Nex🇨🇳🩷

“I think you’d better get your loverboy home. He’s looking worse for wear.”

A part of you dreads what comes next, and another, more shameful part of you, enjoys it. Revels in it, ignoring the messy tendrils that will surely bite your ankles once Leon’s in his right mind again.

Sure enough, once you stroll over, Leon’s got a smile across his face like he’s in a candy store. You look past him to Claire with a knowing grimace. 

“I’ll take this one off your hands,” you gently nudge Leon from her side, and she just laughs.

“You work too hard for him,” it’s a joke, but weighing heavy with something honest underneath. You feel a little sick at how obvious it all is. To Claire, to Jill, to everyone who watches the two of you together. The way you look after Leon like he’s your responsibility, because that’s just what you’ve decided. Not in a way of a liability; but because you love him. He’s your rock, the one person who stabilizes you in the eye of a hurricane. It’s just second nature, it’s what you want to do, not what you have to do.

And him? When he’s sober, he’s much quieter about it all. Calls and texts to check in, bringing you food or a coffee when he knows you’re having a late night. You’re assured he cares for you, but it’s a bond you fear ends at a close friendship. Because he doesn’t ever acknowledge what happens when he’s drunk.

Drunk Leon is sloppy with his care. Handsy, slurring compliments to you like it’s the only thing he knows how to say. The first time it started to happen you’d been red all night from it all, and disappointment stormed heavy over your head when the next day he said he couldn’t remember a thing.

God forbid you both get tipsy. Then you’re leaning into it all, drinking in his honeyed behavior like a dying man. The first time ended with you in his bed, where the only things you seemed to be able to say were swear words of pleasure and his name. The hangover the next morning was brutal, all dull aches and a cold, empty bed.

That happened more times than you’d care to think of. And you’d finally begun to break the cycle, until tonight, when Leon has decided to get unreasonably spent again. You suspect his last assignment had taken too much out of him. He’d only told you a few things, but you could see the cracked foundation of fear underneath it all. Now, he drowns that feeling of a loss of control with something he can choose to put in his body.

“Hey,” his arm finds its way around you, like it belongs there. And sometimes it feels as though it does. You just wish it would be when he’s steadier, more coherent. “I missed you. Jill’s bein’ greedy.” You try not to dwell on the warmth when his hand slips dangerously low on you.

“I think it’s time to go home,” you sigh. Claire gives you a sympathetic look, and helps you guide Leon’s stuttering gait to the door, into your car. He actually manages to buckle his own seatbelt, staring up at you like an eager puppy as you shut the door.

“Good luck,” the Redfield sister sighs, touching your shoulder. “You’re a saint to him, you know that?”

“Only when he’s drunk.”

“I think it’s a little more than that,” she muses, gaze falling to Leon through the window. You try not to let it inflate your hopes too much, for fear they’d float out of your control. “Drive safe, okay?”

You try, but it’s hard when Leon’s reaching over the console to grip your thigh. Your eyes stay locked on the road, knuckles tight against the beaten up leather of the wheel. His gaze is locked on you, a heavy heat that you pick up on without looking at him.

“You’re so pretty,” he finally speaks over the soft guitar crackling over the radio. His palm slides over your leg to rest on the inner seam of your jeans. You try your best to ignore the way it flips your stomach.

“You’re drunk.”

“‘s still true,” he leans his head against his window, finally dragging his eyes from you. His hand, however, stays in place. “You know that dress you were wearing the other night? At the… the…”

“Gala.” You supply as he slurs over his words, struggling to string together a thought. He squeezes your leg, and a pulse of joy runs through your chest. Traitor, you think.

“Yeah,” he trails off with a low hum, like he’s remembering it now. He is. Even through the blur of whiskey, he can see the way you strolled through the crowd, heels clicking and earrings swinging with every step. The way you grinned, the way a dainty necklace sat at your exposed collarbones. He’d quickly become a wreck at the open bar, and you’d managed to will yourself to not follow close behind. To not fall into his arms again, to wake up alone with a ghost of him in your apartment. You’re not sure you can handle it even once more. If this is torture, you’re certain that may be hell itself.

“Pretty,” Leon finally finishes his thought after a stretch of thinking. His hand leaves your thigh, but only to retrieve your own from the wheel. He brings your hands into his lap now, cradling it like a fragile piece of glass. He opens your palm in his hands and taps his fingertips over the lines as if he’s counting them. “We going to your place?”

“No,” you state firmly. Leon sighs, frustrated and a little sad.

“I don’t wanna go home,” it’s an almost child-like complaint, something dreadful in his tone. It’s got you close to folding. “Unless you’re gonna stay?” The question hangs in the air for too long. You stop at a red light. Yank your hand from him. Try not to meet his hurt eyes.

“Not tonight,” you change the radio station, desperate for something to occupy yourself with as the light takes a torturously long time to change. The following statement is under your breath, almost an afterthought. “Not again.”

