Summary: Helping Leon recover from alcohol. (sequel to "Kill You To Try")
Tags + TW: Post-Vendetta! Leon x DSO! Gn! Reader: angst; itty bitty bit of fluff; 4k words; recovering addiction; trigger warning for the last half; relapse; erm leon vomits; suicide idolation; dead dove do not eat; idk how to write endings; mundane ending(??) interpret the ending however u want its so ass im sorry.
a/n: Thank you guys so much for the support on my previous post honestly i was expecting a major flop. Glad to see there is a community who likes vendetta leon as much as I do. Anyways, sorry that this took me a MONTH to write. Iâm such a slow writer its terrible. Hope the month wait was worth it
Although I proofread my work its still prone to errors because I'm dyslexic ^_^
It had been one hell of a rollercoaster since Leon had returned home 2 months ago. Between restlessness, his mood swings, increased appetite, and a hundred other things, Insomnia was kicking his ass the most. The last time Leon had gotten a proper night rest was back at the recovery center in Charleston, West Virginia. Which for reference, was RIGHT after the outbreak/ almost-outbreak in New York City.
The good news was, even if he slept for 2 hours the night before, he could still navigate the day with an incredible amount of energy. If it wasnât a short depressive episode, it was a short and sweet three days of being incredibly restless.
Which brought him to now. It was bright and early, and Leon was filled with an energetic attitude that made no sense considering his lack of sleep the night before. It was around 10 AM. He was already in the garage, tinkering with his bike. You sat in the corner near his toolbox, hard at work reading through files and writing a report, still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes despite getting up 2 hours ago- which was the same time Leon got up. Music blasted through an 80s radio station from a radio in the corner.
âCan you hand me the 3/8ths wrenchâ You hummed an âmhmâ reaching into the toolbox and digging around. You successfully retrieved it after a moment and tossed it to him, he caught it with ease, and started to remove a part around the gas tank. You both went on in a quiet routine of mind each other's business for around an hour.
Eventually you stepped away from your work and retreated back into the house, making an early lunch for both you and Leon, while also letting your brain have a rest from work. You returned about thirty minutes later with a plate and glass of water in hand, Leon happened to be standing up, running his hand over the leather seat. He smiled when you entered the garage and proudly stated,
âI think she's ready for a drive.â to which you replied, âSweet!â You ran your eyes over the bike and approached Leon to hand him the plate of food. He took it with a grateful little âthanksâ. He continued to gush over the bike with his rare boyish grin all whilst food was in his mouth.
âI rebuilt the engine with a v4 cylinder instead of a v2 cylinder, and now the gas tank can hold more fuel which means longer driving time between refueling it. And you have to hear how she sounds now.â He grabbed the key off the bike's seat, sticking it into the engine and turning it. The Motor ran for about 5 seconds with a lovely purr
âThat sounds-â You were quickly cut off by a loud bang! and the engine tank burst into flames. Both you and Leon jumped back from the bike with impeccable speed. Leon placed the plate onto the ground then reached for the key to turn off the engine. The flames tried to swallow at his skin. the back of his hand his skin was becoming flushed with a huge blister.
Once that was accomplished both of you ran to the fire extinguisher. You both looked at each other, waiting for the other person to grab it. Kind of like when you reach for the same item as a stranger at a grocery store. You continued in an awkward dance of moving to grab it then backing away- finally, and very clumsily you both decided to grab it at the same time, not only being polite, but filled with urgency you let Leon take it. He quickly extinguished the lapping flames. They died out as the white fluffy paste destroyed its oxygen source.
When all was said and done, both of you stepped back to look at the bike. The seat had a layer of char on the front half of the seat. The metal around the tank was darkened, and the entire garage smelt like burnt hair.
âHow the hell did that happen?â You asked, still eying the bike like it would personally explain it to you.
