Chapter Text
Something is wrong.
The runaway thought crashed through the barrier of consciousness. No ifs, no buts; his eyes sprang open, his mind racing a hundred miles an hour to identify the unseen threat. His heart, too, picked up the pace, pumping out what little sleep still lingered his limbs, one beat at a time.
As the fog on his brain began to lift, the gray smudges and shadows took their proper shapes. A nightstand; a wardrobe; his duffel bag in the corner. His apartment.
He noted the weight on his waist. It could have triggered the alarms in his mind, but… It felt nice. Safe. It had to be something else.
The throbbing behind his eye was a suspect, but it was more uncomfortable than something to be alerted about, the pain only as bad as during his better hangovers. Then, the sunlight, perhaps? No, the single, thin stream penetrating the darkness wasn’t the source of his growing unease, either, although the lowered shutters did strike him as odd. He only had them down when Chris came over.
Chris. The weight pinning him in place was his arm. But how and when did he get in?
Right—with the key he gave him when they agreed to try living together, to test if their relationship could survive such a shift in dynamics. Dating was one thing, waking up to someone’s morning breath, though? Learning to live with their mistakes and habits, the issues they brought to a shared home? That takes dedication from a person, the rose-tinted glasses just won’t cut it after a while.
They both kept their apartments for the duration of the trial period of domestic bliss, spending half the time at Chris’s, crashing at Leon’s for the other. The BSAA wasn’t thrilled, and the DSO was genuinely upset, but there was not much they could do, as long as they both reported for duty.
And if Chris was there, that had to mean he just arrived from a mission somewhere in the States, right? And he had opted for Leon’s spartan apartment instead of the local BSAA branch’s decidedly more comfortable rooms, even though they were much closer to the airbase. The only issue was—Leon couldn’t recall discussing the possibility. Nor could he remember Chris telling him about an op. But maybe his mushy morning brain just did not quite catch up to his instincts yet, something a cup of coffee could easily remedy. And he certainly did not mind waking up in the same bed with the man; not when hearing Chris whine softly as he buried his face into Leon’s hair could send such a delicious rush of happiness coursing through his bones, forcing his muscles to relax and melt into the hug.
Well. If he had meant for it to be a surprise, he succeeded with gold stars. Leon hadn’t even heard the man arrive, and Chris wasn’t one known for his stealth…
He hadn’t even heard Chris.
The thing making his brain crawl with ants was silence, and the peace it brought. Only him and Chris existed in that moment; no cars out on the streets, no neighbors moving around…
And no alarms. Meaning he slept through all five, and judging by the light and the lack of sounds, well into the morning. Possibly until 8 or 9, but there was no way to confirm; his phone’s screen remained stubbornly blank even after he plugged it in. But since he was already awake, he could just as well get on with the day. If the DSO wanted anything, they knew where to find him. He was on call, but not on duty. Not until… Next week? At least, so he thought. Somehow it felt wrong, though.
“Where’re you going?” a groggy Chris asked as Leon slipped out from under the covers.
“Bathroom.”
“A’right. You can do that.” The man pressed his face into Leon’s pillow and began snoring again.
A chill ran along Leon’s spine as he crossed the short distance to the bathroom. He didn’t mind the cold (no; he got used to feeling cold), but this time it seemed to emanate from his very bones, as if it made a home there and meant to stay.
One of these days, they were going to have to lay down some ground rules regarding AC usage.
Still, as the hot shower lapped away at him and filled the room with steam, the goosebumps marking his skin receded and the icy grasp on his limbs began to thaw. He stood under the water for a while, indulging in the heat. By the time he stepped out, a thick layer of condensation gathered on the mirror, turning his reflection into a ghastly apparition. He leaned in to wipe the fog away. The monster in the mirror did the same; and as their hands worked, the skin flushed with a healthy sheen and the eyes regained their familiar color. It took just a moment to assess the image peering back at him: a five o’clock shadow turned into a five-day-old stubble overnight; gray hairs just above his ears, which also seemed to have multiplied; and new, soft lines around his eyes and mouth, which no doubt would deepen with time.
Not that he, like Narcissus, enjoyed the sight of his own face, contrary to popular belief. What others often presumed to be vanity was born out of need; the need to have something of his own, even if it was only skin-deep. And grooming standards he set for himself were something he could control.
