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As Leon gets older, it becomes increasingly difficult to feign annoyance with Chris. However, considering his snow-soaked boots and the greying clouds hovering above the forest, it’s currently not terribly difficult to pretend. It’s a one-man job, and one Chris is definitely overqualified for, never mind needing Leon of all people to help him out. Though here they are in the densely packed forest in the tail-end of winter, wading through the aftermath of a snowstorm.
The SUV is parked a mile or so away, the road leading to a dead end, and so they’ve been walking for the better part of twenty minutes, all of which Leon isn’t particularly pleased with. Nevertheless, he can’t complain too much about being able to spend some time with his husband, even if said time is freezing, wet, and miserable.
It probably has a little to do with the fact that recently, Chris has gotten a little too good at pulling strings. Comes with the position, he supposes, but he also can’t imagine it’s a particularly dignified thing for a Captain to do. The gifts authority can buy, huh?
Usually, it would be lucky if they had a Sunday together once a month, and it appeared Chris had started to take the initiative. How he’s able to wrangle a clean-up mission with a DSO agent is beyond Leon, but he supposes now is not the time to start asking questions.
He hides a shiver as they trudge through thick brambles, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Told you you’d be cold.” Chris stomps on a patch of nettles, grinning. “Should’ve worn that coat.”
Leon grumbles, not in the mood to be reprimanded. He didn’t want to wear the damn coat, and he wants to mention that this leather jacket is fur-lined, actually, but he decides against it, swallowing the beginnings of a quarrel.
Instead, petulantly, “I’m not cold,” he says.
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
They’re searching for some reclusive barn-house, apparently. Chris had deigned to mention as much. A minor outbreak cut at the source—the site has already been neutralised, so Leon suspects the only problem they’ll encounter are rotten corpses and perhaps a few rats. They’re here to find evidence, samples or whatever—he leaves the specifics up to Chris. He’s here as some glorified guard dog. It’s practically a date if one could classify trudging through private forest grounds in search of evidence of deadly bioweapons as romantic.
“You’re shivering.” Mud squelches under Chris’ reprimanding tone.
Leon shrugs. “Am not.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Are too.”
He’s not shivering, really. He’s not even that cold, and he’s already wearing more clothes than he’d like: a T-shirt and a sweatshirt under his jacket, and he’s feeling that awful contradiction of being claustrophobic and cold… wait, no. He isn’t cold. He’s lukewarm and not shivering…
Hrm. “You’re incredibly annoying, you know?” He mumbles.
“I try.” Chris smiles. Leon rationalises that the shove he gives him in response is at least a little bit deserved. He decides to walk a little faster to escape another lecture from Chris, and yes, okay, maybe it is to get his blood moving a bit faster. But he isn’t cold.
Luckily, the forest starts to thin, and great big evergreens give way to smaller outcroppings of shrubbery. Beneath a line of conifers, Leon spots a building. Ambling over a felled tree, he beckons Chris over. “That it?”
The house is a modest two-story building, and rotted crops line the garden. It’s in bad shape; the windows are blown out, and the roof is caving in. Leon briefly wonders about the residents, what it would be like to live in such desolation, and why one would even choose to do so in the first place. Recalling the SUV, he wonders how one would even be able to leave such a desolate location before quashing the thought.
No use dwelling over it, really. He’s given up mourning people he didn’t or barely knew.
They push through the overgrowth, interrupting the clean dusting of snow coating the perimeter. The storm’s fortunately over, and Leon gazes up as the sun attempts to breach through the clouds.
Admittedly, it’s a bit of an eerie sight, and he’s glad for the gun in his holster if only for the sliver of comfort it provides.
Chris pauses for a moment, searching for something. A few moments later, he pulls out a pair of earpieces.
“I’m sure if you shout loud enough, I’ll hear you,” Leon teases, but he takes it anyway.
Chris gives him his Captain look. “Just put it on, Kennedy.”
Leon complies. “So, what’s the plan?”
“You take the first floor, I take the second?”
Leon makes a mock salute. “Of course, Captain.” Chris rolls his eyes as he brushes past him and kicks down the door.
The inside of the house is, luckily, a little warmer than the frigid air outside. Though a little may be pushing it, as, upon closer inspection, all the windows are without glass, and a potent draft follows Leon as he traverses the rooms. He treads carefully, avoiding the shrapnel. There’s little personal effect left, as though no one had even lived here at all—a few books on a toppled bookshelf, a shattered portrait and a sodden rug. Depressing, Leon thinks.
In the hallway, the ceiling above Leon has totally caved in, and he wonders if he stays still long enough he’ll see Chris jump across the ruptured floorboards.
