conversation he wouldn’t have come here in the first place. Dumb as he is, he’d just hoped a ‘No’ from him would be enough this time.
It never is though, is it?
“Leon,” She pleads with him, pushing herself up from the office chair and piercing him with her gaze. “Top brass has already made the necessary preparations.”
He picks up the chip again, running his thumb over the minting. Six months, one week and three days of being sober. This job is killing him.
“Of course,” He drops his head to stare at the coin in his hand. “What’re the details?”
Hunnigan gestures for him to sit down, taking a seat in her own chair again and opening the file laying ready by her side. Leon swallows against the heavy feeling in his chest, tucking his memento back into the pocket of his dress pants and pushes the creeping dread as far down as possible.
“You’re going to assume the identity of one Mr. Carpenter, the son of a wealthy arms dealer and married to his husband of five years.” She begins. “They have gotten an invitation recently, offering them a trip to Europe for a business meeting. The DSO currently has both Mr. Carpenter and his husband detained and were able to interfere with their prior communication regarding the invitation, which gives us the perfect opportunity to infiltrate this meeting and possibly expose both the company presenting their products, as well as their buyers.” Elaborating on her prior pitch, he had interrupted, she flicks through the manila folder and pulls several documents from it, presenting them to him.
“Sounds easy enough, where’s the drawback?”
He looks over the pages Hunnigan has accumulated. The mugshots of the disgruntled pair strike him in particular, one of them eerily similar to Leon, albeit a few years younger, while the other looks like the brutish type, all broad shoulders and sharp edges, his eyes glaring darkly from a mop of brown curls.
“Who is he?” He asks, pointing at the older one of the two.
“That would be the other half of the happy couple. He’s relatively new money, having dealt with stocks for a few years before he got lucky and invested in the right company at the right time.”
Leon hums at that, regarding the two with a keen eye for a moment, until he moves on to the other pages. It’s more info on their subjects and their companies, that he can’t help but sneer at, when he reads how filthy rich both of them are. More money on their bank accounts than any one person can spend in a lifetime, meanwhile there are people starving on the streets. But all that those dickheads know to do with their riches, is to invest it in more death and suffering. God how he hated them all.
“So, who’s the unlucky bastard that’ll be my mission partner?” He asks nonchalantly, though he can feel how his muscles have locked up, cold sweat standing on his neck.
He has no intention of playing gay chicken with some green handed rookie for a week, who hasn’t seen a day in the field. Of course if Leon would get to have his pick, he’d know a guy who he’d just love to shamelessly flirt with for the time. But there’s no way he’d ever be that lucky. Here’s to hoping whoever accompanies him, won’t be so violently homophobic, as to jeopardize the mission.
“Chris Redfield.” Hunnigan states, her hands folded neatly on her desk, face absolutely neutral.
Leon freezes on the spot and can tell blood is already rushing to tinge his cheeks red, as his brain processes what has just been said.
“He isn’t even DSO.” He blurts out, making an effort not to sound too offended.
He’s been trying to kill that unfortunate crush, ever since they first shook hands and even though he’d love the opportunity in fantasy, being required to feign a whole marriage with someone who would never even consider dating him, is more than just cruel. Even in his books.
“The DSO and BSAA have worked together in preparation for this endeavor and since no one in our department volunteered for the mission I thought it was only reasonable to get them involved. The DSO has approved of it too.” She says it almost clinically.
Leon can feel his stomach tying itself into knots with nervosity. He doesn't want to be doing this in the first place, scared he'll fall off the wagon again and now he'll have to worry about ruining one of the few friendships he has on top of that.
"Does he know?" He asks, because he can't imagine Chris being fine with that either.
There’s no way Chris would be fine with that, so he’s gotta ask, maybe even getting both of them an out, Hunnigan though only nods mutely, her eyes glinting with consideration, before she decides to speak.
"He specifically requested I put him on the team."
She smiles at him for the first time since they've been having this discussion but Leon can only frown back, anxiety stirring in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he presses his thumb into the bandage on his wrist, until he can feel the sting.
"Okay."
He turns his head away, the headache is getting worse and the office is too brightly lit. Even if he complains, Leon doesn't get to make decisions. It could be worse. He should be glad it's Chris.
"You don't sound too happy." Hunnigan leans forward, reaching out with her narrow hand, hovering it between them like an offering.
Leon hasn't been feeling well for a long time, doubts he still knows what that is like. Sure, the pills she gives him help in taking the edge off, enough to get him out of bed in the morning, maybe even shower but he's still waiting to be anything but numb, uncertain if his SSRIs are to blame, or if he's just not someone who gets to be happy.
"It's fine, I just don't like the idea of dragging Chris into this too."
