Chapter Text
Leon didn't make it back home from Raccoon City unscathed. By the time he was pulling into the driveway back home, the relief of being cured had long faded from his system. He was all aches and pains, now. There was a yawning pit in his chest, mottled by bruises but sunken with something more... philosophical. He sighs as he shuts off the engine and just sits.
He's finally home. He got to return home, alive and cured. So badly does he want to walk in that door and just breathe. He knows Chris is waiting for him, probably cooking at this time of night. Rosemary was with Claire or Jill— she always was when Leon or Chris was destined to return home from a mission. It was easier to put on a brave face for the girl after a good night's sleep. Neither of them wanted to traumatize her by coming home grouchy and unresponsive. Still, he can't find it in himself to move. Maybe his hind brain thinks it'll all be a dream once he walks in that door. He'll be sick again, black veins and deep bruising marring his neck and his hands. Chris will give him that hopeless look he's grown so used to— the one Leon knows means that Chris has already accepted his death. He waits for a long while, letting the air in the car grow stale. He thinks about checking up on Grace tomorrow. Somehow, it's the thought of her that gets him to his feet. Thank you, he projects towards the heavens. She was a pillar of strength in his mind after all she'd been through. He chooses not to think about how the young woman reminds him of a younger Sherry, still not quite disillusioned with the world.
The air is warm when he opens the front door. It smells of tomatoes and something distinctly Italian. He can feel his shoulders relax the moment he steps past the threshold.
"In here!" Chris' deep voice hollers from the kitchen. They kept their front door squeaky to always let the other know they're home. It was silly, but the squeak of the hinges was a comfort, something uniquely homely. It was theirs.
He sets his firearm down on the table by the door, and hangs his jacket— a light one to stave off the chill, since he'd lost his coat— on one of the hooks above it. His feet bring him forward, past the dining room and into the warmth of the kitchen. Chris greets him with a bright smile and a white apron that Rosemary had "colored" when she was two. Leon is falling into his broad arms before he even realizes he's moving.
Fuck, Chris hasn't smiled at him like that since he said I do.
"Hey," Leon quavers. Chris merely squeezes him tighter, face buried in Leon's neck. It says more than words. Chris had been mourning for months. And Leon stepped out of the grave, anyway. He was here, home. He was right where he needed to be.
"I made spaghetti," Chris says instead of anything sappy. "Homemade sauce, just the way you like it." Leon doesn't point out how watery his voice is. He's sure his own is no better.
Chris parts to tend to the sauce and make up their plates. He ushers Leon into the dining room. Leon notices, now, that the table is lit by candles, and there's a neatly folded napkin in each of their spaces. God, Chris was such a romantic. Leon couldn't lie to himself, though, he loved it. He was a sappy old man himself, now. One who just got a new ticket at life. A little romance was in order.
Leon's energy is fading by the time Chris brings out their dinner. Two heaping plates of spaghetti with a side of garlic bread— the bread itself no doubt a gift from Claire. She'd picked up stress baking recently, needing something to occupy her mind as the virus spread. He wondered if that meant his days of fresh baked goods were over, now. His dietitian would thank her.
"Thank you," Leon murmurs as Chris sets his plate down in front of him. He smiles sleepily and Chris gives him a knowing look. They don't talk as they eat. There was nothing to talk about but the mission, and they had a strict no work at the dinner table rule. Rosemary wasn't here, but the rule still stood. Leon scarfs down about half before his bruised ribs protest any more bloating. He looks longingly at it as Chris takes his plate away to put up the leftovers. If he was able, he'd eat the whole damn pot of spaghetti, but he was only one— very injured— man. He had to take it easy, Chris' talents in the kitchen aside.
Chris ushers him into the shower, after leftovers are dealt with and all the dishes are in the sink, soaking. Leon offers to shower together, but Chris firmly shuts him down. He only pouts a little. Still, the warm water did miracles for his sore muscles. The grime had already been scrubbed from him rather clinically earlier, but now he got to smell like home. It was particularly important to get rid of that cloying antiseptic smell. It was liable to make one of them freak out in the middle of the night, disoriented from nightmares.