The habit started as a child, but became a daily ritual only after the armored van dropped him off at bootcamp, where Krauser took his sweet time breaking him down and building him up again. The uncertainty of who or what he was going to be on the other end of it frightened him enough to want to witness it all. And after that? Well, there was simply no way of knowing when he would last see himself as a human, without extra eyes, additional appendages, or rotting skin. At 43, he held no illusions that the day when he succumbed to a parasite or virus, or simply didn’t make it back alive, wasn’t fast approaching. After all, he was old enough to be mistaken for the father of some people he put away for trying their hands at bioterrorism.
A knock disturbed the peace of the bathroom.
“Give me five,” he said with a sigh as the razor buzzed to life in his hand.
“You are already handsome enough. Hurry up,” Chris moaned, but his footsteps retreated. The bed groaned under his weight. Although he was snoozing again by the time Leon got out, the agent could tell his sleep was not restful; he looked worn, years older. Whatever happened during the mission the must not have been pretty. And still, he came to Leon instead of taking a couple days off. That would warrant a special treat; and his own grumbling stomach gave an idea as to a first course.
Spurred on by the idea, he padded over to the wardrobe and wrestled out a shirt from under Chris’s heap of clothes. It hung oddly on his frame, same as the jeans. Could Chris have tried to put them on in an honest drunken accident the last time he was here? Unlikely, but not impossible. He did try to headbutt a traffic sign when a coworker walked into it, once.
His stomach growled a warning and no wonder; the kitchen clock announced the time to be just after 10 AM.
And Friday the 13th. Of course.
“Ok, ok, I’m going,” he mumbled to no one in particular. Yes, he was going. To get breakfast. For the two of them.
The novelty of the thought never seemed to wear off; it still made him just as giddy as he was the first time. It was only breakfast—the only meal he consistently partook in, much to Hunnigan’s annoyance—but having Chris there, having to think about someone else in a way that was normal, somehow sanctified the occasion.
All the excitement seeped out of him in one quick gush when he eased the key into the hole and the lock did not yield. No matter how he wiggled it back and forth, something inside refused to budge.
No phone, no keys; what’s next? A declined card?
Swallowing his frustration, he threw open the closet door. A lightbulb sailed at his head. He caught it before it could hit anything, then pulled the toolbox from its hiding place. At least it was still where he left it.
But only empty space gaped where the screwdrivers should have been lying.
The floor creaked behind him.
“Whatcha doing?” Chris yawned, his mouth popping wide enough for a whole train to fit through.
“Lock is busted,” Leon said as he rummaged through the contents of the box. Nails, screws, pliers, files… But no screwdrivers. And the hammer was missing as well.
“Oh, yeah, it’s been acting up when I got here. But what are you doing?”
“Trying to find a screwdriver to fix the lock so I can go and get us breakfast. Did you move them?”
“They should be in the box.”
“I am looking at the box, and they are not in there,” he said, pointing at the proof in front of his feet. He received only a shrug in return.
“I told you to keep it organized.”
Leon pinched his nose as the throbbing behind his eye made a sudden return. Or it could have been just a natural reaction to Chris’s continued insistence on there being a right way to organize a toolbox and a wrong one. Same with the cupboard and the dishwasher. His love of systems did not extend to the wardrobe or the washing machine, however.
“And I told you that I got a system.”
The man backed away, holding up his hands. “Alright, I’m sorry. Maybe I could make you breakfast as a peace offering? And then I’ll call a locksmith.”
“You can try, if you can make something out of two eggs and milk. I wasn’t expecting you for…”
Again, that creeping feeling of wrongness. Was he expecting him? They might have talked about it, sure, but his memory was still blotchy. If he really forced it, he could vaguely recall a hazy image, but nothing concrete. It was time to call the sleep therapist Hunnigan recommended, he decided. Once he got his hands on a working phone, that is.
“But I was expecting myself,” Chris said, opening the fridge’s door, which was considerably better stocked than he expected. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Pancakes,” Leon said without hesitation. Perhaps due to the constant onslaught of stress and surprises ever since he got out of bed, he craved sugar, and lots of it.
“Hm. Best I can do is toast or frozen pizza, though to be honest, I bought the pizza for lunch.”
“Fine.”
Chris turned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Are you sulking?”
“No,” he said, then pulled on a jacket and headed towards the living room to turn off the AC. He had enough of arctic temperatures for the day, although without doubt Chris would turn it back on in an hour or so. “Just call the locksmith.”
“I’ll call someone for the shutters too.”
Leon blinked. His blood pressure, which just began to drop, started once again reaching for new heights. “What’s wrong with the shutters?”