Pushing open a door reveals the equally destroyed kitchen. The hinges creak as he does, and he thinks momentarily that he wouldn’t be surprised if the whole place collapsed on them. Secretly, he’s a little glad that he was designated the first floor, but an equal measure of worry seeps in at the thought of Chris falling through the ceiling.
Inside, the room is a mess; shattered plates and cutlery coat the floor, glistening in the little light there is. Leon surveys the room for bodies, mould—anything unusual, really, but finds nothing apart from the debris. In fact, there’s a distinct nothing that he finds. No rats, no flies, and the realisation worries Leon a little. Usually, there would be some evidence of infection, and the place hadn't exactly been torched.
“This place is creepy,” he says through the communicator.
A beep of static, then a fuzzy, “You big baby.”
“Didn’t say I was scared, asshole,” Leon gripes, but the familiarity of Chris’ teasing does aid in alleviating some of his worries.
Chris laughs, “Sure,” and then the device beeps off again.
Pulling the torch out of his pocket, Leon shines it into the corners of the room, small openings that the light from outside can’t reach. All he finds are cobwebs and shrapnel. A gunfight. But no bodies to show for it. If a house is raided in the middle of the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Out of that silence, he hears a faint scurrying. Scratching on wood.
“Was that you?” He calls to Chris.
A line of static. “No. You hear something?”
“Yeah, sounded like an animal.”
Chris hums. “Okay, well, stay alert, could be infected.”
“Will do.”
He pulls his gun out, hoping he won’t actually have to use it, and aims it towards the wall with his torch. Deeming the kitchen unworthy of any further inspection, he moves to the next room. Peering down the hallway, he notices a flash of white disappearing into the darkness and narrows his eyes, clutching his gun tightly.
And then, almost indistinguishable from the heavy silence, he hears a faint yap.
A dog.
Hm. Leon used to like dogs. Now, he sort of hates them, associating images of snarling fangs and bloody eyes with the animals. Yet another thing that’s been ruined for him, he supposes. Though, and this is if this is a dog and not some small white abomination, it didn’t sound too violent. If anything, it sounded rather scared.
Cautiously, he peers around the doorframe. Shining his torch into the centre of the room, he notices that the windows inside have been boarded up instead of blasted. Thus, his torch is the only source of light, if he doesn’t count the thin cracks in the wooden panelling. He looks around the room, wondering for a moment if he’d imagined seeing it before the light catches a small, furry figure cowering in the corner. Broken glass and nails surround its bloody paws. Definitely scared. And, judging by the way it backs away from Leon instead of pouncing towards him, it’s not infected either.
Leon swallows the dissipating fear in his throat. “Hey, buddy,” he calls calmly. In response, the dog takes another small step backwards. Figures.
He copies it, taking a larger step forward. In a gesture of wary friendliness, he outstretches an arm, but the dog jumps and darts away, scurrying up a fallen plank and into the floorboards just beneath the floor above.
Shit. Leon can’t fit up there.
Right. No. He can do this.
Realistically, he could leave the dog be. It’s evident that there’s nothing alarming about it, but the thought of it starving to death here, in the middle of the woods, for no one to find it, causes something heavy to settle in Leon’s chest.
So, he tugs at an only partially destroyed table (useful, huh) until it’s balanced a little precariously under the stupid dog, and climbs atop it. “I’m gonna get you, okay?” He says uselessly.
The room is taller than he anticipates, causing Leon to stretch to reach it. It’s totally pitch black up there, so he throws his torch in first, shoving his hand in afterwards. Cobwebs catch around his fingers, and Leon suppresses a shudder.
“Hey, doggy,” he tries again, hearing it whimper in response. “I’m not scary, promise. I’m gonna get you out of here.”
He inches a little further, craning his neck to get a better view. “C’mon, little guy,” he prompts, getting a little frustrated now. Almost… he reaches further, his arm now lodged firmly into the floorboards and—ah! He feels it, soft, trembling fur. Now to pull the poor thing out and—
He should’ve been more careful. Should have worn that stupid padded coat. Shouldn't have such a stupid martyr complex.
Because suddenly, the dog leaps over him, causing him to stumble, and one of the legs of the table gives out. Leon attempts to regain his balance, but he topples over as the table does, landing ungracefully on the ground.
Shit.
And, if it were only his pride that was hurt, he could have managed; however, as soon as he hits the ground, a searing pain stretches across his abdomen, and a garbled scream gets muffled in his throat. Great. He untangles himself and pulls up the (stupid, unnecessary, ridiculous) layers of clothing until he sees it, eyes adjusting in the darkness: a great big gash on his side.
There’s a worrying amount of blood smearing the wound, and just looking at it tells him it’s not exactly superficial.
Well, fuck. He’s fucked up.