He tugs at the sleeves of his leather jacket, before bracing his forearms on the tabletop. Hunnigan responds by laying her hand on the limb and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"I promise, you'll be fine. Both of you."
Her lips are shiny with gloss, that shimmers as she curves them into a pleasant smile. One corner of his mouth quirks up to mirror her, as he gives a curt nod. His handler is trying her best, the only person to have his back at the DSO and his closest confidant, which is why he is so desperate to convince her nothing is wrong. Even when they both know it’s a lie.
“How long do we have to prepare?” He asks at last.
Hunnigan gathers the documents into their folder again and closes it, pushing the file towards him.
“We’ll have the briefing at noon and then it’s three days for you to get into the role. Everything else can be set up on the flight.” The lines of her mouth are grim, like she doesn’t agree with the schedule either.
Even with his experience in conducting intelligence missions, those usually include a longer timeframe beforehand. To not only memorize the information they have on the event but also to assume the identity of another person in just three days is reckless, even for the DSO.
“Guess I’ll make it work.” He quips, attempting to lighten the mood.
“I believe you will.” There’s no hesitation in her response, before Leon is sent off to R&D to check for any gear that could be useful.
***
“I need to talk to you about Leon.”
Ingrid Hunnigan has her hands clasped together on her desk, the office Chris had been brought to smaller than he expected for the woman who’s handling the DSO’s golden boy. But then again, he also didn’t anticipate her cutting to the chase this quickly. Chris came here for, what he assumed to be, a short briefing regarding the mission. He had agreed to it via e-mail but judging by the secretive demeanor Hunnigan emanates and the fact no other personnel are here with him, something else is going on beneath the surface and Chris is just on the cusp of finding out.
“What about him?” He asks innocently, leaning back in his chair and propping his ankle on his knee.
“Do you two talk a lot, outside of work I mean?”
The question is posed, like she’s trying to interrogate him and Chris feels kinda put on the spot here, eyes wandering subconsciously to the door, tracing an escape route through the room. A force of habit, rather than actual intent.
“We’re friends, if that’s what you’re asking?” He replies, unsure what she’s getting at and honestly also a little wary to find out.
Hunnigan sighs tiredly, like she’s aching to put down a weight she's been carrying for far too long, then she starts again:
“I am asking you, if Leon has told you anything about his mental illness.”
Something in his chest contracts uncomfortably, the same thing which has made him jump on the opportunity to take part in the undercover operation. The thought of Leon being sent alone into another set up for disaster unbearable, even when Chris is less than trained for missions like these. How hard can it be though?
“We’ve both been at the intervention. But I thought he was sober, did something happen?”
It’s been nearly a year since they had waited in Leon’s apartment to sit him down and talk to him about his drinking problem. When confronted with the harsh reality that he wasn’t doing as good of a job at hiding his addiction, as he thought, Leon had been incredibly uncomfortable, bristling at every well-meant word, every passing of eyes. Maybe, if it had just been them, Leon would’ve probably had little qualms about kicking all of them out, or cursing at them to leave him alone. The deciding factor though, had been Sherry sitting amongst them, crumpling another letter between her fingers, as she waited for Leon to calm down enough to listen. If it hadn’t been for her, maybe they’d never gotten through to him. Despite everything, what went down that evening had not been pretty. Chris is thankful every day, they haven't had to repeat it since.
“No it’s– something else.” Hunnigan explains and Chris doesn’t know whether to feel relieved, or dreadful. “Listen, I need you to have an eye on him, when you’re both deployed. Just make sure he stays away from the booze and doesn’t get hurt.”
The way she says it makes him uneasy. It’s not like anyone needs to tell him to protect his mission partner but this sounds like it’s more than that. Dropping out of his relaxed position in the chair, Chris leans forwards conspiratorially, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Hunnigan, is there something I need to know?”
He says under his breath, fixing her dark brown eyes glinting over the rim of her glasses. Without batting an eye, she pushes them up the arch of her nose and neatly folds her hands on the desk.
“It’s a demanding job, Redfield, and the DSO in particular is– “ The pause is heavy with the unspoken, when Hunnigan hesitates. “They expect a lot from Leon, too much sometimes. He hasn’t been taking it well for a while now. I don’t want to go into detail here without his permission but I know he needs help, a retirement plan, therapy, or something and I’m trying to pull some strings to make it work but I’ll need time for that.”
Her tone is urgent, pulling on Chris’ heartstrings, making his chest ache. He isn’t naive enough to think the alcoholism was Leon’s only problem but he is also painfully aware that they never spend enough time together for him to truly know what is going on. Unlike Hunnigan, who seems to have contrived a plan to get Leon out of his arrangement with the DSO. Preferably before he lands himself six feet under.
“So this is a set up?” He asks anyway, wanting to make sure they are not being sent on a wild goose chase.