âI think I forgot a piece.â Leon murmured, bending down, and picking up a small pipe, that same piece he removed with the 3/8s wrench you handed him an hour ago. You rubbed your hand down your face, murmuring âIâll get some cold water for your handâ and walked into the kitchen to retrieve a rag.
You turned on the faucet, water began to gush out into the sink. Honestly after that whole incident you were more worried about Leon than ever. It was one thing to have insomnia, or fatigue, to have unpredictable mood swings. But Brain fog was what really concerned you.Â
What happens if he gets called into the field suddenly? Intelligence and focus was the most important part of being a field agent. After he almost set fire to the garage all because of a missing part, that caused a deep pit of anxiety to form. At least at home intelligence wasn't mandated for survival. But it was life or death in the field.
After the whole bike incident, things werenât going steady, but they weren't going terrible. Leon was going to AA (Alcoholic Anonymous) meetings three times a week. Like a worried mother you checked on him multiple times at work, while you were âsecretlyâ having his secretary monitor him. He was going fairly steady. And not to mention he had just collected his âone-month-soberâ pin. You were so proud.Â
Of course like any recovery there were the highs and lows of it. Some days he was more tempted than others. Especially during the night when his insomnia plagued him like an infestation. Most nights you would wake up to his side of the bed vacant. The duvet was drawn back, exposing half of the sheets to the cool air. You'd creep out of the bedroom wrapped in a stray blanket, and coax him back to bed in a slurred voice that oozed exhaustion.
Other days he was just so fatigued you would half drag his body out of bed. You never thought you were weak till you had to spend 15 minutes trying to pull his 200+ pound ass out of bed.Â
âLeon, we have work. I know you're tired but you have a meeting in an hour.â You groaned, trying your hardest to drag him by his leg, the covers already thrown onto the floor. Now, if he wanted them bad enough heâd have to get up.
Sometimes he was incredibly restless, running around the house like the house was threatening to burst into flames.
But the hardest part to watch had to be the short depressive episodes. It felt like all you could do was stand there and watch. He dragged himself around the house like a man half dead- that was if he even got up. It broke your heart. Not to mention what a harsh contrast it was to his peaks of restlessness.
Somedays youâd lay there with him, trying to signify that he wasn't alone. Sometimes he talked, most of the time he stayed quiet and held you.Â
Very soon though, your unpredictable evenings and mornings with Leon came to a short hiatus.Â
It was a rainy afternoon, you and Leon were watching some mind numbing comedy, that you were having more fun making fun of then actually laughing at the jokes written. Your laughter quickly subsided as you heard your phone ring. It was supposed to be your week off.
âDont pause it I think I can live with missing a couple minutes.â You mumbled, throwing yourself off the couch. Leon let out a small laugh, his eyes trailing your movement to the dining room table where your phone sat. He observed as you picked up your phone, watching as you mumbled a couple quiet âYeah, okââs into it. Quickly, your one word answers became even more boring than the movie, and he turned his attention back to it.
When the call concluded you placed down the phone and stared at it. So much for a âshort week off compliments of the DSO for all the hard word youâve doneâ
âWhat was that about?â He asked, eyes still fixed to screen. When you didnât reply for a moment, his eyes focused back on you. You ran your hands over your face in one long exasperated motion.Â
âShort notice business trip.â You groaned, already heading to your bedroom to pack, making a mental note of all the items you would need.Â
âShort notice as in right now?âÂ
âYeah short notice as in I have 53 minutes to get packed and get my ass to the airport.â
âIâll see you later Leon.â You kissed him on the cheek and left, being escorted among a couple of other DSO agents. Something in your gut told you it wasn't a good idea to leave him alone. Though you werenât his mom, nor was it your job to constantly monitor him, he hadnât recovered long enough to be left to his own devices. You forced yourself to trust him. It's not like you could call off the trip anyways. âHey U.S government I canât go, I've gotta keep an eye on my recovering alcoholic husband.â Not in a million years would that happen.