It takes him a moment to recognise the screaming in his earpiece.
“Leon! What the fuck happened? Are you okay?”
A deep breath. “Yeah—yeah, I’m cool.” He steadies his breathing. Very, totally cool, actually. Super-duper cool. “I found a little—a little doggie. Me and the new pal will catch up with you soon.”
Chris does not sound convinced. “I heard something fall. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Tip-top shape, Captain.” He winces as he shifts to stand up. Not good. He steadies himself on the windowsill.
Chris grumbles. “Alright, but if you’ve injured yourself, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Sounds counterintuitive, babe,” Leon blurts out before ripping the communicator out of his ear.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, okay. Okay. I can deal with this,” he mutters to himself through gritted teeth. He notices, then, that the dog hasn’t run away. Instead, it sits a few feet away from him, head tilted in curiosity, or perhaps even concern. It’s a puppy, Leon deduces and young, too—poor thing. The blood at its paws had worried Leon before, but he sees now that it evidently isn’t the dog’s own. An eerie realisation, meaning that there indeed is a body to be found somewhere in this wretched building. It’s the least of his worries now.
“I’m fine,” he grunts out, “don’t worry ‘bout it. Just a scratch.” He takes another look down, swallowing his words. He’s incredibly lucky, he thinks, that nothing’s stuck in it. It’s deep, sure, jagged and weeping. A shard of glass must have broken his fall. A little more than a scratch, then.
He wipes away some of the blood to survey the damage. It pools to the surface again almost immediately, but Leon can tell nothing important has been severed… at least he hopes.
“Fucking fantastic.” He bites his teeth. It’s not deep enough to require too much concern, but the first few layers of his skin have been completely seared through, and the sight colours him a little pale. Nothing’s falling out of him; his organs are all still in the right place, but damn, does it hurt. His head starts to feel a bit fuzzy, and that can’t be good. Right. Okay. How does he deal with this?
He’s going to have to buy another fucking leather jacket. Maybe those things are harbingers of bad luck.
It flows at an alarmingly steady pace.
Fuck. He thinks for a moment. He has two options: call out to Chris and cut this clean-up ‘mission’ short, or suck it up like the good agent he is and deal with it later; it’s not as though he hasn’t been through worse. It’s really not all that bad, he contends and hopes his T-shirt will soak up the blood and that his jacket will cover up any stains. Probably. Maybe not all that harbinger-y after all.
The puppy barks at him again, and Leon realises it’s a lot closer to him than it was before.
“This is your fault, you know?” He says as he bends down and cautiously places his un-bloodied hand atop its head. Ouch. Leon concedes that it was probably a bad idea as he feels his side gape open a little further, the skin splitting at the corners. No more moving for him; he really doesn’t want to widen the wound any more than it already is. Which, well, doesn’t bode too great as they have a twenty-minute walk back to the van.
He pulls his jacket back down and prays it covers him well enough. As he does, the fabric of his T-shirt clings to the aberration—it’s a blessing, or maybe a curse, in disguise—a lucky facade, yet Leon baulks at the thought of peeling it free later.
Great timing, too, as he hears a creaking behind him and sees a flash of light shining into the room. Scurrying to wipe the blood off on his thankfully black jeans, Leon gives his hands a once-over and deems them suitably bloodless. He can blame the dog if Chris asks.
“Huh, you weren’t kidding,” Chris says when he notices said dog, bending down to scratch behind its ears. Then, he looks up at Leon, eyes narrowing. “You don’t look good.”
“No worse than you,” Leon retorts all too quickly, smirking unconvincingly.
“Ha-ha.” Chris stands up, picking the dog up as he does. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
The pain is starting to subside a little now. Leon doesn’t think about the fabric clinging to his side, and he really doesn’t think about what it’s going to feel like once it’s pried away. He blinks away the dots in his vision. Focus, Leon.
“Yup.” He nods.
He could tell Chris, and he isn’t exactly sure why he is so remiss in doing so. A pride thing, maybe, as he’d always hated being fawned over. The result of always having to push through pain and discomfort for the better part of his life, and the guilt he feels at the thought of not doing so. He’s not so petulant that he won’t ask for help, but, well… when he can solve something himself, he’d much rather try that first.
It occurs to him that the reasonable, adult thing to do would be to come clean, but the logistics of it all make something give him pause. Chris hadn’t brought anything besides his gun, a torch, vials, and such for whatever data collection this mission had been allocated under. There’s a first-aid kit in the van, Leon knows this much, but they’d parked as close as they possibly could and still had to walk two miles to the house.
Maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the puppy. Chris can only carry one wounded mutt.
“Mission successful?” Leon asks, hoping the answer is yes and doubly hoping he looks incredibly nonchalant whilst doing so.
