You come home to Leon drunk, AGAIN, and you realize you just can't do this anymore.
TW + tags: Vendetta! Leon x DSO! Gn! Reader; use of y/n im sorry 😞; 4k+ words; leon is an alcoholic; mentions of reader self harm; angst; denial of addiction; leons kinda a dick for a sec; DESPERATE LEON MMMM; reader has a past with alcoholics, happy ending,
a/n: Uhhh I know this kinda butchered the timeline of vendetta I’m sorry i had to do it for the sake of the story
Although i do proofread my work its still prone to errors because I’m dyslexic ^_^
You sighed, slipping your key into the lock, twisting it until you heard a click. It was another grueling, demanding day of work. A three hour briefing of an upcoming mission for a couple of agents had drained the social battery out of you and stolen your night away.. Your watch read 12;27. You were ready to go inside, heat up some leftovers, collapse onto your bed, and cuddle up against your husband till sleep consumed you.
You pushed the door open and leaned against the wall, lazily slipping off your shoes and pushing them out of the way into a previously existing unordered pile. You closed the door behind you and locked it, rubbing your eyes and placing your jacket onto a coat hanger above the pile of shoes.
“I’m home!” You shouted into an empty abyss. You knew Leon was around here somewhere, you saw his car in the driveway, and his shoes were also messily placed by the door. But where he was in the house was beyond you. You slipped into the living room, tossing up a blanket on the couch to see if he was under it (although it was very obvious he wasn't)
You started to walk towards his office when out of the corner of your eye, you saw a dark shadow sitting at the kitchen island. You turned your head, and noticed his slumped over, unconscious body, presented in the dim warm light of the kitchen. A smile crept over you, as you walked over towards him. You stood running your hand through his hair, watching his small quiet breaths in and out.
You ran your eyes over the scene in front of you, your initial reaction was to assume he passed out some paperwork while waiting for you to come home. Before you could come up with another domestic scenario, you noticed it. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sitting beside him on the counter. No glass (nor decency to not drink straight out of the bottle) just a bottle with a couple of drops congregating at the bottom.
You felt your face heat up, not with embarrassment, or sadness, but with anger. This was the 12th time you’d come home to him like this. By now you should’ve just assumed if he was passed out at an unconventional spot, he was passed out drunk.
The past 12 times, You’d tried to be sympathetic, kind, understanding, and help him break this unhealthy habit before it became worse. Before past situations reformed and became present ones. You’d seen this all before. Clearly your words of advice weren't getting to him. But this was getting ridiculous. There was only so much help a person could offer, so much patience before things boiled over with words that were thought but left unsaid.
So… like any rational person would, you picked up the glass bottle residing beside him, and slammed it onto the floor. The bottle shattered and broke onto the wood. Leon practically jumped out of his skin, immediately into fight mode.
He fought through the exhaustion and fuzzy vision, immediately calming down as he noticed your form towering over him. His gaze drifted to the bottle on the floor then back at you.
“This is ridiculous. This has become ridiculous. You want to know how many times I’ve come home to this? 12 times. 12 times, Leon.”
“What…” He slurred, his tone bordering on irritation.
“I have been patient, I have been kind, I’ve tried my best to be sympathetic” You rattled off, counting on your fingers. He stared at you with a stare and an expression that continued to swap between blunt confusion and annoyance. Right as he was about to open his mouth to speak, you started to ramble more.
“Is it just not enough? Am I not enough? I want to help you, I know the shit you’ve gone through is worse than the average human can comprehend, but I want to help! I want to do something. I’ve spoken to you personally, and I’ve tried to let you talk to me on your own time. But now? Now I don't know what to do. I just can't keep coming home to this.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” He asked, his brows furrowed, his body relaxing against the kitchen counter again.
“The drinking, Leon!” You yelled at him, finally letting it all boil over into a volume that wasn't used for everyday conversation. His body tensed again and he sat up once more. “I’m not gonna keep coming home to a man that's slumped over, covered in his own drool, and that smells like pure whiskey. Its one thing to let loose every once in a while, but this is fucking ridiculous. Sure, it was in the vows to be there for you, and help you through stuff- sickness and in health-, but how the hell am I supposed to help you if you wont let me! I can't do this shit anymore, this cat and mouse game! You need help!”
His silence was deafening and he just stared at you with a dumb stare that couldn't tell you if he was really listening and contemplating your words, or if everything was going in one ear and out the other. What could you expect from a drunk guy? Both of you looked at one another for a long while, your chest rose with heavy frustrated breaths. It was a long time before he said anything else.
“You’re over exaggerating. I don’t need help. Just cause a guy gets drunk every now and then doesn't make it a problem.” God you had never wanted to slap him harder in your life.
