First off I want to say that I'm so proud of Mark, of Amy, of the whole crew, but especially Mark because holy fuck was that amazing. I was so immersed and caught up in the world and I knew I was going to be because he's an amazing storyteller but holy fuck he knocked it out of the park.
My inner media studies freak was having a grand ol' time with everything. No spoilers (those are under the cut) but the whole build and release of tension as the story unfolds??? Masterful. I was worried (a lil bit) about how he'd flesh out the lore because obv the characters in the movie don't need the lore dumps from the computer the way the player does in the game but he knocked it out of the park. There were so many little touches that made it feel so human and real and grounded even in an ocean of blood. I loved the way he took the plot of the game (or lack thereof) and made it a full movie.
ALSO the effects? In. Sane. Some made me a lil nauseous, I will admit, but oh my god were they incredible. There's one moment (or a series of moments) in particular where I literally had the 'oh no my mortal eyes are not meant to witness this' (which was the point) but they were done SO WELL
All in all? 10/10. So glad I saw it in theaters, especially after hearing Mark talk about how much work he and the team put in to making it ready for theatrical release.
SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT I REPEAT SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT PROCEED WITH CAUTION YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED REACHING CRUISING DEPTH IN 2 MINUTES
okay first off simon's little notes? on the map? adorable. i love how HUMAN simon is through the whole thing, asking names, giving the engine a little pat-pat when it turns back on, UGH i love him protect him get him the fuck OUT of there
the rivalry/hostility between the coi and eden was also really well done. i wasn't sure how much mark was gonna use/lean into that but i LOVED having simon be from eden and there for the filament station disaster--him finding the note from the previous convict? calling him 'brother' when he heard the recording of the note you find in the game???? the pendant he wore on his arm and how it was the thing keeping him TETHERED for better or for worse??????? oh my god it was so fucking good. the way that filament station haunts the narrative, the questions/reveals we get about simon's life, his own ghosts and regrets, the questions about life and death...
the shots. oh my fucking god the shots. those shots in the beginning where the porthole is almost like a halo for simon??? the part where he's begging for the voices over the radio to be real and he moves so his shoulder blocks the indicator light so we can't see if it's on or not??? the dutch angle when the first drop of blood hits his hand to immediately signify something's wrong??? the shot of ava looking through the blood with her damaged eye and it perfectly parallels the massive eye looming out of the blood later in the movie???? the CRACK in the porthole looking like a tree and the pendant from eden cracking in the same way??? again i knew they were gonna be on it but holy FUCK were they on it.
and simon was smart. thank god simon was smart. he drew the map when he didn't have it--which i didn't even realize the map wasn't the complete one you see in game until he started drawing the rest of it!!! he used the binder to hold the lever forwards so he could keep moving. he used the camera as a source of light. he spat on the indicator to make it light up. at no point was i like NO YOU IDIOT and that's what makes horror SCARY.
i also loved how the movie paralleled the game in interesting ways!!! simon goes down once, gets pulled back up, goes down again to get more info, mirroring how there was a massive lore update to the game that included the computer on the ship and all the logs and entries about the worldbuilding. the part where the tether snapped and he got dropped into the weird cave was at the farthest node where normally you get the jumpscare and it's game over. the wibbly wobbly node being the blood portal to the blood dimension where the blood god stares into simon's soul and they recognize each other because we're all just blood--sorry.
and then the science!!! yeah every time you use the camera it's raditation--and GOD that picture in the space ship is terrifying--and so simon's slowly being irradiated over the course of the movie so who knows what's really happening. the hallucinations, the voices, the contaminated human blood. the black box log from the sm8 was HAUNTING. and the blood taking on such a life of its own with rather...disarming consequences, yes that ending sequence will haunt me too.
the whole debate between what's worth life and what isn't. simon so determined to live for so so long and you as a viewer go back and forth with him the whole time and he just wants to live and then the ENDING where he straps the life jacket to the black box and it's bigger than me and THIS POOR MAN. mark's an incredible actor and goddamn does this movie showcase it.
this movie is so goddamn good. it's good as a video game adaptation, it's good as an idie horror film, it's good as a markiplier story. it's truly so so so good and my entire hat off to mark for working so hard to make it a reality.
The morning after getting spectacularly and embarrassingly drunk, Ethan has no idea how he's supposed to explain himself. Not only did he demonstrate just how not okay he actually is, but he's pretty sure he thoroughly humiliated himself in front of both Chris and Leon.
Chris, meanwhile, knows exactly what he has to do this morning. It's something he's been putting off for a long, long time, but with the scare Ethan gave him last night, he can't put it off any longer.
And Leon?
Leon's on a goddamn mission.
"And why are you here today, Chris?"
Chris shifts in the chair as Dr. O'Shaughnessy fiddles with his pen. At his silence, the man glances up, a patient look on his face.
"Take your time," he reminds gently, "nothing you say in here makes it past that door."
Chris swallows. "I'm here about Ethan Winters."
***
Ethan wakes up.
He winces at the sunlight, holding a hand over his face. His head throbs, his mouth tasting like—well, like mold and death, which he should be used to by this point. He cringes at the thought of having to stumble to the bathroom in crusty jeans but when his hands go to push the blankets away, his fingers only meet soft fabric. He blinks.
Oh. They…changed him.
In an instant, all the memories of last night come flooding back. Him, drunk on the sofa, clutching a bottle of wine like it could save him. Chris and Leon, coming home to find him a damn wreck in the middle of the living room for no reason other than his brain deciding to make him sad. Then—and this is the part he's sure he's too drunk to remember correctly, being held on the couch and comforted like a child, carried upstairs in Chris's arms while Leon opened the door to his room. And…they must have changed him.
Heat rushes to his face and he collapses back to the bed with a groan. Great. So much for putting up the act that he was fine and okay and to be trusted to be a responsible adult.
Shit, he hopes Rose couldn't feel any of his bullshit from last night. His baby doesn't deserve that.
Rose…Rose!
He bolts upright, letting out a pained noise at the protest of his body, throwing himself around to look for his phone. He grabs it, turns it on—fuck, it's nearly noon, Rose has school—
There's a notification from Chris.
Ethan swallows.
Opens it up.
Chris: Took Rose to school. No idea when you're going to wake up, but that's okay. Sleep and rest as much as you want, Ethan, you deserve it.
He collapses back on the bed with a thwump, staring at his phone. Chris has his baby, he took her to school, right. Chris will be there for Rose, he won't leave.
Unbidden, the memory of Chris's voice plays in his head. I'm so happy you're back, Ethan, and he smiled like he did before, before everything, when he looked at Ethan and it was Chris, his friend, the man who saved him and Mia.
And…he just cried all over Chris and blubbered something about being sorry it was him that came back and that he like Chris's smile. Fuck.
He groans one more time for good measure before heaving himself out of bed. Might as well face the music.
He stumbles downstairs, ready to try and get himself together before he has to have the mother of all awkward conversations only to stop short at the sight of Leon. Leon, the other person he sobbed all over, the man who—cradled his misshapen hand in his like it was something to be treasured and—
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," comes Leon's voice, warm and gentle, just like it was last night, "you hungry?"
Ethan blinks. Leon's looking at him, a soft smile on his face, gesturing to the stove. He looks—it's bare, but he can—he's definitely cooked on worse hangovers before. He starts moving to the cupboards only for Leon to stand, holding out a hand.
"Whoa, whoa, nuh-uh, you sit. Sit and drink some coffee, I'll make you something to eat. Grease is the best hangover cure I've ever found."
He sits, mainly because when Leon S. Kennedy tells you to sit down, you sit the fuck down, and tries not to blink too wide-eyed at the mug of hot coffee that gets set in front of him. He manages to remember his manners and mumbles a 'thank you.' Leon just chuckles.
"After the number of times you've made me and Chris hangover breakfasts, I think it's only fair." He glances over his shoulder. "Just lemme know if I need to grab the trash can, okay?"
"Should be good. I've never really gotten nauseous from hangovers."
"Really? Damn. Lucky you. Feels like most of my twenties I had my head over a trash can or in a toilet bowl."
The smell of bacon starts to waft through the room, stirring Ethan's stomach. He shuffles a little on the stool, pulling the coffee close to his face. The warm steam drifts up and around his nose and mouth as he takes a sip. He glances up at Leon's back as the man starts humming something under his breath, stirring something in the pan. There's a low pang in his chest.
Eveline curls around his ribs.
He tries to push an apology towards her, he was such a mess last night, but it feels like she bats it away before it's even fully formed. He tries again, trying to figure out what he can do to do it right, but she shoves it away and just shifts under his skin again.
He can raise one teenager, he's not sure he can raise both.
"Here you go." A plate clatters quietly in front of him, jolting him from his thoughts. "Eat as much as you can, okay? Promise I won't be offended if you don't finish."
"Thanks."
"No problem. You just sit and eat and let me clean up the mess I made."