Even through his haze, Leon picks up on the regret. It eats at him through the alcohol, opens up a deep pit in his stomach. His grip on your hand releases, and he feels so empty when you return it to the wheel. The light turns green.

Leon’s apartment is as silent as he’s been for the remainder of the ride. He clings to you even still, arm around your waist and small sweet nothings in your ear. You deposit him on the couch, but he doesn’t stay. He’s trailing behind you in his kitchen as you rifle through the cabinets for ibuprofen. The bottle is almost spent.

As you fill a glass of water, he hugs you from behind. His chin sits on your shoulder and you fight with the wishes that he’d do this when he isn’t wasted. That you’d be at his house, with him all over you, holding onto you just because he wanted to. Not because the alcohol has melted his shields away to let the lonely wolf roam freely, with you in his sights.

“You’re really not going to stay?” There’s almost a whine in the back of his voice as he holds you to him. For a heartbeat, you consider it.

But you promised yourself you’re worth more than that.

“No, I’m not,” you confirm, pulling out of his grasp so you can return him to the couch. You leave the water and meds on the coffee table. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just tired.” Tired of feeling like I’m only something more to you when you’re drunk and lonely. He stares at you for a long while, as if he’s slowly making a decision on something. He must come to a conclusion in the positive, because he’s tugging you down by the hem of your shirt and kissing you. It’s not your first kiss; far from it, but it’s your first kiss while you’re stone cold sober. And it’s messy. A little needy. But the whiskey you taste on his tongue makes it all too much to bear and you pull away. He leans forward after you, and you just push him upright. The painkillers and water are still clutched in your hands. You set them on the coffee table with shaking hands and heart, mumbling a goodbye and leaving without fanfare.

Nobody will ever know the way tears flood down your cheeks on the drive home.

—

The next time you see Leon is when you’re shipped out to Greece, to some fancy party that’s got Umbrella operatives roaming around.

You wore the dress he had complimented so enthusiastically, in a bit of juvenile revenge somehow, although you’re pretty sure it only means that to you. You're not sure if he remembers what he'd told you in the car that night.

What you don’t see is Leon’s eyes that nearly bug out of his head when he spots you walking in, murmuring something in your ear piece inconspicuously. He hears your voice over his own comms, but he can’t make his brain focus on what you’re saying when you’re strutting across the room to retrieve a glass of water.

He’s not drunk this time, but he feels intoxicated.

“Leon?” You repeat for the fourth time, and he finally crackles over the radio, rushed and clearing his throat.

“I’m here.”

“Yeah, I see you now. You catch something?” He seems tense, attention elsewhere as he catches your eyes from his spot near the live orchestra.

“Nothing, just… looking,” he meanders his words like there’s an undercurrent to them, something else he means. You leave it be and begin to mingle, trying your best to flirt your way into intel. Leon’s got the same prerogative, and you try not to think too hard about the ridiculous fact that this is your job right now.

In between your conversations, you notice a particular woman that has been circling Leon for way longer than usual, and he’s giving her a miniscule amount of attention back. You raise an eyebrow as you watch him dance around her touches, trying his best to be polite while setting boundaries that she ignores.

“Need some help?” You murmur in his ear piece. It crackles on in the middle of him laughing, a faux happy yes clearly directed at you more than her. You try to compose yourself as you find him in between the rungs of black ties and cocktail dresses. You’re not sure what your plan is until you arrive and Leon looks at you like you’re an angel sent from above. The first thing you think to do is a little embarrassing, but it’s already begun by the time you wish you could take it back.

“Hey, babe,” it comes from you so easily it surprises yourself, not to mention Leon. You swear you see a stretch of pink cross his cheeks as he catches on to your train quickly.

“Hey,” his palm settles on the small of your back. It’s different than when he’s drunk. Messy, rushed touches now feel purposeful and steady. Firm and unmoving. The woman who’d been all over him takes a step back. You can almost see the question mark over her head.

“What— I’m sorry, I had no idea,” she apologizes, but doesn’t leave yet. She’d probably seen Leon cozying up to a few other people here, and was very, very confused. The next thing you say is even worse than your first sentence.

“Do you wanna dance?” Leon nearly chokes on his water, and you don’t wait for an answer before you’re pulling him onto the dancefloor where several other couples had already begun swaying. You’re no dancer, and Leon sure as hell isn’t either, so it’s probably the worst diversion you could have come up with. But here you are, with your hand on his chest, and his cautiously at your hip.

“I would say thanks, but I feel like this is somehow a worse situation,” the smirk on his face says otherwise and you think your heart may hammer out of your chest like a scene from Alien, screaming and desperate.

“You’re welcome, anyways,” you sigh. “What was her deal?”

“What, you don’t think I’m a catch?” He jests. You step on his toe, and regret it immediately because he yanks you into his chest as revenge. The hand clasped in his tightens.

“Maybe for someone with a death wish,” like me.

“Hmm,” he just sighs and looks away from you. You take advantage of the moment, using it to study his features. His perfectly manicured hair falling near his cheekbones, the two freckles that sit just over his collarbone. The way his blue eyes focus in on something like a camera lens. And finally, the way he turns his gaze back on you, softening like he’s seeing the stars for the first time. “What?”