Your mind was overwhelmed with anxiety the entire trip, in spite of this, you still managed to have a good time. During your short few off hours you got to venture around New York City, trying new food and enjoy some sight-seeing.Â
Every morning and every night you sent a text to Leon, making sure he was okay. Youâd send him a few photos from your sightseeing, ask him how his night/ day was, what he ate for dinner, any texts or photos he sent back gave you a small sense of comfort.Â
Based on the texts and photos he sent, he looked fine.
Recovery isn't easy, Leon knew that. Sure, it would get easier over time to say ânoâ, to control the urge, but the urge truly never went away. Matter of fact, Leon felt like the urge was becoming worse.Â
Heâd done what was supposedly the âhardest partâ, which was admitting he had an addiction, going to the AA (alcoholics anonymous) meetings, and with the encouragement of his friends- and you- he had managed to drain every bottle of alcohol in the house. With the free time he usually spent drinking, he tried to fill in with hobbies of new and old. He tried journaling (which he hated), meditating, more time at the gym, tinkering with his bike(and almost burning down the house), or melting his brain with movie marathons. But one thought always led to another, and always brought him back to drinking. So just when exactly does that urge become easier to control?
And fuck that stupid feeling kept coming back, badgering at his mind for just one last drink. He knew he had people who were supporting him.. All those hobbies he tried were admittedly nice but in his mind, there was nothing like the artificial calmness alcohol brought.
Nothing could numb his mind like a drink, or two, or several till he couldnât think about anything at all.
And that train of thought was how he ended up here, sitting at the kitchen counter, staring down a bottle of whiskey on the opposite end of the kitchen.Â
Staring at it just made him feel guiltier. A couple weeks after he returned home from New York, both you and him had spent an entire afternoon cleansing the house of alcohol. When all was said and done, he had told you there wasnât a single drop of alcohol left in the house. Heâd told you that, with a smile that could even trick a lie detector. Even at the time, he knew he was gonna regret not getting rid of that damn bottle. Â
If he would've just gotten rid of that godforsaken bottle it would've prevented this feeling of guilt. And prevented where he would know this was admittedly going to lead.
Guilt. That was something that could only be cured by the warm comforting feeling of whiskey sliding down his throat. He could already feel the ingredients warming his insides and diluting every thought in his mind.
The thought of temporarily curing his guilt pushed him onwards, so now heâs slid the stool back, sliding off the chair and taking slow steps towards the glass. He knows he shouldnât. Every step closer his mind begged him to stop. He knew that any moment now youâll have rolled towards his side of the bed, expecting his warm body to envelope you entirely. Instead, your body would be greeted with a cold draft from the ceiling fan. Youâll creep out of the bedroom and find him here at the counter, a half a bottle deep. Your face will twist into a pitiful expression, but at least your expression would be forged into a blurry memory by morning.
But you're not here. You're gone. Youâre on a business trip with the DSO, 3 hours away by flight, in New York City. And thatâs the only reason he hasn't gone back to bed yet. Because youre not here to see him like this.
His hand is placed on the bottle, dragging his mind back to the current situation at hand. The glass is cool against his skin. He can practically taste the contents on his tongue. He stares at it, like heâs begging the bottle to develop a conscience stronger than his own, and stop him. because heâs not sure he can stop this himself. Every second he stands here longer makes it harder for him to turn back. There was still time to turn back, but having already gone this far he felt like it was already too late.
He's peeling away the plastic seal as quietly as possible, as if you could possibly hear the noise from 3 states away. He discards the seal into the recycling, and he's silently unscrewing the cap. As the pressure releases from the bottle the sweet aroma of whiskey begins to fill the air, meeting his nostrils. God he didnât realize how much he missed that smell.
He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a big swig. He doesnât even realize the damage he's just caused until after he's taken a drink. He sets the bottle down, the weight of his actions finally hit him as he stares at the liquid inside the glass, sliding back and forth from either side of the bottle, the momentum slowly leaving as the whiskey settles into an even flat surface.