Part of Ethan wants to protest—Leon and Chris always insist that they clean when he cooks, it isn't fair if Leon gets to cook and clean just because Ethan has a hangover, but the rest of him is far too tempted by crispy bacon and steaming sausage and the toast that Leon somehow made when he wasn't paying attention and he's got good, hot food in his mouth before he can even think of voicing any objections.
Leon slides onto the stool next to him with a fresh cup of coffee a few minutes later, seemingly content to sit in silence while Ethan eats. He isn't sure if it's the mold or some other part of him that can feel Leon next to him, like an invisible force just resting against his side, a subtle heat pulsing gently. It doesn't go away when Leon wordlessly slides him a napkin, nor when he catches him looking at Ethan in the reflection of the microwave. Not with his brows furrowed or his mouth drawn up the way Mia's would when he caught her looking when she thought he couldn't see, no, his face is soft, open, just…looking at him.
He's not sure why that makes the subtle ache in his chest worse.
***
"You're here about Ethan? Could you say more about that?"
"Last night, we had a dinner party. Well—not a party, really, but Mia came over for dinner and it was a bigger thing than normal."
"Was that the first time Mia had come over to the house?" Chris nods. "How did you feel about that?"
"It was…weird. I mean, it was—it was good for them to have that time together, right? They deserve to have the ability to spend time together like a family."
Dr. O'Shaughnessy hums but makes no further comment. Chris's fingers twitch.
"After it was over, uh, I'd had too much to drink to be able to drive Mia home by myself, so Leon drove both of us there and back, which was a mistake, I think."
"How so?"
Chris shifts again. "It left Ethan alone."
"Have you had concerns about leaving Ethan alone before now?"
"No."
"Then could you explain why this was a mistake?"
"When we came back, he was drunk."
***
"Thank you for this," Ethan says, getting up to carry his plate over to the sink only for Leon to frown at him. "Uh, what?"
"If I try and take the plate from you, you're gonna insist, aren't you?"
He laughs in relief. "Yeah, I am."
Leon holds his hands up. "Suit yourself. Never seen someone so eager to do dishes, that's all."
"You cooked, I'll clean, that's only fair."
"You don't let Chris and I clean when you make us hangover breakfasts."
"Yeah, well, that's 'cause you and Chris are always cursing the sun by the time you've finished eating."
"Look, just because you can get through a hangover still looking like that doesn't mean the rest of us can."
He turns on the sink, letting the water run over the plates. He swallows. "Like what?"
"You know, all fluffy and bright-eyed."
The sponge falls from his fingers with a wet splat. "F-fluffy?'
"Yeah. I've got too much hair for it and Chris doesn't have enough."
He manages to make a strangled sort of laugh. "Right."
He keeps cleaning the plate, the fork, the knife. Cleans it again. Reaches for the soap, cleans it one more time. Sometime halfway through his third clean, he hears the scrape of the stool as Leon stands up, hears the creak of the floorboards as he walks over to the counter, hears the burble of coffee being poured into a mug. He glances over and catches Leon leaned there, looking at him again.
Their eyes meet.
Leon doesn't look away, just offers him that same soft smile as he holds his coffee.
Ethan swallows. Looks away. Turns off the sink and reaches for a dish towel. "I'm sorry."
"What for?"
"For last night. I didn't mean—I didn't mean for any of that to happen."
"Any of what, Ethan?"
Is he joking? "Getting drunk? Crying all over both of you? Making you carry me to bed like a kid?"
"Chris offered to carry you. Didn't really give you much of a choice, if I remember correctly. As for the other stuff…" He pauses, voice gentling even further. "We're in no position to judge you, Ethan. God knows Chris and I have our fair share of rough nights. More than our fair share, if I'm being honest."
"Still." He dries off the knife with a near vigor. "I shouldn't have been so careless."
"Careless how? You didn't try to drink and drive, you didn't do anything other than sit on the couch, you didn't even finish the bottle."
"Rose." He shuts the silverware drawer with a clang. "I shouldn't have acted like that with Rose in the house."
"She was asleep, Ethan. She was asleep and she was safe and nothing happened. You wanna know what she said this morning?"
"What?"
"She said that last night was one of the best things that's ever happened to her. She loved it, Ethan, you didn't ruin anything. You didn't hurt Rose, you didn't put her in danger, everything's okay."
Ethan gnaws on his lip. He grabs the fork and towels it off with the same intensity, managing not to chuck it in with the others and slam the door. The ache in his chest isn't going away and there's a familiar shameful twist forming in his gut.
"You didn't ruin anything," Leon says again, like it will make it true, "you're allowed to have bad nights, that's okay."
"But it shouldn't have been a bad night!" He throws the towel on the counter and tangles a hand in his hair. "It should've been a good night, Mia was here, Rose was happy, you and Chris—it should have been fine, I should've been happy, and I—"
"Hey, hey, easy," Leon's voice breaks in, his mug hitting the counter, "don't do that, Ethan, you're gonna hurt yourself."
Despite everything, a hysterical laugh bubbles its way out of Ethan's throat. "You know, you've been doing that a lot lately, have you noticed?"
"Doing what?"
"Talking to me like that. Like—like I'm a feral cat or something that you're trying to coax inside."
He looks over, half expecting Leon to laugh and say he didn't mean to, or that he hadn't noticed. Instead, Leon just looks at him with that same devastatingly soft expression.
"What?"
"Does it bother you?"
"Huh?"
"Does it bother you," he repeats, "that I'm talking to you like this?"
"Uh—" a different sort of heat twists in his gut and his traitor of a heart thuds against his ribs— "I—uh—no? Not…not really? Why, am I a feral cat to you or something?"
Now he gets a little laugh. Leon's mouth curls up into that crooked smile that never fails to make his stomach flip and he swallows.
"Depends," Leon says in that gentle, gentle voice, "you gonna swipe at me if I come closer to you?"
The air shifts. The lingering heat from the stove swells and swells until it's pressing against the sides of Ethan's collar. The smell of bacon, coffee, toast, press against his nose, almost too much. Leon's still looking at him. Still looking at him.
Slowly, he shakes his head.
***
"Is this the first time Ethan's been drunk?"
"In the house, yeah, I think so."
Dr. O'Shaughnessy writes something down. "What happened next?"
"I…I went over to him, so did Leon. I was trying to figure out what happened, why he got drunk—he'd had one? Maybe two glasses over dinner, and then when we got back, most of the bottle was gone. I asked him how much he'd had and he couldn't remember. Leon got him some water and he let us take the wine away but he didn't drink it."
"Was he fighting you?"
"No. He was…he was talking about the village. There was someone there who made wine and I think—I think the bottle triggered a memory of some sort."
"Is that why he was drinking?"
Chris shakes his head. "He was drinking because he was sad. I—I asked him what made him sad and he said that he made himself sad. I couldn't get him to say anything more."
Dr. O'Shaughnessy writes something else. He writes for a while. Chris presses his fingers together. "Do you think something happened during the dinner?"
"No. Well—I don't know. I tried to ask him, we both did, and he said—he said it wasn't the dinner. He said he liked the dinner because it made Rose happy, and that he made himself sad, over and over. Then he started crying."
The sound of Ethan's sobs still hit him as hard as they always did. Worse than any bullet, any explosion, any fucking bioweapon that the world has thrown at him, no, the thing that will never fail to unmake Chris Redfield is that sound of Ethan Winters crying. One look at Leon's face told him the other man felt the same.
"We tried to comfort him, but he just kept crying and apologizing."
"Apologizing for what?"
He has to swallow through a suddenly dry throat. "For…for coming back."
***
Leon pushes off the counter. Slowly, as if giving Ethan time to change his mind, or run away like the stray cat he is, apparently, he crosses the few feet between them and leans against the counter again, right in front of Ethan. This close, he can see the touches of blond in his hair, the way there's still a bit of scruff along the edges of his jaw. He can smell the coffee on his breath.
"Hi," he manages.
"Hi." The gravel is only more apparent from here, Leon's voice hushed so as to carry easily over the little space between them. "Is this okay?"
Ethan manages to nod, his gaze still flicking around his face, unsure of where to look. Leon just lets him.
"I meant it," he continues, "you have nothing to be sorry for, Ethan. You had a rough night? That's okay. It happens. You let us help you, that's the important part."
"Even if I—"
The slightest furrow appears between Leon's brows. "Even if you what?"
He shakes his head. He can't. He can't. He can't do that to Leon, to Chris, to Rose, to himself. He shakes his head again, just for good measure. "I shouldn't have told Chris I was sorry I came back."
Leon's mouth twists and for a moment, Ethan's chest lurches that he's going to push, try and get Ethan to say what it was he was going to say—which he can't, not right now—but miraculously, he lets it go. "Is it true?"
"Huh?"
"Is it true? Are you sorry you came back?"
His lip wobbles. Goddamnit, he was supposed to have cried all of this out last night, when he was drunk. "I…don't know."
Leon hums, a soft and pained noise. "Can I tell you something?"
"Sure."