“Nothing,” you breathe and avert your eyes quickly. He tilts his head, now leading you in the sway. By now, the coast should’ve been clear enough to stop dancing. But Leon hasn’t let go. “I think we can go back to the mission now. She’s disappeared.”

“Probably,” he still doesn’t move away, though. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Uh oh, am I in trouble?”

“Maybe,” he says. You’re unsure what that means. “Where’ve you been?” There’s a shade of I missed you, but I don’t know how to say that yet.

“Busy.”

“Come on,” he eyes you, knowing better than to take your one word answer at the end of it. You shrug.

“Just… needed a break.”

“From me?” It’s hard to answer no when it’s true, and you hesitate too long for him to read it as anything else. Hurt flares in his eyes and he widens the space between the two of you. His hand sits limp at your waist now, the other loosening the comforting grip around your fingers. “What… did we— I do something?” There’s something more alongside his question. Guilt, as if he’s got an inkling of what the issue could be. Maybe he remembers more about his drunken stupors than he lets on.

“No,” you say, because it’s not something he’s done, it’s something he won’t do. And it’s even harder to overcome when he’s touching you even more tenderly than he does when he’s drunk. He sighs and pulls you from the dancefloor, his fingers gripping your bicep desperately.

“Tell me,” he’s searching your gaze desperately for a hint of it, and you swallow any softness that he pulls from you. He’s so close to you, towering over you with eyes that swim with concern. “Please?”

“Leon, it’s nothing, don’t—”

“Please,” he follows you as you try to secede further into the crowd. A shadow attached to you, begging you to see him. He calls your name. “This isn’t fair, and you know that.” You clench your fists, yank your arm away from him.

“Fair,” you laugh, empty. “You know what’s not fair? To be all over me and pull away the second you get an ounce of sobriety back. Over and over again,” you shove him away from you a little. “I’m tired of this, Leon. My self-esteem isn’t low enough to let myself be a pity fuck for you any longer.”

“Pity—” He shakes his head and stops you again as you go to leave. He’s not letting this lie; he can’t. “It’s not pity.”

“Oh, you remember? So what is it then? What am I to you? Just a body to keep you warm when you’re depressed?” It’s a little mean, but you’re hurt and it flies from your mouth before you can think better of it. Leon doesn’t look wounded, necessarily, but more guilty. Misunderstood.

“Never,” he hangs his head. “I didn’t think— I thought you were…”

“You thought I was having sex with you out of pity? Letting you hang all over me just because I felt bad for you?”

“I’m a drunken asshole. You’re— you. Why else would you…” He trails off and goes quiet when he looks at you again, seeing the hurt in your eyes. Putting it together. His grip loosens on your arm as it falls away. You take it as the worst response possible, tears in your eyes, and take a step back. It’s only when he follows you that your heart begins to pound. “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah,” is all you say. Your hands hang limp at their sides, your elaborate updo falling in your face from all the strained movements, the dancing. Leon just looks at you, long and hard. “Oh, fuck.”

You take in his form, since you feel as though this may be the last time you’re able to before you get your heart completely broken, before everything changes. There’s no alcohol, just the aftertaste of the tap water and his cologne lingering on your dress from where he’d held you. His collar is undone at the very top and his blazer unbuttoned. His hair pushed out of his face frustratedly. He’s stupidly handsome, and you hate it.

But you love him.

“It’s not so flattering to only be wanted when someone’s drunk, you know?” Tears weigh heavy on your lashes as you finally let it go, all the things piled on and locked around your heart like a prison. “But it’s as close as I can get. So I took it.” Leon looks the way he does when something goes wrong on a mission, something he can’t control, but blames himself for anyway. You cover your tear-streaked face with your hands. “Fuck, I’m so stupid.”

Leon’s voice is quiet as he says your name, lowered so his words are just for you. You feel the roughness of his hands cover yours. He holds them like he did in the car the week before; ginger like they’re porcelain treasure. 

“I’m so sorry. How...” He struggles for the words to express his needs. "What can I do to fix this, sweetheart?" The pet name weakens your hardened heart enough to unlock. A door has opened for you, and this time, you give it a chance. Take the step that you’ve been avoiding for so long.

“If I ask you to kiss me right now, in front of all these people, will you do it?” Maybe it’ll blow a little of your cover, tighten any loose lips for intel. But you’re hurt, you’re longing, and you can’t think about anything but Leon’s mouth on yours in this moment.

“Ask.” He just says. He cups your face in his hands, running a thumb over the leftover track of a tear. He’s pressed close to you like he does when he’s drunk, although all you can smell on his breath is the remnants of a breathmint. 

“Can you kiss me? Please?” The last word is an edge pathetic, but you don’t care anymore. You’re trembling in his grasp, and he smiles at the politeness. He leans in so close your noses brush against each other, and you feel your chest inflate with pleasant heat.