Chris, however, narrows his eyes. “I guess. Found a corpse upstairs, but it wasn’t infected, probably suicide.”
Oh. That explains the bloodied paws, then. “That all?”
“Yeah.” Chris nods, still unconvinced. He tucks the puppy into his chest, flattening a hand atop its tiny head. “You didn’t find anything else? Apart from her, I mean?”
“Her?” Leon asks.
“The dog.” Chris holds it—her—out as though to elucidate his point. She blinks at Leon.
Leon blinks back. “You looked?”
“You’re evading the question.” Chris tilts his head towards him, eyes narrowing, though he doesn’t deny it. “It’s fine if you didn’t, I wasn’t expecting much anyway.” Ah, so that likely explains the trip, some pseudo-date this turned out to be. Leon feels something ugly burn inside him at the absurdity of the situation, and he pointedly ignores the warmth in his abdomen and the trickle of blood settling at the top of his belt. It’s very on-brand for them, actually.
His following words come out shakier than he intends. “Nope. Nothing.” And if he’s getting increasingly monosyllabic, then, well, he hopes Chris doesn’t notice.
“Well.” Chris smiles, glancing once more at the puppy. “Suppose it wasn’t exactly fruitless, though, huh?” She licks his arm, and Chris’ smile widens. Leon tries very hard to suppress his own smile in fear of splitting himself open further. The daunting thought of returning to the SUV lingers heavily above him. Perhaps he should come clean before he reaches this event horizon of denial.
He coughs, trying to stand up straight. “Are you ready to head back?” However, he silently finds that he prefers the thought of staying here to bleed out silently.
“And cut our date short?” Chris jokes. Very funny.
“Wouldn’t dare.” And—ah, it is getting harder to string together a coherent sentence?
Chris, predictably, notices. “Leon, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Tip-top shape, Captain,” Leon responds, giving a salute to punctuate how terrifically fine he is.
For a moment, they enter an awkward stand-off, and Leon admits he does wilt a little under Chris’ steel gaze. Then, his saviour, the beautiful, wonderful puppy, jostles in Chris’ arms, pulling out from his clasp and bounding towards the door, and Leon retracts everything awful he has ever said about her, breathing a shallow breath of relief as Chris averts his gaze.
“Guess that settles it then,” he offers meekly. The puppy stands just outside the open door, wagging her tail. One of her ears has curled over, and she tilts her head expectantly; it would be devastatingly cute if Leon weren't so viscerally aware he’s bleeding out right now. “I won’t wrangle her out of the floorboards again.”
“So that was the noise?” Chris crosses his arms, a curious stare pointed at Leon. This—this is his last chance to come clean.
Instead, stupidly, he just nods.
Maybe Leon’s an idiot, and he should swallow his pride, because if he should be comfortable being vulnerable around anyone, it should be Chris. Voicing this, however, seems impossible, and any retorts for help get stuck in his stomach, bubbling away with the cloying feeling of blood clinging to his skin, and that cements it. He’ll push through this as he’s pushed through everything.
Chris falters on his own retort, narrowing his eyes once more before turning towards the door. Small victories. Crouching down, he picks up the dog again, and she struggles in his arms, wriggling and writhing. Leon supposes it couldn't have been pleasant being stuck in this abandoned glass-strewn building completely alone, and feels a surge of pity at his predicament. The dog, he decides, takes priority. She must be hungry and scared, and he’s a grown man with a thorn in his side.
Yes. That double-settles it. “You go on,” he says to Chris. “I’ll be out in a second.”
It shouldn’t be as hard as it is to push himself off the windowsill and regain his footing, but he winces at the shift in posture. Take a breath, Leon. Get a grip. He ambles towards the door, which Chris holds open with his free hand. Leon swallows a grimace. He’s suddenly aware of the fact that Chris likely has noticed his odd behaviour, but has decided not to argue against it, and what does that say about him? That this is predictable? That Chris would rather avoid an argument than force Leon to admit to his mistakes?
No matter, he can contemplate his misplaced saviour complex some other time. His biggest enemy right now is that forest.
Stepping outside, the afternoon sun is finally peaking out from the clouds in small bursts of light. Leon hopes his organs won’t spill out onto the snow as they walk, and that Chris takes the message and doesn’t broach too much conversation. As it were, it isn’t as awful as he was dreading it would be. Chris cradles the puppy in his arms as they walk, and Leon struggles to keep a steady pace, but he’s walking and not collapsing into the sodden forest floor, so he’ll take some small victories.
He’d survived through Raccoon City with a bullet in his shoulder through pure adrenaline alone, so he reconciles that this is absolutely nothing, and perhaps he did do the right thing by keeping it all to himself. So what if he feels the wound reopen after every step he takes? He’s a big boy. He can take it.