“Unfortunately, no. But it was the next best option that didn’t include having him handle another outbreak with minimal preparation.”
Chris shakes his head gravely. The things he’s heard over the years on how the DSO treats him, are shocking time and again. Little to no protective gear, mostly equipped with a handgun and a knife, never enough ammo to his name when in the field and always without backup. And that’s only the stuff he’s been told, not to imagine the things Leon might omit when relaying these stories. None of that would fly at the BSAA, looking at Leon’s colleagues he’s sure it usually doesn’t at the DSO either, but Leon specifically seems to be an exception to the rule. Though Chris has no idea why.
“What do you need me to do then?” He says resolutely, set on whatever plan Hunnigan might propose if only it gets the other out of there. God knows he’s offered him a spot at the BSAA enough times by now.
“Try and get him through that mission with minimal damage. If you get the info we need in the process, great. If you don’t, I’ll handle the fallout.”
The gaze she fixes him with is intense, as she scrutinizes him from head to toe but Chris just nods at her. She is treading carefully and he gets that, they have the same goal here though, so he finds her suspicion less than helpful when Chris would’ve done anything for that man, even before being ordered to.
“Well then,” She drops the interrogative demeanor, straightening her spine and sliding a beige file in between them. “Let’s go through the OP, shall we?”
Chris flips the file open and starts to read.
***
This is bullshit.
Leon thinks, looking at the attaché case filled with the equipment the higher-ups had cleared as appropriate. He's already gone back twice to the storage department to argue with whoever he can find, reminding them about not being on a solo mission this time, which would usually imply he'll get a bit more resources than just the usual bare bones.
'We can't allow any firearms for undercover missions in Europe.'
They've told him, lecturing him about discretion and European jurisdiction. It's not like Leon doesn't know about their reasoning, he just doesn't believe them. There's no way an organization like the DSO can't smuggle a single handgun through airport security, not when they're pulling bigger stunts on the regular. Leon huffs through his nose in frustration, eyes roaming over the assortment of technical equipment. They have ear pieces, tracking nodes, a set of burner phones, some USB-drives and a clean laptop. He's worked with less before, but the fact that the only weapon he's allowed to bring, is his combat knife, still unnerves him. Snapping the case shut with a resounding clack, Leon hopes at least Chris can bring his gun.
He grabs its handle, turning swiftly to head from the basement housing the equipment and the archives, to one of the upper floors, where Chris and him are supposed to meet today.
It takes him moving five feet towards the door, before a sudden bout of vertigo hits. Leon stops, the floor tilting underneath his dress shoes, as he begins to sway softly in the middle of the room, one hand coming up to hover at his temple. When the sensation makes nausea stir low in his stomach, he swallows, squeezing his eyes shut. Bile creeps up his throat, the longer he remains standing, blinking against the black stars pulsing in his vision. Cold sweat stands on his neck, while a wave of heat rushes over him, before at last, he relents and lowers himself to the floor carefully, legs folding to kneel on the bare concrete, as his hands press against it. The stone is cool and his heart-rate settles minutely, while he focuses on his breathing.
It's been like this the entire morning, dizzy-spells forcing him to sit down and breathe, until the black spots in his vision fizzle out and he can be sure he won't faint, or throw up. Hunnigan had told him this could happen, reassuring him it would get better if he took his medication regularly and gave himself time to adjust. Leon's been doing just that, sticking to the schedule, not fudging with the dosage, or skipping them, when the urge strikes him, all the while itching to just have a drink instead, if only to take the edge off before going to bed.
The SSRIs help most of the time, clearing the haze in his head so he can think farther than what's immediately expected of him, he's more energized too, less depressed of course, though his insomnia is persistent, the anxiety thrumming in his chest, clutching to his rib cage every night. He can't sleep, or he doesn't want to, not when it means he'll have to toss and turn through the nightmares resurging, now that the alcohol isn't there to numb him.
Today the side-effects of the antidepressants are particularly annoying though. Leon suspects it's the stress, offsetting the careful balance he's found, symptoms always worse when a mission is imminent. But he doesn't have time to idly sit around, nursing his roiling stomach like he's a sick child, so as soon as the vertigo has simmered down to a slight floating feeling, he pushes himself to stand again. His head still drones but it's enough to get him up and about, entering one of the unending hallways, stretching through the basement, sterile and cold.
When he arrives, several floors higher up, Chris is standing in the middle of the room, arms spread at his sides, as a young woman circles him with a measuring tape and pins, fitting the suit jacket to wrap snugly around him, cinching it at the waist, to accentuate the solid line of his hips.
“Is this really necessary?“ He hears him complain, turning his head to follow the tailor.
