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A fond but exasperated sigh escaped Chris. His husband looked utterly pathetic. His hair was a damp mess, his shoulders were slumped into a defeated slouch, and he was staring at the marble countertop as if it had personally offended him somehow. When Leon got like this, he became a walking cloud of dramatic sighs, low grumbles, and a steady stream of petty complaints aimed at anything within sight, especially his husband.

Putting the bar away, Chris stood in the kitchen for a moment, mentally cycling through their options. He needed something fast, heavy, and comforting. “...Pasta. Do you want pasta?” He asked.

“Whatever”

Yup, sounds like a yes to Chris’s ear.

"Pasta it is," Chris said while reaching for a box of spaghetti inside the cabinet. But just a second after he grabbed it, the world suddenly went black.

The hum of the refrigerator died. The oven’s digital clock vanished. The only light left was the occasional thunder through the rain streaked windows.

"You’ve got to be shitting me," Leon groaned into the darkness. Sounding more exasperated than ever.

"Relax," Chris’s voice was calm and steady. "I have a lamp here. Stay put."

Next, there was the sound of a heavy drawer sliding open, followed by a rapid click-click-click as Chris fumbled through the jumble of multi-tools, zip ties, and spare batteries he kept in the kitchen for ‘emergencies.’

Leon let out a frustrated sigh. He didn't need to see to know exactly what Chris was doing. He’d spent enough time around Chris’s obsessive organization to know the exact rattle of that specific drawer. The click-click-click wasn't just a sound, it was the sound of Chris wasting time while Leon’s stomach was currently staging a coup.

"If you don't find a light in the next ten seconds, I’m going to start eating raw egg" Leon grumbled, his voice strained with genuine hanger. Mind you, he was serious with his threat. "I don't care how much you love that headlamp, just hurry up!"

Leon braced himself, anticipating the familiar, blinding surge of LED light. Instead, the lamp gave a pathetic orange flicker before dying back into total, suffocating darkness.

Chris smacked the plastic casing against his palm. Thwack. Thwack. Nothing.

"What the—" Chris grumbled, his voice echoing in the kitchen. “I could have sworn I just changed the batteries last month."

He began rummaging through the drawer again, the sound of metal tools clattering against each other filling the silence. Leon could hear the frustrated rip of cardboard packaging as Chris checked every compartment, but the sound grew increasingly desperate. It became clear that while Chris’s drawer was meticulously sorted, it also suspiciously didn't have any actual working battery that fit its size. Apparently, the Captain had been so busy organizing that he’d forgotten to actually restock.

"Here we go. Captain Preparedness, everyone," Leon sighed, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm as he offered a slow, very enthusiastic round of applause in the dark. "The man who can find a rocket launcher in the middle of a boss fight, but can’t seem to find a single working AAA battery in his own house. Truly, the BSAA is in good hands."

"Shut it, Kennedy," Chris muttered, the drawer slamming shut with a finality that even made Leon wince. "Found the backup. Don't say a word.”

Leon blinked as a blinding beam of light suddenly sliced through the dark. Chris was holding a heavy, military-grade tactical flashlight, using the bright beam to quickly survey the kitchen counters.

Chris stood by the stove, already reaching for the cutting board, but he couldn't effectively chop and hold the light at the same time. So, he turned toward the island, and tossed the heavy metal cylinder across the dark kitchen "Here."

Leon caught it with a practiced, effortless click of his palm against the grip. He didn't move to the stove immediately. He just sat there for a beat, aiming the blinding beam directly at Chris’s back, watching his husband scramble to find the pot for the spaghetti next.

He looked at the heavy flashlight with pure annoyance. He didn’t want to be the support agent, he wanted to be the guy sitting on a stool, eating. But then he remembered the last three days of field rations. Those dry, gritty protein bars, the questionable packets of dehydrated soup, and the MREs— which were edible, sure, but after seventy-two hours, they felt like eating wet cardboard. He needed a proper food.

"If this isn't a five-star meal, you can forget about sharing a bed tonight,” Leon grumbled, his voice thick with frustration.

Chris paused for a fraction of a second, the heavy pot sloshing as he set it down onto the stovetop. He didn't look back, but the way his shoulders tensed suggested that the threat had landed exactly where Leon intended.

"Just focus on the light, please," Chris retorted, though his voice had lost some of its edge.