Goddamnit, he's too far gone into it now. If he's gonna relapse he might as well just go all in. He can worry about feeling guilty later, while he also simultaneously feels like shit.
Now he decides to drink the night away, saving the consequences of his actions for later.
Three days go by, he's startled awake from the sound of somebody entering the house. His head is killing him and his eyes are struggling to adjust to the sunlight peering in through the windows. And shit, he didn't realize you were coming home today. Also, what time is it?
He forces himself out of bed, shoving a group of 5 empty glass bottles into his side of the closet, (when did he get those?) all whilst thanking fate that you werenât a DSO field agent, cause he did a terrible job of hiding those bottles.
He throws on a shirt while he's in the closet, some crappy white t-shirt that looks like a guinea pig chewed on it. He pads out towards the kitchen, where you're already standing, throwing your bag beside the kitchen counter.Â
âLeon!â You say way more cheerfully than his headache can handle. Before his eyes can even meet your face, you wrap your arms around his neck, and now he's praying you can't smell the whiskey on his skin. His arms wrap around your body, and he pulls you impossibly closer. He mumbles a quiet âhiâ against your neck, inhaling the smell of your perfume.
âHow was New York City?â He asks, face still buried against your neck. He doesn't dare kiss you, not yet at least. He knows his breath is laced with the smell of alcohol, he's already risking it by hugging you.
âIt was great.â You reply, placing gentle little kisses on his temple. âThe city was beautiful at night, and the hotel I stayed at was amazing. I just wish I had more time to stay and look around.â You continue on with a short story about your stay in NYC. Leon hums in acknowledgement, because he swears if he tries to so much as tries to open his mouth right now he can't promise heâll be able to hold yesterday's dinner in. (And what he'd vomit up wouldn't just be surprising to you, but also to him. He can't exactly remember what he had for dinner yesterday) Not really the welcome home present he wants to give his partner, yâknow?
You wrap up your story with a small yawn and pull away from him. âIâm gonna go shower, I feel greasy after being on a plane for that long.âÂ
Finally his eyes meet yours and he feels sick to his stomach all over again. And it's not from the searing migraine he has. That guilt he forcibly silenced three days ago was back with a vengeance. He knew it was visible on his face, now paranoia was creeping in. You were staring back at him like you knew what had occurred in the past three days. He could swear you knew with that look in your eye, and you were merely mocking him.Â
His throat tightened as he watched you walk towards the bathroom with that knowing expression in your eye. Finally, Once you disappeared into the bathroom, and he knew for sure you were in the shower, he bent over the trash can and threw up.
In reality, you had no clue what events went on during your vacancy. Hell, you figured his exhausted expression was just from another night of insomnia. You pitied yourself for not being there for him. You were hoping to make up for the time lost between the past 4 days, but your welcome home party was cut incredibly short, because by the time you emerged from the shower, Leon was passed out on the bed. Had he slept at all while you were gone?
Even if he had, he had the sleep schedule of a butterfly. When you woke up to find his side of the bed unoccupied, your first instinct was to check his office but as you stumbled out of the bed, something in your gut tells you to check the walk-in closet. And sure enough, there he was sitting in the dark. This wasn't the first time youâd found him in here.Â
The first time it had been an accident whilst you were both dating. You showed up uninvited, hoping to surprise him with some takeout. His car in the driveway told you that he was around the house. When you had called out to him, his silence was deafening. Once completing a search of his usual spots, you started to check unrealistic spots. That's when You had stumbled into the closet and found him curled up in the corner, the dark enveloped him but the light barreled in from the open door. Just enough light to reflect onto the metal of his gun displayed in the palm of his hands. The way he stared at it terrified you, his expression differed between hesitant and longing for an end to his suffering. You hadn't forgotten that night, it was fossilised into your mind.