Leon has to tear his eyes away from the edge of the suit jacket, brushing over the thin cotton of the black dress pants, the sudden urge to touch rushing through his limbs before he can avert his gaze guiltily. Chris is his friend, nothing more, he reminds himself. If he wants their friendship to survive this mission, he better take it to heart, no matter the pathetic crush he's been trying to kill for years.
“I'm afraid so, fine feathers make fine birds after all.“ She waves him off, placing another needle to pin the fabric in place.
Chris just sighs in defeat, before he throws another look over his shoulder, where the tailor is fiddling with the measuring tape and spots Leon, still tallying at the entrance, door handle in hand.
“Leon, thank god, this is the third jacket she's made me wear.“ He smiles at him crookedly, something like fondness in his eyes, that softens his face and makes warmth pool in his chest.
Leon just shakes his head, grins back. “Don't pull me into this, do I have to remind you that you've volunteered to accompany me?“
The door closes with an audible click, his dress shoes sounding similar on the tiled floor, as he rounds the statue that is Chris Redfield, to place his suitcase on the table next to his. Chris groans in displeasure but stays still otherwise, before the tailor perks up again.
“Take off the jacket please.“ She orders, holding out her hands for the piece of clothing and putting it on the hanger.
Beneath the jacket, accentuated with silken lapels and a silver inlay, Chris is wearing a matching vest that stuns him speechless with how it wraps around the curve of his chest and waist, coming to a stop just above his pelvis. The fabric looks expensive by itself, the back of the vest made from a shimmering material and embroidered with silver thread, the buttons at the front matching in colour and embossed with an ornate design. He's beautiful, looking almost like he's dressed for a wedding and for a moment, Leon forgets what the both of them are here for.
“I hate wearing suits.“ Chris mumbles absently, gaze examining his outfit critically.
What a shame. Leon thinks, taking in the sight a moment longer, before he sets his head straight again.
“It's not that bad, you'll get used to it.“ He smiles sympathetically, tugging a little self-consciously on his own worn out blazer.
The formal wear is a necessity here, if one isn't being sent on a mission, so he's had plenty of time to get accustomed to it, even when it never seemed to fit him quite right. More often than not though, Leon's running around in combat gear, weapons strapped to his body and blood splattered on his skin.
“Sure thing,“ Chris sighs wearily. “Where's your fancy suit then?“
He nods at him, eyes getting stuck on the frayed seams, the missing button forcing him to leave the blazer open. He's been meaning to get new clothes for a while now, his old ones falling apart after years of use, but he just can't seem to get around to it, something else always more pressing.
“Agent Kennedy already has the necessary garments.“
The tailor cuts in, before Leon can say anything. Feeling like he's supposed to remember her name, he wracks his brain for it, though in the end comes up empty. So he just shrugs, uncomfortable at the title but trying not to let it show.
“Not your first rodeo, huh?“ Chris addresses him again, lowering his arms, when she finally steps back and declares her work finished.
“Definitely not.“ He shakes his head, watching from the corner of his eye, as Chris pops the buttons of the vest through the holes and slips it off his shoulders in one languid motion.
Next he’s sent behind the folding screen to rid himself of the remaining clothes, changing back into the one's he's arrived with. The screen is a little too short to cover his full height, leaving his head peeking over it, eyebrows drawn in concentration, while he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. Leon tries to ignore it, as best he can, fidgeting with Chris' suitcase on the table, until he snaps the metal lock open and takes a look inside.
A quiet whistle escapes him at the sight, the suitcase stacked with anything and everything they might need. The BSAA really doesn't joke around, or maybe it's because of Chris' position within the organization. One way, or another, Leon can feel a bit of anxiety, he hadn't noticed until now, settle.
“No firearms for you either?“ He calls over, to where Chris is shrugging on his autumn jacket, while the tailor packs her supplies with practiced efficiency.
The man in question steps towards him, heavy boots thumping on the floor. He comes to stand right at his shoulder, taking a glance inside the case, so close, Leon can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, where his chest presses against his shoulder blade, the smell of his cologne hanging faintly in the air. It has a gentle note of pine tree, tobacco and musk. Leon doesn't move, just tries to suppress the shiver trickling down his spine at the contact.
“Not until we've passed airport security, but BSAA Europe HQ will be planting one in the hotel room we're staying at.“
His voice rumbles in his chest, the vibrations traveling through Leon like a hot knife through butter, setting the nerves at the surface of his skin alight. Goosebumps race down his arm, the shiver that follows barely suppressed, as Leon suddenly has to grasp for his self-control. How long has it been since he’s been touched by another human being again?
Abruptly he throws the suitcase shut, clicking the latches in place, the sound enough to break whatever spell has enthralled him long enough to bat away the consideration of leaning into the contact. He takes a step back, nods curtly, scoots a bit farther down the table.