With the power dead, the stove's electronic igniter was useless. Leon watched as Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out his battered metal lighter, the one he used to light his cigarettes. With a practiced flick of his thumb, the lighter flared to life. Chris brought the live flame right to the edge of the burner, holding it steady before he reached up to twist the stove's knob. The gas caught instantly with a soft, controlled whoosh of blue flame. Even running on fumes, the Captain's muscle memory was flawless.

From the dark, Leon watched the small flame light up his husband's profile. He was exhausted and starving, but seeing Chris work the lighter somehow made his heart skip a beat. There was just something so attractive about the quiet confidence in Chris's hands as he easily handled the small flame. It was just… undeniably hot, okay?

Swallowing down the sudden urge to just wrap his arms around his husband's waist, Leon finally pushed off the cool marble of the island. He needed food, but he also didn't mind being a little closer to the chef.

The moment Leon got closer, the illusion of their spacious kitchen completely vanished. They were two large men standing at almost the same height, fighting to occupy the exact same square footage.

Well, Leon was more of a lean, tactical build, but now he felt like he was being crowded out by a literal tank. Chris was just wider. Broad shoulder, immovable, and apparently convinced that his own personal space extended three feet in every direction.

"Move over, Redfield," Leon muttered, jamming his hip against the counter to secure his spot. "You’re hogging the entire burner."

"I'm the one cooking," Chris retorted. "You’re just the lighting rig. Keep the light steady."

While waiting for the pasta to be in perfect al dente condition, Chris was trying to prep the meat for their makeshift carbonara sauce. His heavy shoulders squared over the knife as he sliced through some leftover thinly sliced pork he’d found hiding in the fridge. Because Leon needed to see what he was illuminating, he pressed right up against Chris’s side, his chest practically flush with Chris's shoulder blade.

It was a constant battle for airspace. Every time Chris drew his elbow back to slice, his elbow cracked right into Leon’s ribs.

"Ow. Watch it," Leon muttered, trying to lean out of range— only for Chris to shift his heavy frame backward to get better angle, stepping right on Leon's foot.

"Son of a—!" Leon hissed. Driven by pure, hangry reflex, his free hand flew up and delivered a sharp, solid punch right against the dense muscle of Chris’s shoulder.

Chris groaned in pain, his shoulder hitching as he instinctively took a step forward to get away from the sudden assault. Thankfully, he kept the chef's knife safely pointed down so he doesn't accidentally hurt anyone.

He glared back over his shoulder. "What the hell, Leon? Don't hover behind me if you don't want to get stepped on."

"You're the one backing up like a semi truck," Leon grumbled, lifting his leg to shake out the throbbing pain.

"Just,” a deep breath, “keep the light steady and a little to the left," Chris grunted, turning back to the pork. "I can't see the cutting board."

Leon stepped back in, determined to prove his competence. He raised the heavy flashlight, holding it perfectly level and steady just inches from Chris’s right ear. The light pierced the darkness, illuminating the pile of meat with the stark, dramatic intensity of an interrogation room.

Leon squinted at the cutting board, his voice dropping into a low deadpan. "Captain, we have a breach of protocol. I’ve got a visual on the target... but that’s just regular, thinly sliced pork. I think, somewhere in Rome, an Italian grandmother just dropped to her knees in horror. This is a culinary war crime."

Chris let out a long, slow breath. His knife paused just above the meat as he tried to maneuver his head around Leon’s rigid forearm. The exhaustion was setting in. His muscles ached, and honestly, the thought of just eating the protein bars and passing out for twelve hours sounded infinitely more appealing than this amateur hour kitchen drama.

For a split second, he stared at Leon’s profile, noticing the way the light softly framed him. He considered just putting the knife down and dragging Leon to bed right then and there and having him for dinner instead. Let the hunger go to hell. But he stop himself. Dealing with a "hangry" Leon was bad, but a "hangry, sleep-deprived, and un-fed" Leon the next morning? That was a recipe for a disaster he wasn't prepared to handle.

"This is what we have in the fridge, Leon," Chris muttered, his voice grave with fatigue. "Field conditions apply. Now back off a little."

"Just ensuring the mission parameters are met," Leon whispered back, entirely serious. "If the Carbonara Police bust down that door, I’m telling them I was just a hostage following orders."

"Shut it," Chris grumbled, adjusting his grip on the pork. "Just keep the light steady. You're hovering.”

Leon adjusted his grip, pivoting the heavy tactical light. He wanted to be helpful though, so he shifted his stance to check on the spaghetti. He tilted the flashlight toward the pot, but he moved too quickly. The intense, military grade light hit the shiny side of the stainless steel pot, and the light bounced straight back at them like a mirror at a flawless, devastating angle.