“I’ve met alcoholics Leon. I’ve lived with them. You're an alcoholic. This isn't an every now-and-then thing. Ive come home to this twelve times in two months! I can't imagine what goes on when I'm not around” You explained with a sigh, trying not to yell at him again.
“Because you have a past with alcoholics doesn’t make me one. You’re just freaked out. You're making this into something its not.” His words made you feel belittled, like your previous experiences were nothing. Like this whole thing was nothing. Your next words practically poured out of you before you could even think.
“The entire DSO can smell you before you even enter a room because you wreak of alcohol. The rest of us? Your friends, Leon, were not stupid. It doesn't take a genius to figure out you have a problem. We all know youre not stupid, so stop playing dumb and get some fucking help! I’ve already been through this shit once. I’m not gonna sit here and wait for one of us to get hurt waiting. You need help! This isn't a healthy way to cope!”
You stood there, your mind was vexed and all you wanted to do was get him to understand. Clearly he needed a reality check, and If screaming at him for the next hour and a half would help, you would continue doing it.
But of course, his mouth worked quicker than his intoxicated mind.
“Oh yeah cause you know all about healthy coping mechanisms. I’ve seen the shit you've done to your legs.” Almost immediately as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. It didn’t require a sober conscious to know he fucked up in 9 words. He sat there, unmoving, watching as you stood in front of him, your eyes wide and quickly glazing over with tears.
You hummed, your frustration dissipating and embarrassment replacing it. Embarrassed that you had trusted him enough to let him in on a vulnerable part of your life, just for it to be used against you when all you wanted to do was help. You stood up straight, your throat was tight and it was hard to swallow.
His irritated expression quickly resorted to a guilty one. He opened his mouth like he wanted to speak. You stared at each other once more before you decided you had TRULY had enough of this. Your threats of abandoning him were about to become reality. You turned on your heel, making a beeline to the bedroom, wiping away the tears before they could even fall. He frantically stood up, stumbling over his feet trying to follow you, trying to fix this.
“I’m sorry. Y/N I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean it” He tried to grab your wrist as you both made it to the bedroom. You fumbled with the closet door and pulled out your suitcase. He watched, trying to support himself against the door frame.
You unzipped the bag and started to pile miscellaneous clothes into your bag, some underwear, shirts, jeans, a couple office wear outfits for work (that may or may not have matched). Leon staggered his way in front of you, gently trying to grab at your shoulders.
“Please, I'm sorry. Don’t leave. I didn’t mean it.” He slurred. Maybe it was the alcohol or his guilty conscience, but he wiped himself of his dignity and slid onto his knees. His eyes bore into yours and he pleaded with you. You continued to ignore him, sliding your necessary skincare and makeup into a small travel bag and zipping that up too. You ripped your phone charger and laptop charger out of the wall, threw that on top of all your clothes chaotically placed in your luggage.
“Y/n please stop..” He begged, desperation in his dilated eyes. He watched as you walked around the bedroom, grabbing whatever you needed. The small and miscellaneous items that he rarely noticed but made the room felt devoid of life. He felt helpless, and he knew this feeling was nothing more than the consequences of his own actions. Now he had to sit here and watch as it unfolded.
Finally, you zipped up the bag and tossed it onto the floor. You knelt down, grabbing his chin and forcing his pathetic face to look at you. You studied his flushed cheeks and dilated pupils, the dark circles under his eyes and dry lips; no doubt the result of the immense quantity of alcohol swarming around in his blood stream.
“I’m leaving for a couple of days. By the time I’m back you better have your shit together or you can consider this, done.” Tears strolled down his eyes as he looked at you, and you were pretty sure this was the first time you’d ever seen him cry. As much as you wanted to coddle him and tell him he would be fine, that you weren't going to leave, you’d given him his chance. Multiple chances, infact. You’d tried to help him. If he wanted you to stay bad enough he’d fix it himself.
You let go of his face and stood up. pulling your luggage behind you, past him, past your shared bedroom, and passed the shards of glass. He pushed himself up off the floor, tripping and gripping the open dresser drawers as he struggled to follow after you.
“Please.. don't leave!” He shouted, not in an angry tone, but in a desperate, last pathetic attempt. Like you were his lifeline and he just couldn't bear to part with you. But It certainly hadn't felt that way the past 12 times you'd come home to him drunk. You ignored him and pulled your keys off the counter. You were out the door before you could make the terrible decision to stay.
By the time you even made it to a hotel you had 23 messages on your phone from Leon. All of them read something along the lines of: I’m sorry, please come back, where are you staying? when will you be back? Can I come see you?
You turned off your location because the last thing you needed was for him to drive in his intoxicated state.