Chris is saying something, Leon realises, and takes his eyes off the ground to look his way. “Huh?”
“You’re not even paying attention,” Chris chastises. “I brought you all the way out here to ignore me? I’m hurt, Leon.”
“Oh, and this is so romantic,” Leon grumbles.
“Touché,” Chris concedes, swatting a branch out of the way with his free hand. Leon takes a moment to stop walking and catch his breath, watching as Chris fights against the brambles—the little puppy seems to be enjoying herself, finally out of that dilapidated building. She looks back at Leon once Chris has flattened their route, and Leon smiles at the juxtaposition. Okay, so it’s incredibly attractive. Chris is all brutish strength, and the little puppy is perhaps the fluffiest thing he’s ever seen, and so it’s almost enough to negate the painful gnawing at his side.
Chris beckons him to walk through the path he’s created. “Ladies first.” He smirks, and Leon deflates.
He prepares himself to move again, placing a hand conspicuously against his stomach.
But—oh. Oh no. His vision starts to blur, and the ambience of the forest fades into a tinny whimper. Though it might be him whimpering as he gasps out, bracing himself against the damp surface of a tree trunk. He steadies his breathing, but no, that’s not right, it’s coming out wrong. The floor beneath him isn’t right either—no, wait, that’s his vision giving out on him. So much for playing it cool. He curls his fingers into the bark, yet the sensation doesn’t help at all. More pain, he thinks deliriously, maybe more pain will snap him out of it, and he’ll be able to think properly again.
Ah, he belatedly realises, it’s over, because Chris is definitely saying something, and it can’t be good that Leon doesn’t hear a word of it.
“Just—just give me a second,” he splutters. Shifting himself against the tree draws out a muffled gasp of pain, and his back hits the cool bark with a thud. It’s a relief he’s able to keep himself on his feet.
A blur of white bounds towards him, and suddenly a hand is clasped tightly on his shoulder. Leon blinks into the sky. Slowly, the blur of green above him reconfigures itself into the more recognisable sight of scattered leaves, spruce and juniper. He blinks again. His hand is wet. The forest is cold.
“—Leon?” Chris’ voice echoes from the blur.
Leon thinks that maybe he nods hazily. “‘m fine.”
Chris’ face, too, is no longer a blur, metamorphosing into a picture of shock and concern. “Hey, talk to me, what happened?”
It’s all too much, all too suddenly, and he can’t take his hand away from his stomach because what if something really does fall out and he truly will bleed to death on this sodden forest floor? A prickling sensation scratches against his back, and then he’s sliding himself down the ridged bark until he hits the ground with a thud.
Predictably, it doesn’t help his case very much because Chris is quick to follow him, mimicking his pitiful fall and crouching beside him. His eyes dart from side to side, no doubt searching for their catalyst of a puppy. Leon spots her, though, nibbling at a clover, and it’s almost enough to wring a laugh out of him before he realises how terrible that would be, spluttering on an exhale.
“Fuck,” Chris says, eyes downcast, “I knew something was wrong.” He meets Leon’s gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Leon swallows, and his stomach hits the floor with the weight of his guilt. Look where his pathetic excuse for heroism has left him—wet and shaking, bloody and weak in the middle of a thick bramble. “Damn—urgh.” He winces as he tries to stand up. Chris stops him with a firm tug. Leon grumbles. “Annoyingly perceptive when you want to be.”
“Well, you’re not exactly being subtle, babe.” It’s etched with concern.
Leon ignores him, attempting to stand again.
Chris catches him again. “Leon, hold on—stop for a second, okay?”
The dew-slick ground could swallow him whole, and Leon wouldn't be too opposed to the resolution of this masquerade. Yet, he concedes, slumping against the tree and releasing a shaky breath. He can’t look Chris in the eyes, lest he be faced with the repercussions of his stupidity. Because, yes, he admits, this was incontrovertibly stupid, and seriously, what was he thinking?
Something to do with being the one to take the fall, right? It’s ridiculous, he realises, and probably should have realised sooner, because one look in Chris’ eyes tells him he chose the wrong option. That he should have voiced his needs in that damn house, and that maybe if he had, things would have turned out differently.
Obviously, there’s no use dwelling on these mistakes because he did choose the bitter option, and they are set in the shrouded woodlands, and yes, Leon’s worries hadn’t been completely unfounded because there is a good amount of blood splattered on the snow-coated clovers.
“I’m fine.” He lies through gritted teeth, wondering why he’s still keeping up this farce of resistance, as though his brain and mouth have forgotten how to communicate entirely.