Everytime you stepped into that closet that memory flashed in your head.
You always wondered what was so appealing about it to him, why there of all places? Was it the darkness that enveloped him that made it so comforting? Because it shut out any noise from the outside?Â
Your foot entered the closet, and you found him curled up in the corner, that same position he had years ago, a thousand yard stare displayed on his face. You calmly walked over to him, careful as if you might spook him. You sat down beside him and took his hands in yours. He remained as still as could be, everywhere but his hands.
His hands tremored and shook like his adrenaline was pumping. Any other time you would blame it on another terrible nightmare. But now you were starting to connect the dots. The migraine earlier, the terrible sweat he was in, the hand tremors, the fatigue. You had seen it before one another time, a month ago when he had relapsed.
âLeeâŚ?â You spoke slowly, voice borderline cautious, like he was a bomb and you had to defuse him.Â
âIâm pathetic.â You furrowed your eyebrows, leaning closer to him, his eyes refused to meet yours, and instead glued themselves onto the carpet.
âYoure not pathetic.âÂ
âLee-â
âI canât-â His eyes closed tight, he shook his head, his hair falling into his face âIt's been 16 years. I canât get that day out of my head. I canât get over it no matter how hard I try. I can still see everything so visibly in my mind.â He sniffled, and you gently coaxed your hand into the hair at the base of his neck.
âThat doesnât make you pathetic.âÂ
âIt does. I shouldnât be here right now.â
âBut you are.â
âWhat makes me so worthy that I should live? Why? What do I do that's so great? I couldnât save anybody. Hell, who can I save? Not myself, that's for sure. I couldnât even stay sober for more than a month. It was the day after you left that I relapsed.â
âThat doesn't make you any less worthy. You're going to relapse. It's part of the recovery-â He jerked his head away from your hand, covering his face with his hands.
âI know about the damn ârecovery journeyâ. That doesnât change this. Iâm still a selfish, pathetic dick, who couldnât handle 4 days away from his wife without having a drink. You shouldnât have to parent me, or supervise me. It's not your job.â He rasped, his voice muffled between his hands. You frowned, pulling your hands back into your lap.
âYoure right, it's not my job. But that doesnât mean Iâm going to stop. I care about you, Leon. Thats not going to stop, because you fuck up and relapse. Or because you have some very explicit trauma.âÂ
âSometimes I wish you would just leave.â He admitted quietly, his face still buried in his hands refusing to even look in your direction. "At least I could feel justified in drinking, knowing I have nobody counting on me or my health.â
âThe DSO counts on you. The countless people you save daily while working at the DSO care. You couldnât save everybody at Raccoon City, but you can save people now. Those people rely on you and your wellbeing. They might not know you like I know you, but they still count on you.â He stayed quiet, his breathing heavy, and sweat still clung to his skin.Â
âYoure going to struggle staying sober. That's recovery, and you're going to feel guilt from Raccoon City, thatâs just how it is. But Iâm not going to leave you because of it.â He stayed quiet for a moment, before choking out a sob. Finally he folded into you, placing his forehead on your shoulder and letting out a mantra of cries.Â
His broken voice tore you to pieces. A man broken by nothing but the unfortunate circumstances of his life. By the terrible things heâd seen, the destruction of humans caused by other humans, yet he called himself selfish. He never deserved any of this yet he bore the weight of every casualty.
Tomorrow, both of you would have to get up, and go to work. His and your time off had finally come to an end. And now he would have to endure more reminders of the things heâd seen.
You couldnât blame him for finding an unhealthy coping mechanism to get through the day, the week, the year, his life. But he couldnât allow it to dictate his life. Pain couldnât be the only thing he remembered from his time sober.Â
Uhh anyways do u guys think in some alternate universe where raccoon city never happened hes still vendetta leon but instead of an alcoholic hes just a guy whose getting drinks with his colleagues cus he just got promoted at rpdÂ
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