"Chris told me that he's had two of the best days of his life in the last year. One was the day you came back in Romania, and the other was when we moved into this house together." Ethan's eyes go wide and Leon leans a little closer, bending down to make sure they're making eye contact. "Chris wasn't lying last night either, Ethan—he's so happy you're back. So am I, for the record, and so is Rose—God, Ethan, I can't believe it sometimes. That you have no idea."
"Believe what?"
"How much everyone cares about you."
Now he scoffs. He can't help it. He really can't. It's the wrong thing to do, though, because that frown on Leon's face gets worse and he's moving a little closer. Ethan can't look at him, not when his face is so openly concerned, so he turns away and folds his arms over his chest and squeezes his eyes shut.
When next he speaks, Leon's voice is a little cracked, a little broken. "Why don't you believe me?"
"Because I can't."
"Why can't you?"
"Because the last time I thought I was loved, I got punched in the face and my hand cut off."
He doesn't realize that he's slipped up until it's too late.
***
Dr. O'Shaughnessy frowns. "For coming back? Back to life?"
"Yeah. He—" Chris scrubs a hand over his face— "he didn't think I was happy that he came back. And I am, I'm fucking ecstatic that he's back, but he—God, Doc, you should've seen him, he was distraught over it and he wouldn't believe me."
There's another scratch of the pen. "Why do you think he didn't believe you?"
Chris lets out a horrible, strangled laugh. "'Cause I've fucked this all up."
"Say more."
"I ruined it. I ruined it before I even realized it."
"What is 'it,' Chris?"
He throws his hands over his face. The cocktail of shame and self-hatred and longing burn in his chest and he thinks he might choke on it. "I thought bringing over Mia would help. I thought the house would help. I thought—I don't fucking know what I thought."
"You need to say it, Chris." Dr. O'Shaughnessy's voice is firmer now. "Letting it float around ambiguously isn't going to help anything."
"I can't say it!" He throws himself up from the chair, pacing the shitty carpet. "I can't fucking say it."
"Why not?"
"Because every time I even think it, all I can see is Ethan's face crying that he's sorry, that he's sorry for being himself and I can't deal with that, Doc, I can't. I can't keep doing this, doing this to him, seeing him like that."
There's a pause. His panting breaths ring out in the office. Then, with a quiet voice, Dr. O'Shaughnessy asks: "Do you think he blames you?"
"He fucking should." Chris throws himself back into the chair. It groans in protest. "He doesn't, because he's a goddamn unicorn."
"Why should he blame you?"
He tosses his hands up. "Because I'm the one who put him in Romania in the first place? Because I didn't do my goddamn research and found out that there was a whole fucking village of bullshit right next to where he was supposed to have his second chance at family? Because I didn't tell him what was going on and got him killed over it? Because—"
He cuts himself off, rubbing his hand over his mouth. Dr. O'Shaughnessy leans forward.
"Because what, Chris?"
"…because I'm the one who drove him away in the first place."
***
"I-I—I mean—"
"Don't," Leon says gently, "you don't have to hide or pretend, not with me, remember?"
He swallows. His throat hurts. His eyes feel heavy.
"Look at me, Ethan."
"Don't know if I can." He lifts a hand, swipes it over his nose. "I might start crying again."
"That's okay. You can cry."
As if on cue, he feels tears start to well up behind closed eyelids and he sniffles. Leon makes another one of those soft, sweet noises and it reaches into the pit in his chest and fills it with gold sparkles. He thinks his fingertips might clench the counter. He's not sure.
"Sorry," he says weakly, "I think I'm just—just overwhelmed."
"That's okay." He hears Leon shift, feels that weird heat of touching-not touching move next to him. "Do you need me to back off?"
"Please don't."
"Okay, I won't. I'm not going anywhere." Another shift, the slight creak of the counter that means Leon's leaning his weight on it again. "If you can't look at me, do you think you can just listen? Let me talk for a second?"
"Y-yeah."
"Okay." He hears Leon take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not gonna lie: I got scared when I saw you last night. So did Chris. But not because you were drunk, Ethan, because you were hurting. You were hurting so bad and I didn't know what the hell to do about it. I didn't know how to fix it, how to make you feel better, and I don't think Chris did either. That's what scared us, the fact that you were upset and we didn't know what to do about it. We couldn't fix it, we didn't know what caused it, we didn't know how to help. And I really need you to listen to this part, okay? That's not your fault."
Ethan's head jerks up. He stares at Leon and he can feel tears rolling down his cheeks and Leon must be able to see them because he—well, he doesn't quite flinch, but he lets out this quiet breath like he's been punched and reaches out like he's going to wipe them away but then Ethan flinches back, because he can't deal with that right now, not while he's so goddamn fragile, apparently, so the hand lands on his shoulder and burns.
"It's not your fault, Ethan," Leon says again, still soft, still so gentle with him, "you've been through a lot of shit. A lot of it. And you've—you needing time to figure out how to let people in is up to you, okay? And neither Chris or I are gonna be upset at you about it."
"Why're you still being so nice to me?" His voice cracks. "Every—ev'ry time we talk, it feels like you're telling me it's okay that I need time or that you want—wanna be my friend and be nice to me but I keep not doing it—isn't it exhausting?"
Aren't you tired of me? Aren't you weary of me yet?
Leon shakes his head. "You're scared, Ethan. You are, you're hurt and you're scared and that's not fun for anyone. You've been hurt and you've been—for a long time, you've been dealing with all this shit by yourself because no one's known how to be there for you, right?"
He nods miserably. Leon squeezes his shoulder.
"I want to be there for you. I want to know how to be there for you. And that'll take time and that's okay. I'm here, okay? I told you: I want to be."
He sniffles, lets Leon offer him a paper towel to wipe his face off. Sniffles into it with a wet laugh. "God, I really am a feral cat, aren't I?"
Leon chuckles. "Only sometimes. Only when you think someone's gonna hurt your kitten."
"Or maybe I'm one of those things Chris had—a Tamagotchi." He crumples the paper towel into a fist. "You feed me and play with me and then put me on your belt when you're done until you wanna pay attention to me again."
A pause, the air slightly heavier and he curses his tongue for being too loose, then Leon squeezes his shoulder again. "No, you're not one of those. Can't imagine someone stealing you from Chris without him trying to burn the world down to get you back."
The air curdles. The familiar dance in his gut starts up anew. He feels something thick and sticky trying to crawl up his throat but before it reaches his mouth, Leon speaks up again.
"Besides, those things aren't fluffy at all."
It works. It breaks the horrible sick feeling wrapping around his chest and he laughs with the relief of it, a few more tears sliding down his cheeks. "What's your thing with calling me fluffy?"
"'Cause you are," Leon grins, "you with your blond hair and your soft sweaters and your smile, you're fluffy."
"My smile is fluffy?"
"You know what? Yeah, it is."
They laugh again and this time, when Leon slowly brings his hand up, Ethan lets him catch a tear on the edge of his thumb and wipe it away. The feeling prickles long after the heat has faded, just there, almost like it's glowing—in fact, if he doesn't control himself, it might actually start glowing.
"Thank you," he mumbles, "for…everything."
"Of course, Ethan."
"You, uh—" he sniffs— "you lied to me, by the way, about being the only emotionally competent person here."
Leon just chuckles. "Learning from you, buddy."
"And I am sorry I couldn't wake up this morning and take Rose to school, I hope Chris…"
He trails off. Because it's almost definitely past noon now, and it takes an hour to drop Rose off at school at the most.
And Chris still isn't home.
"Where's Chris?"
Something flutters over Leon's expression.
Something cold runs down Ethan's spine. "Leon? Where's Chris?"
"He's fine, Ethan, I swear—"
"Where is he?"
Leon sighs. "He's with Dr. O'Shaughnessy."
***
"When you say drove him away, you mean—?"
"I mean I took a man who trusted me and broke it like it wasn't worth anything."
Dr. O'Shaughnessy frowns. Truly frowns, like he doesn't understand what Chris is saying. Chris shifts in the too-small chair and avoids his gaze.
"It was after Dulvey," he says to his knees, "when I was giving Ethan and Mia training and Ethan…wasn't progressing the way the higher-ups wanted. I…"
There's a very quiet noise that tells him Dr. O'Shaughnessy knows what he's talking about now. And he knows that means he's gonna have to say it out loud, because that's the point, that's why he's here, but he's a goddamn coward and he can't.
"What did you do, Chris?"
"I yelled at him."
"What did you say?"
"I…" He swallows. "I told him he wasn't good enough. That he wasn't—that we weren't friends, that he wasn't—that he was sloppy and unfocused and—and then I punched him in the face."
That day haunts him. It lives in the back of his head and whispers in his ear every time he sees Ethan's smile falter, every time Rose stares at him just a little too hard, every time Leon glances at him and raises his eyebrows in a wordless get your shit together.
He did that. He did that.
"I never told him why, not until recently, and I don't—he just forgave me, who the fuck does that?"
"Ethan does, apparently."
"But he shouldn't!"
"That's not your choice to make, Chris," Dr. O'Shaughnessy says quietly, "you don't get to decide how Ethan feels about what you've done, or anything else."