Chris isn’t convinced, if the lines on his forehead say anything. Yet, he also knows this dance, soothing himself and waiting a moment before he speaks again, no doubt attempting to phrase his following complaints tactfully. It makes Leon feel considerably worse that this is something they have to dance around in the first place.
But, “Okay,” Chris says. He brushes a hand through his hair, though his eyes remain locked onto Leon’s. “If you’re so fine, you won’t mind me looking at it?” He gestures to where Leon’s hand is locked to his side. Leon is scared to remove it.
“Chris,” he mumbles. It shouldn’t be so much of a monumental task. All he needs to do is let go.
Luckily, and Leon should know this by now, he doesn’t have to do everything on his own. Chris takes his hand in his own and slowly pries it away—it comes back sodden and red, and Leon winces when the cold winter air bites his skin.
“Just a scratch,” he warns before Chris lifts his jacket and peels away the fabric of his T-shirt. It looks decidedly worse than before, no longer bleeding that steady stream but instead clotted and red around the edges, weeping slowly. The lack of blood reveals the true depth of the wound, jagged and thick, forming a deep ravine in his side, yellow fat bubbling inside. Chris, no doubt, swallows a concerned gasp, but Leon still feels his hand grip the fabric of his jeans.
“Little more than a scratch, babe.” He hovers a hand over the wound.
“Well,” Leon chokes out through gritted teeth. “A matter of perception.”
Chris unzips his coat. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re losing way too much blood.” Before Leon can object, Chris is tearing at his shirt, pulling at the fabric until a long strip tugs free. “How did this even happen?”
Leon points at their puppy. The gesture causes him to wince, which, in turn, causes Chris to hasten his movements. He places the cloth against the wound and urges Leon to sit up. It’s a messy affair; blood now coats both their hands, and the mud squelches under the weight of his limpness. The breath gets caught in Leon’s chest, and any attempts to steady the rise and fall of his chest are fruitless—he hadn’t realised how exhausted he really was until now, and every slight movement causes him to wince in pain.
“I fell.” He admits in a spluttering breath.
Chris pulls him into his chest, wrapping the fabric around Leon a few times and securing it with a tight knot. Leon won’t admit it, but it really fucking hurts, no longer stinging and searing but dully throbbing, the sensation seeping into his chest.
“You fell?” Chris pulls him away and steadies him with his hands. They lock eyes.
It’s enough to make Leon laugh, and he averts his gaze. “Chasing after—ah.” He falls backwards, fingers curling into a mess of grass. “Chasing after our new friend.”
Chris blinks at him.
“A real hero, huh?” Leon smiles weakly.
Chris, too, averts his gaze, wandering towards said friend who, by some grace of something holy, is currently scuttling slowly after a bug. It’s a relief she hasn’t run away, and Leon’s more glad than he would ever let on; selfishly, or perhaps selflessly, depending on how one looks at it, he would have been pretty mad if she had decided to make her escape after he went through the trouble of spilling his guts.
It’s irrefutable evidence that he’s getting soft. She stops her chase, sniffing and sneezing, and suddenly she’s bounding towards them, ears perked as though reacting to a loud noise. Not a bad sacrifice, Leon thinks.
“You’re really something, Kennedy,” Chris says, though he returns the smile. “Think you can get up?”
“That… remains to be seen,” Leon admits sheepishly. Frankly, his legs feel ready to give out on him any second, and he regrets sitting down in the first place.
A moment passes, and Chris is no doubt analysing the logistics of how they’re supposed to walk back to the SUV. He furrows his brow, eyeing Leon and zipping his coat back up. Then, “Hold onto me, okay?”
Leon does as he’s told, too tired to push back against what he knows is good for him. With a shaky grip, he digs his fingers into Chris’ bicep and braces himself against the tree with his other hand. Chris wraps an arm around his waist—the other side, not the wounded one—and heaves them both to their feet. Leon swallows a scream. His legs buckle, and he has to stop himself from pressing all his weight into Chris’ side.
Meekly, he offers a thumbs-up. “See? Just a scratch.”
“When will you learn to look after yourself, huh?” Chris shakes his head and shifts so that Leon is all but using him as a crutch. It’s a simple question, but it strikes something deep, and Leon can’t find the words to answer, because honestly, he doesn't know how. That’s not true, but it’s a cognitive dissonance, knowing how doesn’t necessarily equate to being able to apply that knowledge. He’d been close to it too, weighing the options as though it really was all that difficult to decide.
But it was difficult, he argues with himself, and Chris must surely recognise this, which is why he hadn’t said anything until Leon was quite literally collapsing at his feet. It’s not as though Leon was the only one who could have possibly suffered over his decision, and so, is it so wrong to valorise the well-being of others over his own feelings? But then again, who is he kidding? He’s married to Chris Redfield, and the irony isn’t lost on him. Chris would do anything to ensure the safety of everyone and everything involved, and he’d find a way of doing it, no matter the circumstances.
