#drunk behavior

At first, the drinking had been light. A beer with dinner, maybe one to watch the game. A few on the weekend. But then they game at odd times. Right after his run or before he brushed his teeth. You had begun to notice when he kissed you good morning, and the alcohol was on his breath, but you hadn’t said anything. You weren’t sure how to approach it, how to tell a man like him that maybe he was drinking a little too much, and now you stare at him, passed out in front of the tv, surrounded by empty cans.

Putting down the phone, you crouch beside him. “Leon?”

The TV casts a blue glow over his face, half-lit, slack-jawed. He doesn’t stir at first, just breathes slow and deep like the dead weight of someone who’s been drinking alone for hours.

His brow furrows slightly before his eyes blink open, unfocused at first, then locking onto you crouched there beside him. For a second, he looks confused, like he forgot where he was. Then shame flickers across his features before he can mask it.

“Hey,” is all that comes out, quiet, rough from sleep, or maybe from beer.

“We need to talk.” You whisper, and reach for the remote, shutting off the screen. Leon sits up, grunting as he moves and you sit on the opposite end of the couch, crossing your legs.

“What is it baby?” He murmurs, running a hand down his face.

You purse your lips. “The drinking, Leon. I’m…you never used to drink like this. I’m worried about you.”

The room goes silent without the TV humming, and suddenly it feels too still, too heavy. Leon’s hand drops from his face. He doesn’t get defensive. Doesn’t laugh it off or say ‘It’s just beer, relax’. He just looks at you. Like he’s been waiting for this talk but hoped it wouldn't come.

His jaw tightens once, just a twitch, and then he exhales through his nose, slow like someone bracing themselves before stepping into cold water.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice low and careful. “I know.”

It’s a quiet admission, the first real crack in the wall between you tonight. He looks at the floor, and the bottles and you nervously clench your fingers.

“What…what’s going on?” You ask. “Is it retirement? Some people say it can be hard, the empty time.”

He nods slowly, staring at his hands- calloused, scarred from years of combat and police work. The kind of hands that always knew what to do.

Retirement had been quiet. Too quiet. No sirens. No calls in the middle of the night. No tactical briefings or partners yelling over comms. Just mornings with coffee he didn’t know how to enjoy anymore because there was no urgency behind it.

“I miss it,” he admits after a beat, honest, raw in a way Leon rarely is about emotions unless they’re forced out. “Not just being busy… but feeling useful.”

Your fingers loosen. “Baby you are useful.”

“What would you know about it?” He snaps and you blink. “You’ve never done a job like that. Saved fucking lives.”

You inhale slowly, exhale quietly. “Leon.”

“What?” His voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it, and you try not to flinch. He stands up, knocking into a can. “You have no god damn idea.”

The room tightens like a fist. Leon’s breathing is sharp, uneven, anger flashing in his eyes, but beneath it? Hurt. A deep, gnawing kind of shame that he doesn’t know how to fix.

He towers over you, all six feet of him vibrating with something unspent, and then he turns abruptly toward the kitchen. The fridge door slams open hard enough to rattle the magnets inside. You hear another beer can crack open before your brain even catches up: he's doing it again.

But this time right in front of you. Defiant almost, like if he drinks more now while pissed off at himself, maybe nothing will change because at least alcohol still works for five minutes after everything else fails.

“Leon-”

“What?” He cuts you off, storming back into the room. “What could you possibly have to say?”

Your jaw tightens as you stare at him. “You need to get this under control.”

The beer can crumples slightly in his grip, cold condensation dripping onto his fingers. Leon just glares, like you've challenged him in a way no one has dared. Like the woman who loves him is now standing against him instead of beside him. Then something cracks. Not anger this time, but something worse. His face falls, and suddenly he looks exhausted. Defeated. He sets the beer down on the table with deliberate care, his untamed hair falling over his eyes.

“I know,” he says quietly again, but softer now. “Fuck… I know.”

His voice wavers for half a second before he clears his throat hard and turns away to hide it from you. You approach him slowly, and place a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m here to help, baby,” you say softly. “I’m not judging or…I just want to help.”