"He shouldn't forgive me," he says again, because he needs to, because he has to, "not when I treated him like that. I pushed him there, it's—it's my fault."
There's another pause. "When you say 'pushed him there,' you mean to the point where he felt the need to get drunk?"
Chris shrugs. "I don't know. I…I thought the dinner would be good for him. I've been trying to make up for that day ever since he came back, but I think—I think I'm just making things worse for him."
"Do you think Ethan's a danger to himself?"
***
Betrayal twists in Ethan's chest, sharp and familiar.
"You son of a bitch," he snarls, "was this—was this some fucking plan to keep me distracted?"
Leon's face turns baffled. "What? No, Ethan, that's not—"
"Did you and Chris talk about this? Get Rose out of the house and get the psychs in here to get me—"
"Goddamnit, Ethan, no! That's not what I meant!"
"So Chris isn't there because of me right now?"
"Well, he is, but not—Ethan, listen to me—"
"No, no, I can't—I'm not doing this again!"
He yanks himself away but he's forgotten that he's just a systems engineer and Leon is basically a one-man army. Before he can even think about running away to do—who fucking knows, before he can get more a hair's breadth away from Leon, he's got one arm locked around his waist and another pinning his wrist to the counter as he's shoved up against it, Leon pressed against the length of him.
His brain shorts out.
All he can feel is Leon, Leon, Leon—hips pinning his like he doesn't weigh a thing, their chests heaving together, a worn and callused hand around his wrist with strength that makes his knees threaten to give out and Leon's staring at him.
For long seconds, they just stand there, gazes locked, panting. Then Leon closes his eyes, head dropping, and he breathes out a curse. Ethan tries not to focus on how dry his mouth gets at the sound.
"I fucked that up," Leon mutters, mostly to himself. His grip eases but doesn't relax entirely, keeping Ethan trapped between his bulk and the counter. "Shit."
Ethan swallows. Leon slowly raises his head, apology shining plainly in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ethan, I didn't do that right. Let me—let me try again, okay? Just listen to me for a second and then if you still wanna punch me in the face or whatever, you can, okay?"
Ethan jerks his head in a nod.
"Okay, okay. Thank you." He takes another breath and Ethan feels it travel the length of him. "Yes, Chris is with Dr. O'Shaughnessy right now. He's there because of what happened last night, but it's not what you think, I promise. He's not there because he thinks you're crazy or a threat to anyone, he's there because he's an emotional dumpster fire and he finally has the self-awareness to recognize it."
"Wh-what are you saying?"
Leon's grip leaves his wrist, sliding down to cover his hand. "I'm saying Chris has been trying to get his shit together for a really long time now, and last night gave him to push to actually go and do it."
"S-so—so he—"
"He's not leaving, Ethan, he's not trying to make you go away. He's trying to fix things, I told you, Chris and I like to fix stuff, and he's—well, he's finally going to therapy."
The combination of Leon pressed against him and the gentle gravel of his voice was already making Ethan's knees weak, but the sudden rush at hearing those words really does make him stagger. Leon catches him like he doesn't weigh anything, holy fuck, and just keeps looking at him with that devastatingly tender expression.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry—"
"Shh-shh-shh, don't do that, don't apologize for having a reasonable reaction to me fucking that up."
Still, Ethan has to cover his face because he's mortified, goddamnit, and Leon just makes a soft noise and reaches up to pull his hand away. There's the telltale sound of another paper towel ripping free and then pressed into his hands and he blows his nose with a despondent honk.
"I really did swipe at you," he says miserably.
"Yeah, you did, but it's okay. I'm not hurt."
"Yeah, I noticed." He sniffles and subtly shifts as if to say I'm done, you don't have to restrain me anymore, but Leon doesn't move away. Instead, the arm around his waist softens, fingers idly toying with the material of his shirt. His weight shifts slightly, still pressing Ethan into the counter but not pinning him, a knee still nudging between his. "Um…"
"Is this okay?" This close, his voice is even softer. "Do I need to move?"
"Uh, n-no, you can…you can stay."
"Good." His hand comes up to wipe his tears again, but this time it lingers, cupping his jaw, thumb stroking over his cheek. "I really didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I forgive you."
Leon smiles and Ethan feels the corners of his mouth turning up too. He can't help it, he's not blind. Leon's—fuck, he's Leon S. Kennedy, everything he finds out about the man tells him what a marvel he is, and he has to somehow reconcile that with the man that will accidentally steal his T-shirts and stretch them out with his muscles and look sheepish when he returns them and now he's here, with Leon pressing him against the counter like he doesn't weigh a goddamn thing, stroking his face and smiling at him?
"There," Leon says softly and Ethan snaps himself back, "I missed that smile."
"You really like my smile, huh?"
It's meant to be a tease, but it comes out way too breathy. Leon's eyes flash.
"C'mon, Winters, you gotta know what you look like when you're happy, don't you? Your face lights up like you're made of sunshine and you get this pink blush all over your cheeks and nose and your damn smile," he nearly growls, "I'm not a saint, Ethan."
Ethan's breath catches in his throat. The pit inside him opens up and wails as heat curls around his spine, following the teasing brush of Leon's fingertips. His legs shift, bumping the edge of Leon's thigh between his.
"Neither am I."
The hand on his face slides around to cradle the nape of his neck. Leon leans closer, closer, close enough that Ethan can feel the heat of his breath on his cheek and then he stops, letting their foreheads rest together. For long seconds, they just breathe, the faint smell of bacon still lingering in the air.
"Not like this," Leon says in a hoarse whisper, "promised Chris I'd wait for him."
As disappointment begins to sour in Ethan's stomach, he hears the rest of those words. "C-Chris? What?"
Leon pulls back enough to give Ethan a smirk. "What did you think I meant when I said 'get his shit together?'"
***
Chris's head snaps up. "What? No! That's not—that's not what I meant, Ethan's—Ethan's not—he's not a danger to himself."
Dr. O'Shaughnessy holds his hand up. "Just had to ask."
Chris slumps back into the chair, letting his head loll over to stare out the window. A bird lands on a bare tree branch and ruffles its feathers.
"What did you mean, then?"
Chris's mouth twitches. "Mia said the worst part of her nightmares was that Ethan kept coming back."
He makes himself sit up when there's no further prompting.
"She would—she'd cut off his hand, stab him, all this stuff, and he'd just keep coming back. Because he loved her, and she—she couldn't stop hurting him." His throat gets tight. "When she told me that, I…I realized a few things."
"Like what?"
"I'd—if I can get someone angry while we're training, that's good. I can work with anger. I tried so hard to get Ethan to be angry at me and it wasn't working. I couldn't get him to—I couldn't figure out why he wasn't getting angry. But he…he was doing the same thing. He was coming back, even though I was hurting him, and it made me angry because that meant I couldn't fix things and then I—"
He can still see those lights. Smell those horrible mats. See Ethan's face, streaked with tears.
"Then I broke his heart," he whispers, "and I haven't forgiven myself for it."
"Is that why you pushed him away?"
Chris nods wordlessly. That's why he pulled away in Romania. That's why he couldn't—wouldn't—couldn't do anything but love Rose, take care of her, because Ethan ordered him to and he would follow that order until the end of his days.
He got his wish. Ethan got angry at him now. Ethan fought against him now. And he hates it, because he had to break Ethan's heart to get there before he knew how much he wanted to wrap Ethan's heart in bubble wrap and clutch it safely in his own chest.
"He didn't think I was happy that he's back, Doc," he croaks, "he doesn't think he can be loved. That I could, that I…"
Dr. O'Shaughnessy looks at him with that compassionate expression he wants to hate. "Say it, Chris. You have to say it."
***
Ethan's eyes widen. "Chris? Chris?"
Leon chuckles. "Yeah, Ethan. He's been fumbling his way around it for ages now."
But that doesn't make sense. Chris is Chris, and he's—he's—
"Hey," comes Leon's voice, "talk to me, what's going through your head right now?"
"I want to believe you," he says in a rush, "I want to believe you so much, but I—but—"
Leon nods like he expected Ethan to say that. "It's okay."
"Fuck." His head drops and hits Leon's shoulder with a thunk. "Why is this so hard?"
"I hope you know how much I'm holding the jokes back right now."
"Shut up," he says through a huff of laughter and feels Leon's chest rumble in reply. "You know what I meant."
Gentle fingers find his chin and tip his head back to meet Leon's understanding gaze. "I do, Ethan. And I want you to know that whatever happens between you and Chris, you have me, okay? Always."
Ethan nods against his palm. Leon's hand slides up and ruffles his hair and he can't help but giggle. "I should've picked up on this whole fluffy cat thing way earlier."
Leon opens his mouth to say something when the door opens. They both turn to see Chris standing there, his gaze on both of them. Part of Ethan's chest tightens—what if he's angry, what if he shuts them both out—but then Chris is chuckling and shrugging his coat off.
"I see Leon beat me to it, huh?"
"It's not my fault you took so long to get your shit together, Redfield," Leon says, playfully pulling Ethan closer.