Chris perhaps senses his internal battle, yet urges them to start walking anyway. Leon cranes his neck, searching for white within white, but Chris interrupts him, pointing ahead of them. “Don’t worry. I think she trusts you.”
Sure enough, the puppy stands in front of them, tail wagging, eagerly waiting for them to catch up. Leon chokes out something between a laugh and a sob. He’s been a fool. “Seems so.”
“Alright, come on, it’s not too far.” He hauls Leon’s arm around his shoulder and looks at him, eyes soft. “I’ve got you.”
“Yeah,” Leon mumbles and takes the first step.
And that should have ended it, really. The steady weight of Chris pulling him from the ground should have been enough to make the still excruciating walk to the narrow lane where they’d parked painful yet achievable. And for a while, it was enough, even if Leon had been faltering on every other step and could feel himself bleeding through the makeshift bandage. Yet, barely five minutes after they started, Leon feels light-headed again, stumbling over nothing and sliding from Chris’ grasp.
“Wait.” This isn’t good. He needs to focus. He absolutely cannot stop now. But he finds himself unable to breathe, chest empty and rattling, and the foliage of the forest blurs into abstract shapes, distorted and crude.
He repeats himself. “Wait, just—.”
This is it. He’s actually going to die in the middle of nowhere, bleeding from a fucking self-inflicted wound, in the pursuit of saving some poor abandoned dog. Not in an explosion or a heated gun fight like he had hoped he would, nor of old age, being told some sentimental things that currently would make him feel a little sick, but he’ll admit would be a nice second choice, if he had a choice in such matters. But, no, he’s dying now, he’s sure of it. Goodbye, cruel world. At least he had saved a life in exchange for his own.
“You’re not fucking dying, Kennedy.”
He isn’t? He feels like he is.
He meets the ground with a heavy thud, and he probably should be screaming with pain. He’s sure Chris is screaming something too, and keeping his eyes open is getting harder and harder. A pair of arms wrap around him, yet all he can feel is the cold iciness of the forest floor, a warmth in his side and the tepid regrets of this whole ordeal.
“ ‘m sorry, Chris,” he thinks he says.
And then, nothing.
Something wet is licking his face—a sensation from within the darkness. Through that darkness, another sensation emerges. Pain. Dull and throbbing. There’s a softness under him, a warmth spreading through his body despite that pain.
A recollection of a frozen forest floor comes to him. He’s being licked again.
Then, slowly, Leon opens his eyes and is met with the big brown eyes of the cause of this whole ordeal. Pink tongue pointed, ready for another attack. He grumbles, shielding himself, staking his defences. He blinks a little, reacquainting himself with his surroundings, and it takes him a moment to recognise their living room, lying flat on the sofa. A pang of guilt hits him when he realises he must have been out cold for a while. That mess of white fur breaches his defences, and suddenly that tongue slides across his face.
“Eugh,” he says, eloquently and attempts to push himself into a sitting position.
“No moving from you.” He hears Chris say from out of his periphery. Leon cranes his head, finding Chris sitting on the floor before him, deep frown lines. Blood on his shirt.
Leon slides himself back down with a thud. The puppy has ceased her onslaught, instead choosing to sit beside Leon’s head. She tilts her own head, as if to ask what’s wrong, and Leon bites down on a smile. He’s dimly aware of the fact that the last time he had consciousness was in a crumpled mess on a snow-strewn forest floor, and the fact that he is no longer on that bloodied mud. Chris must have dragged him back to the SUV, and then into the living room, and the thought makes him a little embarrassed. Being so flat is making him feel a little sick, though, so he ignores Chris’ orders and tries hauling himself up once more. This time, he’s successful, slouching back against the sofa, and he can see Chris’ face more clearly; he doesn’t look too impressed. An ugly shade of guilt bubbles in Leon’s chest. What a clusterfuck. He’s less delirious from the pain now, and the reality of it all colours him pale with embarrassment.
“Ah.” He begins, averting his gaze. “Chris… I’m sorry.”
Chris sighs, slouching back into the carpet. “It’s fine. I just wish you would tell me when something happens instead of trying to fix it all by yourself.”
Leon swallows. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“You’re too… well, too you.”
That causes Leon to laugh, a pained, choked sound. “Wonder who would put up with that, huh?” He retorts, placing a hand on the little puppy’s head. She nuzzles into it, and Leon gives her a soft smile. A sacrifice well spent. He doesn’t think he has many lives left. Always been more of a dog than a cat. Chris gives Leon a disparaging smile, and he thinks that perhaps he should take care of this one more, if it’s the only one he’s got.