“Good, at least one of us will be properly armed then.“
Chris gives him a look like he wants to inquire, brow creased in concern at Leon's comment but he doesn't give him the time to think much about it, moving hurriedly towards one of the chairs to prop himself on it and drawing forth the file they're supposed to be studying. Only moments later Chris follows suit, sitting down next to him.
“So,“ He begins, eyes nervously flitting over the row of photos provided in the document. “How will we be doing this?“
They're private photos of the couple, clearly taken from an album, or a picture frame, showing the both of them in different settings. A date in a bar, expensive liquor in their cups and eyes gleaming with excitement, a christmas party, posed in front of a tree higher than the ceiling in Leon's apartment, on a boat, the vast ocean behind them silhouetted by a red and gold sunset, one grasping the other's face in a deep kiss. There are many more vacation photos, the pair lounging on beaches and in hotels that he could never even imagine to visit.
The one photograph Leon gets stuck on though, is of their wedding. The two grooms are dressed in white tuxedos, pressed hip to hip in a richly decorated ball-room, candlelight shimmering throughout the space. From above deep-red rose petals are raining down on them, as the dark haired man leans down to seal their lips together, grasping the other’s face in his hands. On their fingers sit gold wedding bands, reflecting the light and upon closer inspection Leon could swear, the smaller of the two has a tiny rainbow coloured brooch pinned to his lapel, the thing sticking out starkly in the all-white get-up.
He has long given up on wanting the same for himself, certain that the DSO would rather see him dead than retired, though it doesn't keep his traitorous heart from longing for this; to live more gently, to be entirely himself, to be loved . But that is not something he gets to have, so Leon crushes the blooming feeling right when it rouses its head.
"Leon?"
Chris nudges him with his elbow, startling him from his thoughts. He hadn't even noticed, he's been quiet for too long, shaking himself out of the unwanted stupor. If he doesn’t get his head in the game soon, this will be more of a disaster than it already is.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, spreading the paper out between them, if only to buy himself time. “Like it, or not but we'll somehow have to put on a good enough performance, so that our hosts will believe we're actually married.”
His mouth twists into an apologetic grin, as he risks a glance at Chris, sure that the other is regretting agreeing to the OP already. What he finds though, is mostly neutrality, his intense gaze roaming over the intel, Intelligence has gathered for them. Staying silent, Chris is entirely enthralled by what he must be reading, leaving Leon's chest to tighten with uncertainty in the quiet office.
“You can still quit, if you're uncomfortable. I can handle myself well enough.” He schools his tone into something nonchalant, trying not to let his anxiety show.
“I think I'll survive sharing a hotel room with you for a week.” Chris bumps into him again, shoulder against shoulder, making Leon duck his head self-consciously.
It feels stupid having even suggested it, nervousness getting the better of him. If Chris didn't want to be here, he probably wouldn't, which is why he wonders what has prompted him to join this endeavor.
He shakes off the question as soon as it appears, swallowing before he continues. “We'll have to study their personal data and fill in the blanks for ourselves.”
There's only so much one can try to imitate, before things will get more complicated than simple mimicry. This is why it's so important to think quickly and be able to come up with believable details on the basis of what one already knows. Having two people in the equation will certainly make it harder though.
“You think we can improvise?“ Chris asks, pulling an assortment of papers closer to him, to thumb through them, clearly overwhelmed by the amount of data at their disposal.
Eyeing the phone-call transcript the DSO has pulled from somewhere, Leon nods. “That's how it usually goes but we should still have the most important things memorized.” He plucks some print-outs from the table at random, taking a quick glance at them. “Here, I'll quiz you.”
Chris turns in his seat, attention now fully devoted to him, as he listens intently, a faint smile on his lips. While skimming the pages, he searches for simple data to start with, then he places the paper flat on the table, so that he can't peek at it either.
“When's my birthday?” He asks, grinning at the other mischievously, because there's no way Chris remembers this dude's birthday, much less Leon's.
He hums for a moment, scratching at his beard thoughtfully. “July sixth, 1977.”
He has already taken a breath to disagree, as he realizes:
That's right.
Leon parts his lips, carefully sucking in air. When he can feel his cheeks heating up, he just shakes his head disbelievingly, laughing like this isn't doing things to him at all.
“That doesn't count.” He says, looking back at the papers on the desk, willing his blush away.
“C'mon,“ Chris complains. “Let me have this.”
“How do you even know?”
The last time Leon celebrated, his mom was still around but ever since then, he's just been trying to forget about it, mostly successfully too, when he's always occupied with something else. Preparing for a mission, aiming for a BOW’s head before they can tear his throat open, drinking himself into dreamless sleep, thinking about why he shouldn't do that, trying not to kill himself when another nightmare jerks him awake. There are many reasons why he hasn't given it any consideration for a long time.