Chris just rolls his eyes fondly, walking over to stand next to them. Ethan just stares at him, eyes wide, and something must tell Chris how nervous he is right now because he's softening, just like he did last night, his voice getting all sweet and gentle too and what is it about him that's making these two hardened soldiers handle him so tenderly? He'll never understand it.
"It's funny, I had a whole speech prepared." Chris's low voice jolts him back. "I worked on it with Dr. O'Shaughnessy and everything. And now I can't remember a damn word of it."
"Uh…sorry?"
Chris chuckles, shaking his head. "Don't apologize, Ethan. It's not your fault I took one look at your damn smile and forgot how to think."
Which just makes him embarrassed and he can feel the tips of his ears turn pink because come on, Chris is looking at him like that and Leon is still pressed against him, which Chris hasn't said a thing about, and then Leon's chuckling in his ear too.
"Told you, Winters. You clearly have no idea what you look like when you're happy. Chris isn't a saint either."
That drops a solemn note into the still room, Chris's shoulders slumping as he sighs. "No, I'm not."
And before Ethan can say anything, Chris's hand is cupping the other side of his face, twitching slightly at the evidence of tears. His mouth runs dry and he knows he's staring but Chris doesn't seem to care.
"I'm sorry, Ethan," he says in a whisper.
"I told you, I forgive—"
"I'm sorry for breaking your heart."
Everything stutters to a glorious pause. Ethan's mouth freezes around the rest of the sentence and finally settles on a strangled oh. Chris's thumb passes over the soft skin of his ear and it burns.
"I've fucked things up between us over and over again, I know," he continues, like he's not breaking Ethan apart and sewing him back together in the same instant, "and I'm sorry it took me so long to get my shit together, but if it's okay with you, I want to try and get it right this time."
Oh.
Oh.
Almost against his will, his gaze darts to Leon, who just looks at him with that same soft gaze that wrecks what's left of his dignity. "And…you're…?"
"Here too," he murmurs, "always, Ethan, however you'll have me."
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
"If that's okay?"
"I—uh—I'm—"
Both of them just stand there, letting him splutter. Chris's hand is warm and rough and Leon's still got a knee between his and he's falling into this pit in his stomach and his body is tearing itself apart and he thinks part of him is screaming and part of him is crying and—
"Ethan? Ethan, you're glowing."
He looks down. Golden sparkles drift up from his fingertips, creating a little cloud around the three of them. He watches one land on the bridge of Chris's nose, the other in Leon's hair. He laughs. He can't help it. He's breathless.
"Is that a yes, or…?"
"It's a yes," he gasps, "holy fuck, it's—you're gonna have to be so patient with me, but it's a yes."
The relief is palpable; Leon sags against him like a puppet with its strings cut and Chris lets out a shaky laugh of his own. "Patient with you? Ethan, you've been so damn patient with us already, it's a goddamn miracle. I was ready for you tell me to fuck off when I walked in here, the fact that I'm getting anything other than that, I'm happy."
Ethan can't help it, he grabs onto Chris's shoulder like it's the only thing keeping him here. Chris understands immediately and gets closer, which might have been a mistake because now there are two of them pressing him against the counter. He fists his hand into the back of Leon's shirt and buries his head in the crook of Chris's neck and breathes in the chill air and faint cigarette smoke and he's still glowing, he can feel it, feel the tingling of sparkles at the tips of his fingers and then Leon's hand slides back into his hair and a wretched noise tears itself from his throat.
Chris inhales sharply. His hand settles firmly on the nape of Ethan's neck. "Hey. Hey, Ethan, can you…can you look at me for a second?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I just—I think I just got overwhelmed, you gotta gimme a second here." He chokes on another damp laugh. "I think I just felt more in the last few minutes than I have in years."
"You're telling me."
"C'mon," Leon says softly, "couch. We should probably stop pinning Ethan to the counter."
"Yeah, what was that about?" Chris's arms loop effortlessly around Ethan and guide him to the couch, keeping a hold on him as the three of them sit. "I didn't interrupt that much, did I?"
Leon winces. "No, I, uh, he asked where you were and I didn't do a great job of explaining it at first."
"What do you mean, didn't do a great job?"
"Chris," Ethan tries but Leon's already answering.
"I, uh, might have implied that you went to Dr. O'Shaughnessy because you thought Ethan was a threat to himself?"
"You what?"
"Whoa, whoa, hey, both of you, knock it off," Ethan says, quickly putting one hand on Chris's shoulder and the other on Leon's hand on his leg, "yeah, Leon said something vague and I overreacted and he had to stop me from doing something stupid—"
"Don't say that, Ethan—"
"That wasn't what happened," they both scold again as Leon continues, "you thought we betrayed your trust and reacted accordingly. I panicked because I didn't want you to run away from me, and then, well…I told you, I'm not a saint."
Chris subsides almost as soon as Ethan's hand touches him—which he will be exploiting once his brain is back between his ears, thank you—reaching up to tangle their fingers together in a way that makes Ethan's head spin. "Can't say I blame you."
"…okay, remember what I said about being patient?" he asks weakly. "I'm not—I haven't—"
"It's okay," Leon reassures, once again wrapping his mutilated hand in his own, pulling it into his lap, "we get it. This is…a lot. For all of us."
Chris makes a noise of agreement, shifting closer to wrap his arms around Ethan from behind, tucking him up against his chest. "Just being able to have this, to touch you like this…it's more than I ever thought I'd be able to have again. I can wait for anything else, Ethan, I swear."
A different sort of swoop in his stomach at the feeling of Chris's muscled arms around him, his words murmured into his temple. "You—you got your shit together incredibly fast."
He nearly swoons at the chuckle inches from his ear. "Well, I finally figured out what I want. Why waste time?"
"And for the record?" Leon rolls his eyes fondly. "He didn't get his shit together fast. Rose and I have been dying over here."
"Rose? Shit, what are we gonna tell Rose?"
"The truth, if you're okay with it. She'll be thrilled," he continues when Ethan looks doubtful, "well, she might threaten Chris's life again—"
"She did what?"
"She'll probably threaten yours too, you know."
"I'd expect nothing less." Leon winks. "Kitten's as protective as her Papa Cat."
Ethan flinches. He can't help it. "Please—please don't call me Papa."
"Okay," Leon says gently, eyes full of concern as Chris tightens his grip, "I won't. I'm sorry."
"You didn't know."
"Can I ask why not?"
He shifts, feeling the remnants of the cold iron and twisted screams. "Heisenberg called me that."
"I see. Yeah, that makes perfect sense."
"Ethan?" He hums. Chris pulls him closer still, until he's almost in the man's lap. "Can I ask—what happened with Heisenberg? One minute I gave you that tank, and then you're calling me saying he's dead, did you…?"
Ethan huffs. "Only if you tell me what you were doing the whole time, because somebody had to kill every single one of the lords and it was not you."
"Damn, Redfield, not pulling your weight?" Leon tsks. "Shame on you."
"I was trying to find Miranda!"
"Yeah, and you couldn't use the goddamn space laser to kill a few assholes while you were doing that?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, space laser? You have a space laser and you withheld it? Fucked up of you, Chris."
Chris sighs, tucking his face into the back of Ethan's neck. "Is this how it's gonna be from now on? You two bullying me?"
"Only if you deserve it," Leon says with absolutely no heat as he winks at Ethan.
There's such a dramatic sigh from behind him that it ruffles Ethan's hair and he can't help it, he laughs. Because this is ridiculous and terrifying and exciting and heart-wrenching and perfect and he might make himself cry again if he's not careful.
It isn't until he trails off that he notices both of them staring at him, spellbound.
"What?"
"Sunshine," Leon murmurs, stroking his hand, "pure sunshine."
"You really are," Chris rumbles, one hand almost possessively over his heart, "and it kills me that you don't seem to know it."
Ethan coughs, shifting slightly, their attention making his head spin. "Well, you guys can help remind me, right?"
"Our pleasure."
"Damn right."
There's a ferocity in Chris's voice that makes him turn, looking up to meet his gaze. Chris meets it, instinctually shifting his grip to help ease Ethan into the new position, tilting his head slightly. His chest flutters.
"Hey, Chris?"
"Yeah, Ethan?"
His courage dies. Right there, in his mouth, on the tip of his tongue. Because there's still a part of him that can't believe this—won't believe it. And Chris sees it. Sees it die, sees Ethan resign himself not to ask, because he's cupping Ethan's jaw in his hand and leaning down.
"Can I kiss you, Ethan?"
"Yes—yes, please—"
The kiss is chaste, barely more than a brief brush of lips, but it sets Ethan on fire. Gold light explodes behind his closed lids and he hears Leon chuckle, pulling away to see the shower of sparkles around them. Embarrassed heat floods his cheeks but Chris just lets out a soft noise, kissing his cheek gently.
"Good, hm?"
"So good."
Chris gets this smug little look on his face and glances at Leon, who's just watching them with a smile of his own. Leon, of course, just raises his eyebrows and shifts, crawling up to loom over the two of them.