His eyes flick to yours, and they’re redrimmed. Standing straight, he brushes his knuckles down your cheek, and then he steps away. “You can’t.”

You try to stop him.

You grab his wrists, trying to tear the keys from his grip as he toes on his shoes. He ignores you, easily stronger, and when he steps onto the porch you’re crying.

You beg him to stop, to stay with you, but he ignores your cries. He gets into his car as you pound on the window, reversing with jerky movements as you stumble back. Your heart pounds as he squeals from the driveway, leaving black marks in the asphalt, and you run inside, searching for your phone.

The house is too quiet when you get back inside.

Not the soft quiet it usually has at night, the kind where you can hear the fridge humming and Leon shifting in his sleep, but something sharp. Wrong. As if the air itself has been cut.

Your hands shake as you unlock your phone. Once. Twice. It slips slightly in your grip before you finally get through, thumb hovering over his contact.

It rings.

Once, twice, straight to voicemail. You try again immediately, and no answer.

The third time, you don’t even hear the voicemail greeting finish before your stomach drops so hard it feels like you’ve been pulled out from under yourself.

Something is wrong.

You don’t know how you know it, but you do.

The world becomes a blur after that, keys, shoes, the front door swinging open too hard as you stumble outside, breath shallow and uneven as you try again.

Call. Call. Call.

Nothing, and then your phone buzzes with an unknown number. You answer before it even finishes ringing. “Hello?”

A voice, careful and steady in that practiced way people use when they’re trying not to break something with words. “Is this Leon Kennedy’s emergency contact?”

Your knees almost give out.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I’m his- what happened?”

Another pause. Papers shuffling on the other end.

“There’s been an accident,” the voice says gently. “He was involved in a single-vehicle collision. He’s been transported to the hospital. He’s alive, but he’s in critical condition.”

The rest of the words don’t land right, they float. Detached, like they’re happening to someone else.

You’re already moving before the call ends.

-

The hospital lights are too bright. Everything smells like disinfectant and exhaustion. The kind of place where time doesn’t feel like it belongs to anyone anymore.

You barely remember getting there. Parking. Running. Asking questions you don’t hear the answers to, and then you’re standing in front of a nurse who’s looking at you like she already knows what you’re going to ask.

“Room 314,” she says softly.

That’s it, just a number that feels like it’s splitting your life in half.

-

When you reach the room, you stop in the doorway, because it doesn’t look like Leon.

It can’t.

There are wires everywhere. A monitor blinking in steady, indifferent rhythm. His face is pale in a way you’ve never seen before, stripped of everything familiar. No smirk. No tired half-laugh. No sarcastic comment waiting at the edge of his mouth.

Just stillness, far too much stillness. Your hand goes to your lips without thinking, like you’re trying to hold yourself together physically.

“No,” you breathe.

The sound is so small it feels disrespectful. You move forward anyway, with each step feels heavier than the last.

When you reach him, you don’t even sit at first. You just stand there, staring at him like if you look long enough, he’ll wake up angry at you for worrying.

But he doesn’t.

A nurse passes quietly behind you at some point, murmuring something about sedation, about stability, about waiting. You don’t hear most of it, all you hear is the monitor.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Like it’s mocking how badly you want him to just open his eyes.

Finally, your legs give out and you sink into the chair beside him. Your hand hovers over his for a long moment. It’s warm, which means he’s still here. That’s what they said, alive, But it doesn’t feel like enough.

Your fingers finally touch his, and that’s when it breaks.

It starts small, just a tremor in your breath, a sharp inhale that turns into something you can’t control. Your chest caves in completely, grief hitting you so hard you fold forward, gripping his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world.

“Leon…” you choke out, voice cracking apart. “Please… please, I need you to come back.”

Your tears land on his skin and you don’t even bother wiping them away. You just hold on tighter, his hand is still in yours.

And you stay there, sobbing quietly at his bedside, worried that if you let go for even a second, he might disappear completely.

x

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