“Claire.” Is the only explanation Chris gives him.
“Traitor.“ He grumbles to himself, before he changes the topic. “Well it says here, Mr. Carpenter was born on the second of December, 1979, so I'd say you were way off.”
Chris huffs a laugh, crossing his arms in front of his chest and giving him a challenging look. “Okay then, Mr. Carpenter, ask me something else.”
Leon thinks for a moment. “How many siblings do I have?”
The corner of Chris' mouth twitches upwards, leaning back in his chair. “None, as does Mr. Carpenter. What about me then?” He raises an eyebrow then in quiet anticipation.
“Two brothers, you're the oldest though.” Is what he counters with, deciding to add a bit more right after. “Theoretically, he has a younger sister too, after his mother remarried, his stepfather brought her into the marriage. But he was way past twenty at that point, so I'm not sure how close they actually are.”
If Leon had to guess, he'd say Chris looks impressed, flipping an overturned page around to confirm his claims, before a steadfast smirk settles on his face. “You really did your homework.” He praises and Leon can't help but to feel a surge of satisfaction spread through his stomach. “How did you know about the sister though? It doesn't say here.”
He slides him the page he's been looking at. Leon regards it for a second, recognizing the structure of the table pulled by IT, like it's second nature. “She's been mentioned in a few emails between him and his mother but I can't find her in any photos they kept. It only took some poking around and a bit of guesswork from there.” He explains, gesturing distractedly, not looking at Chris' face.
“Impressive.” His voice swings into a higher note at the end, the smile clearly audible, which is why Leon stares hard at his knuckles instead.
“Next question.“ He demands, shutting his eyes and keeping them closed, as he raises his head once more. “What's my eye-colour?”
It's a minute detail and nothing that Chris will be able to find in the paperwork they've been assigned to, though Leon's learned those are usually the bits and pieces that matter the most. How believable is a spouse who doesn’t even know their husband's eye-colour? If they want to do it right, stuff like this is just as essential as everything else.
“Blue.” He says, which is right, technically.
“Too easy, try again.” Leon keeps his eyes closed, waiting for Chris to falter and admit defeat.
Instead there is a drawn out silence, in which he can't hear anything else but the other man's breathing. Their knees bump together, when Chris shifts on his chair and Leon's fingers twitch involuntarily at the sudden contact, his skin bristling with the feeling of being watched.
“They are light-blue, like ice, but sometimes I swear there's just a bit of gray in them too.”
Chris sounds close, his deep voice purring out the words, as if he's trying to peer through Leon's lids to get a peek at his irises. It makes him feel unbalanced, losing the small advantage he's had over him by virtue of experience and thrusting him back into the immovable truth;
that no matter how hard he tries, he's never going to be good enough for Chris Redfield.
“Very descriptive.” He draws out the first syllable in a mocking tone, blinking his eyes open to bring him back to what they are doing.
Before he can say much else, Chris has already squeezed his own eyes shut, chin propped on his fist and throwing him a shit-eating grin. “My turn then.”
Leon considers answering in earnest, following the other's example but can't seem to conjure up the courage to do it. “Brown.” He deadpans, clicking a pen he's found between the mess of paper on the table.
“Nuh-uh, no cheating.” The other rebuts, because Chris just loves to torture him, keeping his eyes closed and waiting.
Leon sighs heavily, letting his gaze trace the relaxed lines of Chris' face like he'll be seeing them for the last time. He's known Chris for years, has liked him for just as long, of course he remembers what colour his irises have, he could probably cartograph the subtle changes of hue in them, with how intently he's been staring all this time. But despite Chris' insistence this isn't the place to start waxing poetics.
“They are dark-brown, or russet maybe, though they have a tint of burnt-umber in–” He stops abruptly when he notices that Chris has slitted his eyes open to smirk at him, heat rises to his face with embarrassment. “What?” He says indignantly.
“Nerd.” Chris laughs and his eyes glint like illuminated amber, when the ray of sunlight hits them just right.
He gives a chuckle too, if only to cover up how shame is dusting his cheeks pink and making his hands clammy. The laugh he gets in response is loud and bellowing, Chris too distracted to see him roughly rub his sweaty palms over the wrinkles in his black dress-pants, before Leon retorts dryly.
“I'm sorry that I read, unlike you.” His eyebrows furrow, but he can't keep the humour out of his voice, staring at Chris from behind his bangs, disquieted.
“I do too but that doesn't mean I can name three different shades of brown to save my life.” The tone is lighthearted, but Leon supposes it's not all that difficult when one's been thinking about it for over a decade.
“Moving on.”
He diverts, tracking rows upon rows of black on white text, transcripts, letters, E-Mails, tables and graphs scattered over the desk, all of it data they should have down to the last detail, even though they are rapidly running out of time to do so.