It was blinding, so to say.

"AGH! FLASHBANG!" Leon yelled. He ditched all tactical composure, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face right into the fabric of Chris’s damp shirt.

The instinct was instantaneous. Chris didn't just stand there, he dropped into a low, defensive crouch, with the knife still clutched in his hand. Because Leon was anchored to his shoulder, he dragged Leon down with him, and now the two of them stumbled into a tangled, breathless heap against the kitchen island.

"Dammit, Leon!" Chris hissed, his eyes watering furiously as he blinked away the harsh, glowing afterimages. "Watch your angles! You're lucky I didn't actually slice something off!"

"My eyes are burning, Redfield!" Leon muffled into Chris's shirt, his voice thick with unadulterated, hangry misery. "The whole room turned into a lighthouse and I’m the primary casualty!"

"Don't aim it at the metal then!" Chris growled, still blinking rapidly. "We’re cooking dinner, not clearing a room!”

The moment they recovered, no one uttered a single word at all. Already too exhausted after everything and just wanted to get this over with.

As the water finally began to boil, the frantic energy shifted. Leon’s arm was clearly starting to ache. The flashlight was heavy, and holding it at a high angle for twenty minutes was a workout in itself.

Without a word, Leon shifted his weight. He leaned his side heavily against Chris’s, resting his forearm directly on Chris’s thick bicep for stability.

In the small, focused circle of light, the heat from the stove and the closeness of their bodies felt grounded. Safe. The storm outside was a world away.

Leon rested his chin on Chris's shoulder, watching the steam rise. Chris slowed his movements, instinctively shielding Leon from the heat as he carefully scooped a ladle of the cloudy, starchy pasta water and stirred it into the makeshift sauce to thicken it. Once it looked right, he grabbed a strainer and dumped the pot, draining the rest of the spaghetti before tossing the hot noodles directly into the pan to coat them. It wasn't a mission anymore, it was just… home.

The food was done. Chris began plating the pasta onto two plates at the kitchen island. The rich, comforting scent of fried pork and melted cheese finally overpowered the smell of wet tactical gear.

Leon still stood there, dutifully holding the flashlight like a torch bearer. "I can't eat like this," he muttered suddenly. "I need two hands for this level of hunger."

He looked around the dark kitchen, his eyes landing on a bottle of water sitting on the counter. An idea suddenly came to his last two brain cells.

He grabbed the bottle, set it onto the island, and placed the tactical flashlight with its bulb-side down directly onto the opening of the bottle.

Chris froze, a serving fork halfway to a plate. He stared at the water bottle, which was now diffusing the flashlight’s beam into a soft, steady, ambient blue glow that perfectly illuminated the kitchen.

He looked at the bottle, then slowly, painfully, looked up at Leon.

"I saw this on the internet once," Leon mumbled, looking slightly sheepish. "Completely forgot until just now. My brain was... occupied."

Chris stared at him, his expression a mix of awe and pure, unadulterated irritation. He wanted to ask why the hell they’d spent twenty minutes headbutting each other in the dark— but the frustration just… vanished. He had spent his last ounce of willpower just getting the food served. He didn't have the energy for a lecture, and he certainly didn't have the energy to stay mad.

Leon seemed to read the shift in Chris's shoulders, waving a hand dismissively. "I know. I'm an idiot. But I'm too tired to think, and you're too tired to lecture. Let’s just eat."

Chris let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally leaving his body. The soft blue light makes the kitchen feel almost cozy instead of like a crime scene.

The meal was simple, hot, and exactly what they needed. For a long time, the only sounds were the scraping of forks against plates and the steady rhythm of the rain against the window glass.

"You're a dumbass, Leon," Chris finally grumbled, though his voice was devoid of real heat.

"Yeah," Leon replied softly, his bravado fading now that the adrenaline was gone. He looked at Chris, really looked at him, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the way he was physically slumping on the stool. "But we're home, aren't we?"

Chris paused, his fork hovering. He watched Leon, whose own eyes were heavy. The mask finally slips to reveal the exhaustion underneath.

"Yeah," Chris said, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "We’re home."

He reached across the island and squeezed Leon’s hand, his fingers brushing against his husband's knuckles in the warm, blue glow. Outside, the storm raged on, but the mission was over. Leon was full, the meal was a success, and Chris was already looking forward to the moment they could drop into bed and just cuddle with each other.