"What do you think," he murmurs, "can we do better?"
"We can try," and he barely finishes his sentence before Leon's mouth covers his, just as chaste, slightly more playful and, sure enough, the shower of gold sparks comes again. Leon chuckles into his mouth as he pulls away. "That's so embarrassing."
"It's endearing," Chris corrects gently, "and very rewarding."
"Shut up," he whines, covering his face as they both laugh at him. "God, I'm never gonna live this down, am I?"
"Probably not," comes the gentle rumble in his ear, "but you wanted us patient, we'll be patient. The second you need us to back off, we will."
"Are we being too much right now? Do we need to slow down?"
"I think—just for now?"
"Of course," Chris says and Leon hums in agreement, "can we stay like this, though? Is that okay?"
Ethan nods and Leon settles back to the couch, pulling Ethan's legs into his lap with a wink. "What? Redfield gets to cuddle half, I get to cuddle half, that's fair."
"We can switch in a little bit, though, right?"
"I'm not the one you have to convince, Winters, tell that to the man currently using you as human teddy bear."
"Sorry," Chris says from where his nose is buried in Ethan's hair, "can't hear you, too busy enjoying the sunshine."
"Chris!"
***
Rose comes home, takes one look at him, and promptly turns to Chris and Leon.
"Either of you hurt him again, I'll kill both of you and Mom and Eveline will help me."
"Rose!"
Both of them just nod solemnly. Chris volunteers to dig their graves beforehand and Leon says he'll teach her how to get rid of the gun. Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.
Rose hugs him around the waist and whispers you deserve to be happy too, Dad.
wait okay so Ludmilla’s picture had a ‘dead’ energy, right? Like, ‘N/A.’ No energy, whatsoever. We know that the ‘Straka’ energy is the red energy, and that the other stuff from Zern seems to have the same, but what if Ludmilla is different?
We don’t know the exact timeline, I don’t think, but it does seem like the Queen of Zern showed up…sort of out of the blue. And that the thing that she had the naughtomata do was take out their hearts and carve upon them the symbol of naught.
A zero.
Guys.
Guys what if Ludmilla is tied to the Queen of Zern.
That would explain why that picture was destroyed, it would explain why all of the stuff with Straka is so closely impacting Marya, guys what if this is going to be so fucked up when we get to Zern
Please tell me if you think I’m way off but I really don’t like the weird patterns that are starting to emerge
so i was in the hospital most of last week bc i was sick which was AFTER i had to call the ambulance for my partner bc THEY were too sick
we are both better but i am so tired
so
have this ^_^
Read on Ao3
Warnings: none
Pairings: lethanfield
Word Count: 5832
Chris closes his eyes, relaxing against the pillow. He doesn't know how he managed to trick the universe into letting him get here, but he doesn't want to leave anytime soon.
***
Sometimes Leon finds himself wondering what his life would have been like if he'd met Ethan Winters sooner.
Screw what-ifs. He's here, now, and Ethan's asking him to stay.
***
"Where's my daughter, Chris?"
"Ethan—"
"Where the fuck is my daughter?"
Chris bites back a sigh, leaning his head against the wall behind him. Smoke curls up into the night air. He lifts the cigarette for another drag, embers falling from callused fingertips, breeze chasing the exhale from his lips as if to chastise him for prolonging the habit. He stifles a chuckle at the thought.
Somewhere along the line, he'd accepted that his was not a life of pleasant things. Sure, life occasionally decided to give him a break—which he was thankful for, don't get him wrong—but it was a constant cycle of peace, problem, panic, pain. Rinse, repeat. And this? This domestic bliss that had somehow fallen into his lap? It was proving to be one of the longer interludes, but—
"Chris?"
Chris turns. Ethan blinks at him from the front door, goosebumps already forming on his arms. Before he realizes what he's doing, he drops the cigarette and crushes it under his boot, walking towards him.
"Hey," he says quietly, arms outstretched, "you're gonna be cold if you come out here."
"You're out here," Ethan protests, but only lightly, letting Chris herd the both of them back inside. "How are you still so warm?"
Chris just winks. "Perks of being this big. Got my own heating tank built in."
Ethan chuckles. Then he looks up at Chris with that look. The one Mia used to curse in between sips of wine. The one where Chris swears he can see every thought written across the back of his eyelids and flip through them like one of Rose's old storybooks. He bristles despite himself, because what else is he supposed to do when faced with being flayed apart, but Ethan just reaches up and fits his hands around Chris's jaw.
"Hey," he says, soft as can be.
"Hey."
"Can we go to bed?"
"Y-yeah, yeah, Ethan, we can go to bed. Why're you awake?" He starts walking them towards the stairs. "Did I wake you up?"
"No."
"Nightmares? Is Rose okay?"
Ethan just hums a response, letting Chris shepherd him along the corridor only to stop when they reach Chris's door. He opens it and walks in despite Chris's confused look, turning down the covers like Chris is someone he has to put to bed.
…shit, that's exactly what this is, isn't it?
"Ethan—"
But Ethan doesn't stop. He just finishes turning down the covers, turns off the lamp on Chris's nightstand, and gets into bed, pulling the blanket up over his chest and lying back against the pillow, eyes blinking slowly back at Chris, still standing in the hallway. Then he yawns—that damn yawn with the slight squeak at the end that makes him look, as Leon puts it, like a sleepy kitten.
Chris sighs and makes sure he doesn't smell too much like smoke.
Ethan hums in contentment when Chris slides into bed next to him, arms wrapping around his broad chest as Chris pulls the covers up over both of them. This is hardly the first time they've shared a bed, from nightmares to impromptu sleepovers after movies, but every time Chris's hands still stutter like they're not sure they're allowed this. As though the moment he touches Ethan he'll wake up, mattress cold and chest heavy. Ethan has no such qualms, though, snuggling into Chris's side as though he could fuse the two of them together, breaths warming the space between Chris's collarbones. After a moment, his grip tightens.
"You gonna hug me back anytime soon?"
Chris wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. He buries his nose in Ethan's hair and just breathes, the faint smell of soft rain and fresh plants washing the smoke from where it clings to the inside of his lungs. His chest stutters from the relief of it, a shaky breath leaving his lips as Ethan hums, one of his hands making sweeping strokes up and down Chris's ribs. In its wake, soft golden sparkles drift around them.
Chris closes his eyes, relaxing against the pillow. He doesn't know how he managed to trick the universe into letting him get here, but he doesn't want to leave anytime soon.
***
Sometimes Leon finds himself wondering what his life would have been like if he'd met Ethan Winters sooner.
If he'd have known about the Dulvey incident closer to its occurrence—both he and Grace have wondered what might have happened if he'd been involved in the whole mess to begin with, whether he would have been able to offer some sort of guidance or advice as another relatively normal person suddenly caught up in the world of bio-terrorism.
(Privately, though, he thinks Ethan's underselling what he was able to do in Louisiana. Grace hadn't been a field agent, per se, but she'd still been a trained FBI agent when she'd gone through hell with him in Raccoon City and Dr. Gideon's twisted web. Sooner or later, he'd learn that having the people close to him as experts in digging through bureaucratic bullshit meant that nothing he said would remain unanswered for long, especially one who'd been the adopted daughter of an investigative reporter, because he'd mentioned Ethan and Rose offhandedly to Grace once and by their next phone call, she'd been asking him a million questions about Dulvey, about the mold, and, most importantly: how the fuck Ethan Winters managed to do all of that as a normal fucking person. Leon had told her he'd let her know when he figured it out himself. Hell, even Chris had no idea.)
If he'd actually taken a stand and gotten himself involved when he came across Ethan that day in the BSAA's base, the day Chris fucking punched him in the face and told him he wasn't good enough—he'd had words with Chris about that. Words that could be considered a threat or two—maybe he couldn't have stopped the move to Romania, but Christ, maybe Ethan wouldn't have felt so terribly alone. Or if he'd taken notice of the fact that Chris had basically gone rogue, chased after him and gone what are you doing, let me help, the way Chris and the BSAA had swooped in to help clean everything up after the aftermath of ARK.
Sometimes—when the call of the bottle gets strong again and he forces himself to drink cups of tea instead—he thinks about bigger what-ifs. What if he'd met Ethan after New York, before the whole mess with the ship and the mold to begin with, back before Ethan knew anything about bio-terrorism first-hand and was just…him? If he'd met Ethan while in that depressive haze of self-loathing with nothing but Rebecca's chastisement and Chris's wry dismissals, would he have been enraptured by this man that seemed to be nothing but sunshine? Or, what if he'd met Ethan after Alcatraz, when Mia was missing presumed dead, would he have seen a man grieving the loss of his wife and the world he knew, would he have been able to provide some shoulder to lean on? Some light back into his world?
Or—and this is the one he keeps to himself, buried deep where only the most sleepless of sleepless nights can find it—what about a world where…none of this happened? Where he was a cop in Raccoon City, a normal cop, working with Lt. Branaugh and getting wide-eyed at Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine in the S.T.A.R.S. office, meeting Claire as Chris's sister when she came to the city to visit and bonding with Rebecca over being the rookies. What if he'd met Ethan there? What would that look like? Would they be friends? He likes to think they would.