Despite the growing agitation in his chest, they continue to nag each other with their questioning, their banter temporarily silencing the worried murmur in the back of his head, that is hyper-aware they will go into this almost bare. He has little problem with the DSO tossing him into the deep end, but he rarely has to concern himself with someone else coming out the other side unscathed. The last time had almost killed him and after that they hadn't assigned him to another team.
‘The moment we quit, all of our subordinates and friends will have died in vain.’
Chris had said, dragging his sorry ass out from the bottom of the bottle, telling him that he knew. Knew what Leon was feeling, had been there before too but Leon doubted he could ever truly understand. There’s a rift between him and Chris, separating them at the line that has directed his whole life. If Chris wants to leave the BSAA, all he’ll have to do is submit his resignation notice and he’ll be out. The only way for Leon to quit is to go down in flames.
Even now he finds it is easier to keep some things to himself, the secrets he's been hiding so well for almost all his life having festered into something he cannot bear to show anyone else. He's fine with projecting some barely there version of himself outwards, some spectre that might be more worth loving than what's lodged inside him.
He's done it all his life, one way or another.
Hours have passed, when they have finally finished working through the documents, cups of coffee scattered between them and the sun dipping towards the horizon. Leon rubs his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision, as he sorts the pages in front of him. Maybe he should look into getting glasses, his eye-sight has been getting worse these past years.
There’s a light touch on his shoulder, the press of fingers barely there but still enough to draw his attention. “Should we stop for today?” Chris asks, face lined with age and fatigue.
“It’s fine, you can go home if you want to.” He dismisses the worried look in his eyes, diverting his attention back to their notes, gathering them in a neat stack.
“Come on, we’ve made good progress today, the rest can wait.”
His hand squeezes his shoulder, as he gets to his feet, spine cracking when he straightens it. They read the files faster than he’d anticipated, though he can’t shake the feeling that he should be doing more. What if something happens and they are unprepared? What if it could’ve been avoided, if only he’d worked a little harder?
He shakes his head, blinking against the room swimming in front of him. “I’m not going to stay long, just go.”
Chris’ voice drops into something more grave, his hand sliding between his shoulder blades to rest there, warm and steady, Leon tries not to shiver under it, the tips of his fingers having gone cold from sitting around all day.
“You look dead on your feet Leon.”
“Way to flatter a guy.” He snorts, aware he’s laughing alone, before continuing more seriously. “Really, I’m fine, I’m–”
“Used to it?” Chris interrupts him.
Right on the head with that one.
He can’t remember when he’d last actually felt rested. It’s not like that ever mattered though, either he keeps on going, or he’ll fall over dead, there’s no inbetween for him.
“Not that tired.” Is what he says instead, bringing his abandoned sentence to a close.
Chris does not look like he believes him. His hand doesn’t move from its spot on his back, instead it presses even closer, a solid weight against his tense muscles.
“Of course. Up you get, we’re going to get some food into you.” The tone Chris has adapted, tells him enough to know he’s not getting out of this, even before he reaches out to close the file Leon is currently failing to read.
The soothing palm leaves his back to wrap around his biceps instead, gently coaxing him to rise from the cushioned office chair. Chris and Claire are in no way inferior to each other when it comes to their shared stubbornness, so Leon is pretty sure to fight back now, would just cost him energy he cannot spare.
“Watch out, or someone will think you’re coddling me, before we’ve even boarded the plane.” He smirks, shrugging out of the firm hold chasing goosebumps up and down his arms.
“Everyone already knows you could use a bit more of that and now hush and get out of here.”
He motions him towards the door, ushering him out impatiently. After they’ve both exited the room, Leon twists the key in the lock, sighing deeply.
"Satisfied?"
Chris acknowledges him with a quick nod and promptly turns on his heel to walk the both of them down to the garage. There’s a pressure behind Leon’s eyes that he just now notices, which has been increasing since his little dizzy spell this morning and is slowly gearing up to become a full migraine. He rubs two fingers in small circles over his temple, as he follows Chris down the flights of stairs, hoping to fend it off for a little while longer.
They take Chris’ jeep to Leon’s flat, even though he would’ve been fine with taking the bus. One advantage the government housing brings with it, is that he never has to commute long. No boring traffic to get stuck in for him. They stop at the small grocery store he usually goes to, to pick up some basic necessities Chris insists they buy and before Leon knows it, he’s unlocking the door to his one room apartment, which has not only lacked visitors for years but also isn’t up to his standards of cleanliness to be presentable to anyone. The realization comes too late, as he glances inside the kitchen to see the dirty dishes he’s been meaning to do, sitting idly in the sink.