By the time he has the will to step out of the steaming shower, Chris has set a change of clothes on the lid of the toilet. An old BSAA t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajama pants. He changes quickly, not wanting a chill to set in, before entering the bedroom. Chris is in bed, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when Leon enters and greets him with a soft smile. Leon can't help but return it as he makes his way over. He climbs into bed, but doesn't stop until he's seated himself in Chris' lap.
"Hi," Chris chuckles softly. "Can I help you?"
Leon pouts. "Your beautiful wife comes home, and you don't want to jump her bones?"
Chris rolls his eyes. "Drama queen. You can barely keep your eyes open."
This is true, but Chris doesn't need to know that. Leon purrs. "You know I'd let you do anything in my sleep."
Chris scoffs. "Enough. You know I don't like—"
This time, it's Leon's turn to roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You and consent. Boooooring."
Chris sighs, phone thumping to the mattress below. His now free hand comes to cradle Leon's face, now free from the marks of infection. Leon lets him have this— the realization that it truly is gone. He leans into the touch, closing his eyes with a sigh of his own.
"I missed this," he murmurs, low, like if he speaks any louder somehow Rosemary will hear them down the hall. It's late, after all. "Us. I missed us."
Chris brings Leon in with the hand on his cheek. He kisses him, soft and slow, and lets them part just as easily. "I know," Chris says. Chris wasn't one to talk things out. Leon wasn't, either. They were men of action, even in their old age. This is likely all they'll ever say on the matter besides the clinical rundown of the mission. But he doesn't want to talk about that right now. He wants a bourbon, actually, but he'd been sober since Rosemary became their responsibility.
"Lets sleep," Chris says, and Leon knows there's no fighting this. Chris is sappy, not horny. And his heart is too big, bleeds too much, so of course he just wants Leon to sleep.
With a huff, Leon rolls off of Chris and back over to his side of the bed. The sheets smell fresh, like lavender and linen. He's out like a light before he can bother to get under the covers.
Leon wakes with a nasty ache behind his sternum and a cloud of dense fog in his head. He groans sleepily, and the sound makes his throat tighten around a cough. He curls in on himself slightly, fist pressed to his mouth as his chest heaves. Hands are on him in a moment, petting down his flank and smoothing greying hair away from his eyes.
"Hey," Chris murmurs, voice still gravelly with sleep. Leon makes a vague acknowledging noise.
He felt as bad as he did when he left. Has the infection returned? Was Elpis temporary? He had to get up, had to warn Sherry and Claire and—
"Where do you think you're going?" Chris asks, fondness in his tone as Leon manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
"Have to—"
Chris pulls him back into his chest, effectively stopping his weak attempt to leave their bed. A glance at the alarm clock reads three forty-six AM.
"Have to what, Lee? It's three AM. You're sick."
"Elpis—" is all Leon manages to say before another fit of coughing racks through his body and he has to rely on Chris to hold him steady.
"You're fine, Leon," Chis says, voice suddenly a lot more firm. "Look." Chis holds up one of Leon's hands out in front of them. His skin was clear— a little bruised and scraped, but there were no swirling black patterns of infection. Just smooth, human skin. "No infection. Just a cold. God knows your immune system is shot..." Chris trails off with a sigh and Leon grunts.
This wasn't how he wanted to spend his— well earned— vacation days. They were supposed to pick up Rosemary in the morning before going out for breakfast. Leon was in no state for breakfast— he wasn't sure if he had the strength to put a brave face on for Rose.
"Rose—"
"Can stay with Claire and Jill for a couple more days," Chris interrupts. "You know she loves her aunts."
"We were supposed to get breakfast," Leon bemoans anyway. It was his favorite meal of the day, after all. The thought of eating makes him sick, dinner still sitting heavy in his stomach. He wanted hashbrowns, dammit. Leon whines, a bit childlike in his sick state. Sue him. He didn't feel good. Let him whine.
"I know, baby," Chris murmurs into Leon's scalp. "Do you want some water?"
"Yes please," he pouts, petulant.
He allows Chris to slowly lay him back down, head cradled by Leon's overstuffed pillow. He blinks slowly up at the man, his face only illuminated by the moonlight drifting in from between the curtains. Chris smiles down at him when he notices Leon's gaze. He presses a gentle kiss to the flat of his forehead before parting towards the kitchen to fetch a glass of cold water. God, Leon's throat hurt. The coughing certainly hadn't helped matters, irritating the already sensitive tissue. His eyes wander the corners of the room as he waits— impatiently— for Chris to return. It doesn't take long for the man to come back, carrying a blessed glass of refrigerator cold water.