He feels a dull stab of pain in his side and clutches the area, hand no longer coming away sodden with blood. He looks at it stupidly, moving to hitch up his T-shirt, but Chris stops him with a disapproving look. “Don’t touch it,” he says.
“You stitched it?” Leon asks, feeling that guilt return.
Chris nods, then lets out a heavy breath. “You scared me.”
Leon swallows. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, well…” He trails off. It’s hard to rationalise it. Because he hadn’t meant to get hurt, but everything after that was completely his fault. He had every opportunity to tell Chris that something was wrong, but he hadn’t. He had kept it to himself, and he still can’t figure out why. “I don’t know,” he says, placing his hand atop the puppy again. She’s fallen asleep, curled up next to a plush pillow. The softness of her fur is calming.
“You think yourself expendable,” Chris offers calmly.
But Leon shakes his head. “No.” It isn’t that, at least not anymore. He values this life they’ve carved out for themselves. Not safe, far from it, but he has something to come home to other than the bottle. There’s still that lingering doubt, that feeling that he should throw himself in danger’s way because that’s what he’s made for, but he shouldn’t voice that, shouldn’t let it grow. Not after he’s spent so long letting it wither. “I love you,” he says, instead.
Chris tilts his head, bemused. “I love you too.” He heaves himself up to sit next to Leon. Wary of his stomach, Leon winces as he shifts himself to lean into Chris’ shoulder.
“I don’t know why I didn’t. I think I thought that if I pushed through it, everything would be fine,” he tries to explain. He laughs, a little bitterly. “Obviously wasn’t, but…” He shrugs, and it hurts. Doesn’t like the fact that it hurts because he no longer chases that feeling like he was once prone to do. It makes him feel guilty instead of proud.
Chris hums into his hair, pressing a small kiss into the centre. “You’re too kind.”
That confuses Leon. He pushes himself up to look in Chris’ eyes. “What?”
Chris points at the puppy, still sleeping soundly, and Leon can’t help but smile. She looks so peaceful, no longer fearful and skittish as she was in that damned house. “Pretty heroic, saving puppies from burning buildings.”
“It wasn’t heroic. It was stupid.” Leon says, not bothering to point out that he neither saved the dog nor was the building burning.
Chris returns his own shrug, a glint in his eyes. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”
Leon swallows a laugh. Pushes Chris, which probably wasn’t the best idea, as a shooting pain in his side makes him wince. Chris pushes him back down in return, stern expression betrayed by a poorly concealed smile. Leon grumbles at the attention, but can’t help but return a smile of his own. God, he really is stupid. It all feels so stupid to him now. But, as Chris would probably say, it’s water under the bridge. He will be stupid again; it’s in his blood. Leon doesn’t think himself capable of sensibility. He used to thrive on risk, and he’s not sure that thirst for adrenaline will ever be completely gone. It’s a good job he has Chris to keep him in check, he thinks.
“What are we going to name her?” Chris asks.
“Huh?”
Chris points at the puppy again. Her chest rises and falls with each little breath.
“You want to keep her?” Leon asks.
“You don’t?”
Leon shakes his head. “No, no! I just.” He breaks into a smile. He thinks for a moment, regarding the mess of white fur. She stretches when he places a hand atop her head, looking up at Leon with an adorable yawn. “What about Clover?” He says, looking at Chris, who has picked the puppy up, cradling her in his arms. She wriggles around, restless now after a good nap. Blood no longer coats her little paws, and she gives Leon a look with those big brown eyes. He doesn’t have it in him to throw a bone, but he reaches forward and scratches under her ears as a compromise.
“Clover?” Chris peers down to look at her before letting her wriggle away to the carpet. Soon after, she starts attacking the leg of the sofa, growling at it very, very scarily.
“Hey, Clover, c’mere!” Chris calls out, to which the puppy, now christened Clover, Leon supposes, perks up and barks. He laughs, looking over at Leon fondly. “Seems she likes it.”
It makes something catch in Leon’s chest—something warm and domestic, something he hadn’t thought himself properly capable of. It’s dark outside, the curtains drawn, and the small gold of the lamp illuminates the living room, catching on Clover’s stark white fur.
He slumps back into Chris’ chest, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. “Fuck, I think I’m gonna sleep for a week now.”
Chris presses a kiss to his cheek and lets Leon snuggle closer to him. “I bet.” He strokes Leon’s hair. “It’s fine, I’ll be here.” So Leon lets himself slip into slumber, comforted by the rising and falling of Chris’ chest and then, almost imperceptible, the weight of a small head on his thigh.
Not a bad sacrifice at all.