Leon takes the plastic bag from Chris, so the other can wedge his boots next to Leon’s own in the corner he has assigned for his footwear, before he too, starts to wind his way out of the suit jacket and shoes.
“I think it’s been a while since I’ve last been at your place.” Chris states wondrously, cranking his neck to catch a glimpse at the interior of the other rooms.
“I had to move a few months ago, though this one’s not much different. There’s the bathroom, there’s the kitchen and that’s the bedroom.” He gestures towards the three separate doors, circling the hallway.
“That’s–” Chris hesitates, a nervous quirk to his brow as he searches for the most polite way to put it. “cozy.” He settles on, inching towards the kitchen, to follow his bag of groceries.
“Sure is.” Leon says flatly, as he turns all three of the locks in his front door and meanders his way inside the kitchen as well.
Leon didn’t have his own place, since the one he’s signed to be renting, exploded in Raccoon City, ever since then it’d either been a single cot, or a flat like this, provided to him by his employer to ensure he never strayed too far from his duties. Throughout the years, he has learned to not collect too many possessions, always ready to uproot his life and move on at the drop of a hat, as a result his flat usually looks kind of barren.
Chris though, doesn’t mention it, is instead unpacking the groceries, lining up the few ingredients they bought on his counter, as Leon watches. After a moment he sidles up to him, standing at the sink and rolling up his sleeves.
“What exactly is your plan here?” Leon asks, running the sponge through the stream of hot water from his faucet.
“I’ll make dinner for us, if you’ll let me.” He can feel the gaze on him, tracing the sharp cut of his jaw, as Leon scrubs at the burnt spots in his pan.
“Knock yourself out.” He jawns, before working the soap into the dishware.
With how tired and wrung out he is, he doesn’t feel like arguing right now, so he lets Chris do whatever he needs to, to make himself feel better, while he silently cleans the dishes. Afterwards he settles at the small dinner table he keeps in his kitchen, watching the man follow the recipe for spaghetti bolognese. As Chris fries the meat and onion, the rich scent rises in the air, grabbing Leon’s attention, who has lowered his head to rest in the crook of his elbow. He hasn’t felt hungry all day, his appetite annoyingly absent still, but now that he breathes in the aroma, the prospect of food, has his stomach pang with renewed interest.
“Smells good.”
He mumbles, not caring if Chris’d even catch it through the noise of boiling water and the sizzling pan. The exhaustion is catching up with him, the longer he keeps sitting down, eyes droop, as he tries not to nod off. Chris gives a laugh that fills the small room in its entirety, rich and mellow and soothing.
“I figured you’d come around.” He doesn’t turn but Leon blinks lazily at his back stretching the fabric of his shirt, as his muscles move beneath it.
Leon unintentionally dozes through the time it takes for Chris to finish cooking, only perking up again, when he calls for him, asking if he could set the table. His neck gives a dissatisfied crack, as he rises from his unfavourable napping position and strolls over to the cabinets to search for the second set of dishware he must have still lying around. By the time they are both settled, he has procured the necessary plates and cutlery, while Chris has strained the noodles and placed everything on his crowded kitchen table.
They eat in silence, Chris asking him for some water halfway in and Leon awkwardly fumbling his way through a compliment for his cooking. It’s not an uncomfortable quiet, the mutual understanding between them that they don’t need to fill empty air, if they don’t feel like it. Leon chews his way through his noodles, privately wondering when he’s last had more than a ready meal, or take out. Something inside him brims with emotion at the thought, desperately thankful that Chris hasn’t just left him here on his own and painfully aware that he will eventually.
He’s setting the dirty dishes in the sink, as Chris stretches behind him, jawning audibly. “I think I should go, or I’ll be too tired to drive.”
Leon nods.
Stay. He wants to say. Just for a little bit longer.
But Leon doesn’t say anything, just turns around to see Chris zipping his jacket closed, while he feels uncharacteristically on edge. A weight lodging in his throat and making him swallow.
Maybe his antidepressants are wearing off.
“I’ll be going then, make sure you catch some sleep.” Chris lingers uncertain at the doorframe to his kitchen, drumming the pads of his fingers against the wood.
Leon unsticks himself from the counter he’s been leaning on. “You don’t need to mother me, you know?” He says sarcastically, as he passes him to unlock the front door.
“Maybe I’m just practicing my connubiality?” He winks at him cheekily.
As he enters the hallway of the building, their shoulders brush against each other. When Leon feels a tugging sensation in his chest, at the renewed distance, he digs his fingers into the wood, holding on to not sway after him.
“Save that for the op.” He dismisses the joke for what it is. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
His voice thaws and bleeds into something gentler, as he adds the goodbye, waiting for the fracture of a moment to see Chris turn back around towards him and smile once more, giving a tiny wave. Then Leon closes the door and is alone again.