By the time you made it to your room- which was about 13 messages later- he seemed to have given up (or passed out drunk), and it was now radio silence. You continued your nightly routine without his presence by your side, and although the weight of the argument was on your mind, it couldn't overpower your need for sleep.
Your morning was also fairly normal, still no new texts or calls from Leon. The only thing your routine suffered from was a lack of color coordination the night before when you hurriedly stuffed a couple of outfits into a bag. You arrived at work as per usual, and PRAYED Leon wasn't waiting in your office for you. You let out a sigh of relief when you finally sat down at your desk, no flowers, no card, no mile long email, and best of all, no leon- at least yet.
You went about work as you normally would, the argument the night prior lingered on your mind. Were you too hard on him? Should you have tried to comfort him again? insecurity started to creep into your mind. Despite what your mind telling you, in your heart you knew you weren't wrong. It wasn't wrong for you to not want to live with an alcoholic again, to suffer abuse again. Leon knew your past, and you just couldn’t help but think he wasn't taking it seriously.
By lunch you were starting to get concerned. As much as you were dreading another confrontation with Leon, at work nonetheless, you hadn’t received another text since around 1:30 last night. Was he okay?
“Whatever” You mumbled to yourself, trying not to let your anxiety get to you. You swiped your keys off your desk, taking long strides through the building towards the elevator. Coincidentally, Leon's secretary, Amanda, also happened to be making her way towards the elevator too.
She was a nice lady, only a couple years older than you and Leon. She wore Red framed glasses with the thickest lenses you had ever seen. So thick that without looking you could swear her ID read “legally blind”. She had gorgeous dark red hair that ran all the way down to her thighs. But most of the time she kept it tied up in a bun. She was pale as a ghost and god forbid she stood in the sun, she could burn to a crisp in 5 minutes if she decided to not wear sunscreen on a cloudy day.
The elevator arrived at your floor with a ding. You and Amanda entered, offering each other a smile, your polite expressions mirrored on the metal grey door as it slid shut.
“Out for lunch?” She asked, fumbling with a couple folders in her arms.
“Yea. You?” You replied, a yawn following at the end of your sentence. It seemed your lack of sleep last night was getting to you.
“Nah. Copy room on this floor is too busy. First floors copy room is never busy” She hummed, and silence fell over the two of you, you stared at the blurry reflection of yourself on the metal doors, before deciding to take advantage of this moment with Amanda.
“Have you seen Leon yet?” You questioned, turning to her. As you conversed with her you could see your reflection in her thick lenses. You prayed it was just a warped likeness and you really didn’t look that terrible.
“Nope. Why? Do you need me to send him a message or something?”
“No, quite the opposite actually.”
“Uh oh, trouble in paradise?”
“More like a hurricane in paradise.”
“Not really. You know where he's at though? So I can avoid him?”
“He's on a mission. He was sent through the BSAA to New York City around 30 minutes ago. I figured he told you-”
“Shit.” You cut her off unintentionally, running your hand down your face. The elevator made it to the first floor and you practically stormed out of there the moment those doors opened.
15 minutes later you found yourself sitting at a table of a locally owned cafe waiting for your food. You stared daggers at your phone resting on the table. Leon's contact page wide open. A blank text message and his desperate texts from last night displayed. That stupid cursor blinked back and forth as if challenging you to say something. You were caught between sending him an instantaneous apology text; or leaving him in bitter silence until he got back. That was IF he got back.
You knew whatever the hell you typed wouldn’t be sincere. Though you did not feel guilt for calling him out on his bullshit behaviour. You felt guilt for your abrupt leave being his potentially last encounter with you. That argument being his last words shared with you. Anything could happen on a mission. You knew that very well from the frequent funerals of DSO agents you attended.
Those words you wanted to say never transcribed into a full sentence. Many messages went unsent then were deleted. Your head screamed at you to text him something, anything so your absence wouldn't be the last thing you said to him. The day went by and although your work was completed that message was the only thing that remained unaccomplished.
So now you sat, watching the week go by. With each passing hour you felt guiltier for not saying anything. That unresolved guilt became anger very quickly. You were angry with him, yourself, the whole world. You consulted with your friend to help with the text but to much avail you never sent anything. You bugged Amanda every other hour for an update on Leon and the mission status, but after he arrived in New York City he went off the radar.
You wished the static of radio silence filled your head. So that sound could overpower the doubt and guilt in your mind. You prayed Leon would come home just so you could yell at him one more time. So he could pass out drunk and you could wake him with the vengeful destruction of a bottle. So You could see those icy blue eyes of his disappear behind the dilation of his pupil. Him on his knees begging for you to stay. This time it would be different. He would listen to your concerns and take them to heart. Realize you were right and that this anger you expressed was for his well being.