A pillow smacks him in the face.
"Sorry, sorry!" Rose calls from the other side of the coffee table, trying to smother her laughter. "I was aiming for Chris!"
"If that's what you're gonna call aiming for me, you and I are gonna put in more hours at the range, Rose."
"You moved! That's not my fault!"
"You were throwing something at me, did you expect me not to dodge?"
"It's a pillow!"
Leon shakes his head, picking up the discarded pillow and tossing it back to Rose, who takes it in hand and starts chasing Chris around the room again. Ethan dodges the two of them as they race towards the back door and sits next to Leon on the couch, head on his shoulder.
"Sorry, is this—" Leon wraps his arm around Ethan's shoulders before he has a chance to finish the question.
"Hey," he says quietly, "missed you."
Ethan twists his head around to look up at him, slight smile still on his face. "I haven't gone anywhere."
"I know."
Then Ethan goes quiet. "…did you?"
"Hm?"
"Did you go somewhere?"
Leon huffs, glancing away. "Yeah. I guess I did."
A pause. Then Ethan's arms wrap gently around his waist, his chin planting delicately on his shoulder. "Are you back now?"
And he has to give in to the urge, lifting his hand and running it gently through Ethan's hair, drawing a slow smile across both of their faces. "Yeah. I'm back."
"Good. You should stay for a while."
"As you wish."
Ethan laughs as he cards his hand through his hair again, soft golden sparkles following his fingers. Leon just shakes his head in disbelief.
Screw what-ifs. He's here, now, and Ethan's asking him to stay.
***
"Come on, you can tell me."
Ethan shakes his head, still laughing. "I mean it! I'm telling the truth, Chris, I never did."
"Come on," Chris says again, grinning at him like a man half his age and eager for gossip, "I'm not gonna tell anyone—alright, that's a lie, I'll tell Leon, but look, you've heard that man's sense of humor—"
"It's an excellent sense of humor, thank you very much."
"See? You're both the same, he'll find it funny if you do."
He shakes his head again, going back to cleaning the coffee table. "I'm not not telling you because I think it's embarrassing, I'm telling the truth."
Chris moves the potted plant out of the way so Ethan can wipe under it. "You're telling me you've never had someone use an awful pick-up line on you?"
"Not really, no! The only person I ever seriously dated was Mia, and she wasn't the type for cheesy pick-up lines. Come on, you've met her, do you think that's her style?"
Chris's face contorts into something that makes him snicker.
"See? No, if anything, I'd be the one using awful pick-up lines, but those aren't my style either."
"Uh huh."
"Hey!" He tosses the rag at Chris who just catches it easily out of the air. "I may make dad jokes and puns all the time but I'm not a cheesy pick-up line person. Not as my opener."
If he'd been paying a little bit more attention, he might have seen the glint in Chris's eyes that signaled he's just said something that would end up getting him in trouble.
"So what was it, then?"
"Huh?"
"Your 'opener.'" Chris leans forward, legs spread, elbows on his knees. "What ended up getting you the girl, Winters?"
"Oh, God, no, it wasn't like that. You know the story—one of our mutual friends introduced us at a party. No opener, just—'hi, nice to meet you,' and we ended up talking."
Chris hums, not deterred in the slightest. "And you'd, what, never flirted with anyone before that? Not even at a bar, not at college, never?"
"I'm just gonna disappoint you again—"
"You could never."
Ethan has to pause and swallow. "I was never really the outgoing flirty type. I was the awkward guy who hoped he came off endearing rather than pathetic."
"Don't be so hard on yourself, I'm sure you weren't that bad."
"Hah! You don't even know the half of it. All my friends thought I was hopeless." He shakes his head, a rueful smile coming to his face. "Let's just say I learned to lean into it."
"'Lean into it?'" Ethan shakes his head again. Chris narrows his eyes, and again, Ethan misses the way his mouth curves up into a smirk, before he pushes himself up from the couch. "Show me."
Ethan splutters as Chris tosses the rag back to him. "What?"
"You claim that you're that bad?" Chris picks up his cup of coffee and smirks down at Ethan. "Show me. Put your money where your mouth is. Pretend your friends have just dared you or bet you or whatever it was to come flirt with me. Gimme your worst."
And then Chris winks at him and walks over to the kitchen island, taking a seat like they're at a bar.
Sure.
This is Ethan's life right now.
He looks back down at the rag in his hands, sighs, and puts it on the coffee table. He stands up, feeling every bit as ridiculous as he did every single time his friends made him do this back when the hardest thing in his life was figuring out how to tell the bartender he just wanted a club soda, and looks at Chris's back. He's giving Ethan a lot of grace here, letting him psych himself up, patiently drinking his coffee like he hasn't set up this insane challenge for—what, exactly, Ethan's not sure.
Ethan sighs. Only way out is through.
He shouldn't be this nervous, he thinks as he crosses the living room, this is just Chris. Chris, who's already seen him at his worst and let him stay anyway, who pulled him into a hug this morning, who brushed a kiss to his temple and shooed him out of the kitchen so he could make coffee.
But there's a cocktail of nerves and excitement fluttering in his stomach as he hears the phantom sounds of a packed bar and imagines Chris, leather jacket and all, drink in his hand instead of a mug of coffee, and what the hell inspired him to try and flirt with someone so obviously out of his league.
This in mind, he awkwardly walks up and hovers at Chris's elbow.
"Hey, uh, excuse me?"
Chris hums but doesn't look at him. Ethan swallows, sweat already gathering on the back of his neck.
"My friends bet me $20 I couldn't get your number. If you give me a fake one, I'll split it with you."
For a second, Chris doesn't say anything. Then he glances at Ethan out of the corner of his eye. The silence hangs for another second, then another, and at this point Ethan's just hoping that he'll huff and say that Ethan really is hopeless instead of actually rejecting him because Ethan's not ready to hear something like that even in jest right now, and then he sees it. Right as Chris raises his coffee as though it's some drink at a bar, he sees it.
A smirk.
"$20, huh?" He sets the drink down on the island and turns, slow and easy, to look up at Ethan, reclining back in the barstool. One leg stretches out to rest just outside of Ethan's feet, creating just enough of a barrier that he can't run away easily. "And it might look suspicious if I just give it to you right away, hm?"
Ethan swallows. Chris is…looking at him. This wasn't supposed to happen. Chris was supposed to laugh at how hopeless Ethan was and Ethan was supposed to hit him with the rag that wasn't in his hand anymore and then go back to cleaning the coffee table. Chris wasn't supposed to lean back like that on the stool and Ethan definitely wasn't supposed to be caught looking at Chris like—
A gentle tap to his ankle makes him jump. "I asked you a question, sweetheart."
"S-sorry!" He's blushing. He knows he's blushing—fuck, 'sweetheart?'— "u-um, yeah, yes, you're right, it'd probably be, uh, a bit suspicious."
Chris hums, tilting his head. "So we should probably put on a bit of a performance for them, hm?"
"Uh, performance?"
"Make 'em believe it, yeah? 'Cause if they don't, then they've gotta ask for the $20 back and then you've gotta come get $10 back from me and I'd hate to make you do something like that, so…" Chris reaches out, two fingers trailing down Ethan's arm under the guise of getting a wrinkle out of his sleeve, only wrap around his hand—his ruined hand, but all he can feel is the warmth of Chris's touch and the weight of that look— "let's see what we can do."
And before Ethan can do or say anything, there are warm breath and rough calluses against his mangled skin and Chris is kissing his hand, eyes still fixed on his face. His stomach drops and flips like he's drunk, something slow and sticky and sweet coursing through his veins as Chris's beard scratches lightly over his knuckles, a low hum of satisfaction leaving his lips.
"U-uh-um—uh—"
"Mm?" He tilts his head, something teasing in his eyes. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"
"What are—what are you doing?"
"I told you, 'm making it believable." He doesn't pull back, at all, so his lips are still brushing Ethan's knuckles, his thumb idly stroking across his fingers. "You want that $20, don't you?"
"So you kiss my hand?"
He wants to jam the words back in his mouth when Chris hums, pulling away slightly, still holding onto him, thank God—"Forgive me, sweetheart, I'm a little old fashioned. But you're right, people don't really do that anymore, do they?"
"I-I mean—"
He cuts himself off when Chris stands up. He's seen Chris stand up before—he stood up not five minutes ago. He stood next to Ethan this morning. But he's never seen Chris stand up like this, all easy grace and deliberate movement, eyes still fixed on Ethan's face, hand still holding his like Ethan's precious, feet planted like he's on a mission. And then he's leaning, close enough that Ethan can smell the coffee on his breath and the aftershave he uses and he's kissing Ethan's cheek now so Ethan either has to stare at his shoulder or down at their hands still wrapped together and he knows his face is burning and his heart hammering in his chest and he has half a mind to ask if his hand is shaking as much as he thinks it is—
Chris's breath curls around his ear, voice dropping low. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
Right. Right. Ethan swallows through a dry throat. "E-Ethan."
