Beep Beep Lettuce

There is a distinct sound that repeats a few times – your footsteps, he finds out, once you've reached the tub. With practiced ease, you reach down to remove the drain stopper and the water bids his body goodbye as it swirls down the drain. 

It's cold. 

Goosebumps rise on his skin but the discomfort is not yet enough to move the man out of his rigid position. Curled up in a tiny tub, in a manner that must look ridiculous for a man his size. Wet. Cold. 

“Come on,” comes your sweet voice, tinged with something that sounds more like care than pity. 

Chris is grateful for that. 

God knows pity is the last thing he wants. The last thing he has ever needed. He is pitiful, that much he is painfully aware of. It's what has brought this upon him, this unremovable weight on his body that won't seem to budge this day. Even that, in itself, is pitiful. 

The warm hand on his arm rips him out of his self-deprecating thoughts and while it doesn't necessarily move him much by itself, it starts his body into gear and sure enough, he's standing upright on his own two feet in a matter of a few, long seconds. 

Almost as if it's a job you've done for decades, a skill you've honed through hours of work, you dry him off and get him into a warm, comfortable set of clothes. The pullover you had gifted him on Christmas four years ago and a pair of sweatpants the both of you share. 

(They're his but it's not unlikely for them to end up on your body. He likes the way the material pools around your ankles, so he doesn't complain.)

The way from the bathroom to the bedroom is a short one but, almost as if he's on auto-pilot, he doesn't notice he's moving there, until his body hits the bed. 

Clean, fresh sheets. You must have changed them. They smell nice, flowery with a hint of that synthetic scent that the fabric softener adds but it smells good. Like home. Safe. 

The places he goes to on his missions don't smell like this at all. 

There are no traces of the smell of blood or metal, no dirt and grime under his nails anymore, but Chris feels dirty. Sullied, to the deepest parts of his very being. Unclean in a way that could only be mended if someone were to flip his body inside out and clean the most intimate nooks and crannies between his bones. 

He doesn't doubt, for a moment, that you'd be up for such a task, if it was possible. 

He also doesn't doubt that it wouldn't fix his issue. Wouldn't fix him. 

“Let me in?” you mumble, your fingers trailing along his temple. He's snapped out of his thoughts and his eyes focus on you. You're lying on your side, close to him. Your head is propped up on your other hand and you're looking down at him with a gaze so filled with affection, it makes it hard to breathe for a second. 

“Wondering how I'll clean myself up,” he mutters, his own hand reaching out to grab yours by his face, pressing your palm flat to his cheek. 

He should shave, he thinks, when he rubs his beard (not a stubble anymore) against your skin and feels you flinch at the scratchy sensation it provides. “You just took a shower,” comes your soft reply but from your tone alone, he can tell you understand the underlying problem. 

It's quiet for a few moments and Chris rests his eyes, closing them as he leans into your warm touch. You let him. 

“I'll help you clean up,” you offer. “Whenever you come back. I'll clean everything for you. Your uniform, your bag – I'll even scrub your back. No funny business.”

That earns you an unsightly snort and when Chris opens his eyes to look at you, he's faced with endless amounts of mirth dancing in your eyes. You look happy, now that he's giving you some sort of reaction. 

“What if funny business is what I want?” he asks, his hand finding your cheek, a calloused thumb rubbing over your soft skin. You're real and warm and safe under his touch. 

“We can settle on a sign for that.” You hum, thinking about it for a moment. “You could wiggle your fingers at me. Like this.”

You show him. Chris grimaces.

“That looks perverted and gross.”

“Yeah but you asked how to do perverse things with me.”

An indignant huff leaves him. His free hand moves to grab your waist and tug you closer. “Me making love to you is perverse?”

Your expression softens and you practically melt against him, your lower lip inching forward into that pout he so adores. “Of course not… Was just being silly,” you mumble. 

His laugh comes as a low rumble deep inside his chest and it feels foreign. Like a muscle he hasn't used in months. He doesn't remember the last time he smiled, let alone laughed. 

“You're always silly,” Chris offers, pressing a kiss against your lips and tugging your lower lip between his teeth. He's teasing you and it seems, you're delighting in it, with how eagerly you lean into his touch and kiss him back. 

It's uncoordinated, a dance unpracticed but slowly, you fall back into a familiar rhythm. “Missed you,” you whisper between kisses, as if no one else but him is supposed to know. 

His dark brows move into a frown and he tugs you that much closer. Quietly, through his touch, answering to your words. He's unable to tell you otherwise, for fear of cursing himself. Life had a habit of making fun of Chris Redfield by making him miss everything good he ever had. 

His parents, his friends and colleagues at S.T.A.R.S., the Captain that he looked up to, his partner, the relative normalcy of his young adult years. He couldn't dare curse you as well, when you're the only thing left worth missing. So he won't let the universe know that he misses you whenever he's gone. 

“I love you,” he tells you instead before he kisses you again.