Was it selfish to want that? To have the same scenario reoccur and expect a different outcome?
You lay awake in bed at night, staring at the ceiling wondering where he was. If he was alive. Was he dying, staring at his phone, rereading previous text messages whilst silently praying you would send him one final text?
Finally after two weeks you stopped asking Amanda about Leon’s whereabouts.
You treated his absence as if he were already dead. Life went by in one long never ending stream. You couldn’t remember when this feeling of nothing began and when it would end. To forget it all you embraced work. Staying up till the wee hours of the night and beginning in the quiet hours of the morning.
You thought about the immense amount of work you were doing. You laughed to yourself at the irony and realized maybe you were just as bad as Leon. He drowned himself in alcohol to forget his thoughts and to forget your thoughts you drowned yourself in work.
It was going on a month since you had last heard and seen Leon. At least, that's what your calendar said. In your mind it felt like months, a year even. You drove home in the quiet of the night, your phone read 2:00 AM. Music played from your car's speaker at an unhealthy volume. Some bland pop song blasting throughout the vehicle because you heard somebody say once “it's hard to feel sad when you're listening to pop music” which in a way was right. (but you were pretty sure this was the 18th time you had heard this song this week)
You parked your car, and as you cut the engine the music cut as well, leaving you with an overwhelming feeling of silence. You walked to the front door, the solar porch light buzzing at a low frequency. You slid your key into the lock and hummed the tune to the pop song you were previously listening to. Curse that obnoxiously catchy beat now you were going to have that song stuck in your head for the whole night.
You locked the door behind you and kicked off your shoes. You threw off your jacket and hung it up on the coat rack. You sighed and made your way towards the kitchen, but halfway there you froze. Through the silence of the night you heard a sound behind the front door. Whoever was behind it attempted to turn the door handle, only to be stopped by the lock.
You turned around slowly, trying not to move suddenly and make any noise that might alert the intruder. You heard the sound of something sliding into the lock. Presumably a lock pick. You ran to the bedroom, already recalling the safe’s code that held Leon's emergency gun. You opened the closet doors, shoving aside Leon's jackets. The safe made a quiet beep with every number typed in.
It clicked open and before your fingers could wrap around the gun you heard your name being called.
You froze, convincing yourself that wasn’t who you thought it was. You were hearing things and this was just a part of the grief process. Your fingers gently wrapped around the gun, clicking off the safety. Footsteps thumped and became closer and closer.
“Y/n?” You turned your head slowly. You told yourself you were hallucinating. Or a nightmare crossed over into a dream. Somewhere in reality you were passed out at your desk still at the DSO. Regardless of your doubts, you still stood up and ran to him. Abandoning the gun and enveloping yourself in Leon’s arms. You stayed quiet and allowed yourself to feel his breath along your neck, his heartbeat against your chest, his hands around your back.
If this was a hallucination you still took advantage of the feeling of him next to you. Even if it was your mind playing tricks on you. Who knows when you might meet him again in your dreams.
“I’m so sorry.” He mumbled against your neck, the vibration carrying itself through your skin. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I should’ve listened to you. I fucked up and I’m so sorry for it.”
You said nothing but your appreciation wasn't lost in the way you held him tighter. You two stood like that for a while longer. His warm breath caressed your skin and his hands greedily pushed you closer to him to hold you tighter. That's when you knew then that this wasn't a hallucination.
“I have something for you..” He mumbled into your shoulder. You two separated and he guided you to sit down on the edge of the bed. He flicked on the lamp on the bedside table, both of you blinked rapidly as you adjusted to its light.
You watched intently as he pulled something out of his pocket. Now that you could both see you noticed something about him. You leaned in closer, studying his face. His skin was clear, His hair was brushed neatly, and most importantly he smelled clean. And it wasn’t that he didn’t normally smell clean. But for the first time in a while, his presence wasn't laced with the stench of whiskey.
“Here we go.” He muttered, pulling out a small coin. He held your wrist and turned it over with all the care in the world. Your palm faced upward, forbearingly he placed the coin in your hand. Your gaze slowly descended to the chip in your hand. Handling it as if it were the most precious diamond in the world, you brought it closer to your face to read.
In clear Ariel fonted words it read “One Week Sober”.
Your eyes looked into Leons again, then back at the chip.
“Are you serious?” You pondered, staring into his eyes for clarification. He smiled softly, eyes glaring into yours.
“I’m serious.” He professed, grabbing your free hand. He smiled, one that finally met his eyes. One that wasn’t weighed down by the side effects of alcohol.
You grinned and launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and forcing him into a tight embrace.
Uhm would anybody want to read part 2 and its reader helping leon with alcohol withdrawal and possible relapse i feel like nobody talks about the withdrawal and recovery part of an addiction enough :(
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