He manages to sit up before Chris can cross the room to help him. He's not helpless. He was terminally ill for months. He can handle a little head cold. Chris does, however, hold the back of his head and the cup for Leon. He rolls his eyes at the babying, but he truthfully doesn't have the energy to fight it. Come daylight, he might have some fight in him, but it was still dark and he was exhausted. He wanted to hear his little girl snoring down the hall— a reminder that they are all here and safe. Safe with him, back home, alive. He says as much to Chris in broken syllables and half-formed words. He thinks he's more coherent than he probably actually is. He's still talking by the time his head hits the pillow, and he wants to tell Chris something. Thank you, maybe. But he never gets there. He's out like a light.
Its sunlight streaming in through the— now open— curtains that wakes him next. Chris isn't in the room, but he can hear the TV from the living room and knows the man is already up and about for the day. He feels marginally better after a good night's sleep— the first he's had in God knows how long. He could honestly stand for a few more hours, but he hates lazing around. Even if Chris would prefer that Leon laze about. Most importantly, however, is that Leon wants coffee.
In a repeat of three AM, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. This time, there was no Chris to stop him, and he stood on wobbly knees. He gets his balance on the nightstand, and slowly drags himself out of the too-bright room and into the hall. His hand drifts along the wall as he walks, guiding him to the main area of the house where Chris no doubt was.
He finds his husband on the couch, facetiming with Rosemary. There's some cooking show on in the background, something Chris was no doubt endlessly entertained by. Distracted, Chris doesn't notice Leon approaching the back of the couch, but Rosemary does.
"Leon!" She shouts, startling Chris. He whips his head around to see Leon's lopsided grin and fuzzy Hello Kitty pants. Leon walks the few feet forward to lean down and press a noisy kiss to Chris' scalp. Predictably, their little girl made an overdramatic gagging sound. She was at that age, now, where all affection was gross. She didn't even let Chris walk her up to the school, anymore. They grow up so fast.
"Hello, baby," Leon finally greets the camera. Claire pops into frame in the background for a moment, holding a plate of pancakes and a very pissed-off looking cat. Mr Whiskers was a food thief, after all. Leon had heard many tales from Claire about Jill's no-good stray.
"Leon! Leon!" Rose shouted. Leon dragged his eyes back to Rosemary's cute little face before it was covered by a vibrant coloring page. She was so good at coloring in the lines now it hurt. He remembers when you could hand her a flat surface and she'd scribble all over it, freely creating her art. Now she was all grown up, coloring perfectly in between the lines.
"Did you do that all by yourself?" Leon grins. "Might have to make more room on the fridge."
"Yes!" She groaned dramatically. "Auntie Jill helped me pick out the colors though."
Leon smile grows softer. "They're lovely colors, baby." He blows a kiss at her and winks. She does the same back, with the exception of the wink. She squeezes both of her eyes shut really tight for a moment, instead. Close enough. "Leon needs coffee," he sighs. He pats Chris' shoulder and leaves their daughter in his care. He immediately gushes about her new coloring page, telling her exactly where they're gonna hang it.
Leon makes his way over to the coffee maker. He grabs a mug and sets it under the machine, pressing start. He already had a pod of coffee in there— Chris always made sure to add one when he got up. Bless the man. He doesn’t bother with cream or sugar, taking a sip of freshly brewed coffee and sighing. What he doesn't account for is that the liquid in his throat triggers another coughing fit. He splutters as the coffee in his mouth comes up. He spits it into the sink as he coughs, and coughs, and coughs. He thinks he hacks up a lung by the time Chris is in the kitchen with a worried look on his face.
Leon holds up a finger. "Don't,” he croaks.
Chris holds up his hands. "I haven't done anything!"
Leon wipes his mouth and glares at the man. "You came in here to baby me."
"I came to see if you were okay, asshole," he rolls his eyes. "But yes, at least come sit on the couch with me."
Leon does not stumble as he takes a step toward Chris. Knowing Leon's limits, Chris doesn't help steady him. Though, his fists do clench in worry at his sides. Leon takes his coffee to the living room and plops himself onto the couch. A drop of coffee spills over the rim of the mug and onto his hand, and Chris watches him with disgust as Leon simply licks it up.
Chris sinks into the cushions next to him. The old sofa creaks ominously as both burly men occupy it, but it's held this long. Chris switches the channel to something less boring. He puts on some action flick that was airing. Neither of them cared much to watch it.
"Feeling any better?" Chris asks once Leon manages to actually swallow some coffee. He takes a moment to answer, busy savoring the bitter liquid on his tongue. The warmth helps his throat, too, irritated and scratchy as it was.
"Sleep helped," he answers simply.
"I’m having Rose stay with Claire and Jill until the end of the week," Chris informs him.
Leon balks. "You can't just—"
"Think of it this way: you'll heal faster and you won't have to worry about getting anyone else sick."
"Because you're so special?" Leon snarks.
"I've got an immune system," Chris points out. "Yours is still shot."
"Elpis—"
"Healed you. It didn't fix you."
Leon pouts.
Chris gives him a pointed look. Leon glances away.
"How's Rose doing?"
At this, Chris smiles. He always gets all sappy when he gets to talk about their daughter. Neither of them had anticipated being loaded with a child, but Chris had refused to let some rando raise a good man's daughter. Leon had never met Ethan, but he knows his story. Knows the sacrifices he made to give his little girl a fighting chance.
"She's doing good. She says Mr. Whiskers let her put him in a dress."
"Oh?" Leon laughs. That cat only let Jill get near it without retaliation. He wonders how Rosemary managed to pull that off.
The rest of the morning goes smoothly. They chat amicably on the couch while Leon nurses a second and third cup of coffee. Chris was adamant that he reduce his caffeine levels, but he also knew where Leon's boundaries were. He could handle a little caffeine.
"You're gonna have a heart attack, one day," Chris admonishes when he returns with the third cup.
"Gotta attack it before it attacks me," Leon says simply before taking a sip. Chris rolls his eyes but lets Leon have his final mug.
As awake as he should have been, by the time noon rolls around, Leon was ready to crawl back into bed. Chris could tell as much as Leon leans further and further into him as they speak. Drifting towards the warmth and safety of home.
Chris makes him take some meds before he's allowed to sleep again. Leon would rather tough it out, but Chris was an insistent nurse. And Nurse Redfield wasn't satisfied until Leon had swallowed the handful of little blue pills.
Leon's third awakening was far worse than his first. He registered suddenly— before he even realized he was awake— that he was going to vomit. Not in a couple seconds— now. He barely has time to turn his head before he's coughing up hot coffee and yellow bile. It splashes over his chest and his hands, which come up to try and somehow control the mess. He manages to lean over on an elbow before he's hurling off the side of the bed. More brown liquid with digested chunks of last night's spaghetti.
Chris is in the room as he coughs up what he hopes is the last of it. He's there lifting Leon back onto the bed, hands steadying him and combing his long hair out of his face. He needed a haircut he thinks deliriously.
The second thing Leon truly takes notice of is that he's hard as a fucking rock. His cock aches in his fuzzy pants, straining the fabric and leaking pre like a faucet. He doesn't recall having a particularly sexy dream. He doesn't recall dreaming at all, in fact.
"Leon? Lee?" Chris is speaking to him, he realizes suddenly.
"Chris," his voice sounds like he's underwater to his own ears. God. How many did Chris give him? He can't remember. "What— what bottle—"
"Leon, what are you—"
"Shut up, Chris. What fucking bottle did you—" his cock pulses and he grunts, eyes rolling. He's so worked up, on the verge of cumming just from how fucking hard he was. "— did you get the pills from?"
"The Tylenol bottle, Leon, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"AM or PM?"
"PM, Leon—"
"Fuck!" He shouts.
Chris leans forward. Unintentionally, his hand lands just shy of Leon's aching cock. He shifts just a little, the fabric rides up against his cock, and—
Leon whimpers as he cums. His eyes roll back into his head, his toes curl, his stomach cramps. He can feel his crotch grow wet with cum. God, when was the last time he came? He hadn't had sex in months. Once, right before he left— their last time. But neither of them had finished. They'd simply lain together until dawn came and Leon had to leave.
The buzzing in Leon's ears finally fades and he opens his eyes to Chris' worried face.
"Chris," he croaks, voice quivering. "The PM bottle is my fucking viagra.”