"Ethan," Chris rumbles like he didn't know his name, and maybe he didn't because he's never said Ethan's name like that before, "'ve got a question for you, Ethan: how badly do you want that $20 right now?"
"H-huh?"
"'Cause if I have my way, you're not gonna be able to collect it for at least another day."
Little shocks of want race through Ethan's body, the sticky-sweetness in his blood popping and fizzing. He swallows and lets out a shaky breath. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah," Chris says, "so you've got two choices: either you can reach into your pocket, pull out your phone, put it in my hand and I'll give you my number—my real number, sweetheart, 'cause I'm not letting you go that easy—"
Oh, God. Ethan's glad he's leaning against the island already.
"—or," and somehow Chris's voice gets lower, his nose brushing the curve of Ethan's ear, "you turn that pretty face of yours and let me really show you how I kiss and I'll put my number in your phone myself after breakfast tomorrow."
Ethan's gone. He's forgotten whatever the fuck this charade was supposed to be, he's forgotten that this was supposed to be him showing Chris how hopeless he was at flirting, he's forgotten this is Chris, except he can't forget this is Chris—not when all he can feel is Chris's hand wrapped around his, Chris's warmth buzzing in the scant distance between their chests, their hips, their legs, Chris's damn voice in his ear full of dark promise and want and—and—
He turns his head with a shaky k-kiss me and Chris's lips are on his.
Despite everything, the kiss is soft, almost sweet. Chris's other hand settles gently on his jaw, angling his head so he can slot their mouths together, noses pressed side to side. Ethan just lets him, helpless, until Chris's tongue swipes curiously against his lips and he gasps, a familiar golden light bursting behind his closed lids. At the sound, Chris lets the kiss break, rubbing their noses together, so soft with him.
"Dunno what you were talking about, Winters," he murmurs, "that didn't seem hopeless to me."
"In here," comes his voice from behind his closed door which—alright, that's on Ethan, he probably should've guessed that. He shakes his head and knocks on the door. "Ye—you can come in, Ethan, I know it's you."
"Sorry." He shoulders open the door, still sorting through the laundry basket. "I think I got everything, though I didn't see my shirt with the green and the mountains on the back, have you…"
He trails off as he looks up because of two things. One, he can see that shirt in Leon's hand, though how it got there is a mystery because that's Ethan's shirt and it should not be anywhere near Leon's room, thank you very much. Two, Leon is currently holding said shirt because he is not wearing said shirt.
Or any shirt.
At all.
"U-uh—"
Leon laughs at him. Like, actually has the audacity to chuckle at him. "Everything okay?"
"That's my shirt," Ethan says dumbly, trying to focus on that and not the fact that Leon is currently shirtless in his room—which he has a right to be! Ethan's not trying to say that! He's in his own room, he's allowed to not have a shirt on!— "uh, why do you have my shirt?"
Leon scratches the back of his head, which doesn't help because now Ethan's eyes are following the movement and—focus, Ethan! "Would you believe me if I said I got it mixed in with mine?"
"Considering I'm the one who normally does the laundry and definitely did the laundry this time, where I washed that shirt specifically? Probably not."
He holds his hands up in surrender and walks closer, holding out the shirt like an offering. Ethan just blinks at his face—just look at his face, just look at his face—and Leon drops it into the basket.
"Oops?"
"I'm pretty 'oops' is for mistakes, not things you do on purpose," Ethan mutters, pushing past him to start putting Leon's clean shirts—his shirts, not Ethan's, thank you very much—on his dresser. "Wait, does this mean you steal my shirts on purpose?"
"…maybe?" He feels more than hears Leon coming up behind him, reaching over to grab one of the shirts—and not put it on, no, that would be normal, instead he puts it in the dresser. Which…is also pretty normal. "I really didn't do it on purpose the first few times, I just grabbed the ones that looked like mine out of the dryer and then realized when I put them on that they were too small."
"And you didn't immediately go back and get the right shirt?"
"They smell like you."
Ethan's hands stutter on the basket at the matter-of-fact tone. "They what?"
"They smell like you."
"How could they smell like me if they've just been washed?"
Leon's elbow bumps his affectionately. "You're the one doing the laundry, Ethan."
"I don't think that's how it works." Leon just hums. Ethan sighs. "I mean, I guess it could be worse. You may stretch them out like crazy but at least you're not Chris."
"Whoa, hold on, what's that mean?"
Ethan rolls his eyes, picking up his shirt, thank you very much, and putting it back in the basket with the rest of his clean laundry. "Oh, come on. That man's built like a tank. I don't think my shirt would even fit him at all."
He looks up to see Leon—no, no way. Leon S. Kennedy is not pouting at him right now.
"You've seen Chris! What's the face for? I probably weigh as much as a bag of grapes to him." He picks up the basket and starts to walk out of Leon's room. When Leon still doesn't say anything, he glances over his shoulder, stopping when he sees Leon staring at him. "What?"
Leon looks at him for a moment longer, then sighs and shakes his head. "I thought we talked about this, Winters."
"Talked about what?"
Leon doesn't say another word. He just walks slowly across the room until he's standing right in front of Ethan, takes the laundry basket, and tosses it on the bed.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Ethan wonders if it's too late to run away.
"L-Leon—"
Leon grabs his outstretched arm and pulls him back inside. Ethan stumbles. Leon pushes his head down—gently!—and then there's a grip around his waist and he's being lifted and there are hands on his back and he has no idea how it happened but he's now sitting on Leon's shoulders.
His brain shorts out.
Forget a bag of grapes, Leon's holding him like he weighs nothing. Strong hands grip his hips, biceps forming an unshakeable bridge to his shoulders with Ethan's thighs resting atop, warm skin pressed against too-thin denim. Leon just smirks up at him from between his legs like this is easy. Which it probably is because he's suddenly getting flashes of every time Leon pinned him against the counter or the floor or something like he didn't weigh anything and—
And Ethan needs to start thinking about anything other than Leon's head right there before this becomes a problem.
"What's the matter, Winters," comes Leon's voice, just slightly rough from exertion and Ethan needs him to stop talking, "something wrong?"
Ethan's shaking. He knows he is. He's probably trembling like a leaf and Leon just tightens his hold and an embarrassing combination of a whimper and a moan squeaks out from between his lips. His head brushes the ceiling and he flails a hand up to steady himself even though he knows it probably won't do anything. It doesn't. Leon chuckles and he can feel the rumble of it.
Anything else. Anything else. Think about literally anything else.
"H-how do I get down?"
"Like this," Leon says, and fucking bounces him off his shoulders, catches him by the ribs, Ethan's knees hooked over Leon's elbows, and then a slight crouch to set him back on the floor and this bastard has the nerve to chuckle at him again when Ethan all but falls onto the bed in a daze. Because what the fuck?
"What the fuck?"
Leon laughs—again, the bastard, and saunters over, bracing one hand on either side of him so their faces are close. The bed dips from the weight. He leans closer, closer, closer, then puts his nose to the crook of Ethan's neck and breathes in deeply. His shoulders relax and his exhale makes Ethan shiver. When he pulls back to look Ethan in the face again, his expression is softer.
"I'm sorry I keep stealing your shirts," he murmurs, kissing him gently, "will you forgive me?"
Ethan swallows. "Are you…gonna keep doing it?"
He kisses him again. "Probably."
"Then why should I forgive you?"
"Because every time I steal one of yours, that means you get to steal one of mine."
There's a pause.
Then Ethan fumbles blindly for the laundry basket and pushes his shirt into Leon's hand, golden sparkles trailing in his wake. Leon smiles.
"That's what I thought."
***
"I mean, I just think it's unrealistic."
"You live in the same world I live in, what the fuck do you mean, that's unrealistic?"
"I just think it's not that feasible!"
"Oh, the way an army of drones carrying programmable T-virus is not that feasible? The way a mutated Megalodon under Alcatraz isn't that feasible? The way people choosing to infect themselves with Las Plagas to control Lickers is not that feasible?"
"Okay, well—"
"No! You don't get to sit there and tell me robots that can perfectly mirror human fighting stances isn't that feasible when you've basically seen it!"
"I have not! I would remember fighting giant robots being controlled by shadow boxers! I just remember the stupid Tyrants!"
"What are Tyrants, again?" Ethan asks from the kitchen, interrupting Leon and Chris's argument over the movie playing in the background.
"They're the giant bioweapons that wear trenchcoats and bad hats."
"Right."
Chris muffles a snort. "That's the best description of those fucking things I've ever heard."
"Terrible fashion sense, terrible timing…" Leon shakes his head. "Terrible habit of not fucking dying."
Ethan huffs a laugh. "Yeah, I can see how that would get annoying."
"Not you, Ethan!"
"You don't count! You not dying is great!"
Ethan laughs, turning the stove down and grabbing a spoon. "I'm just messing with you. What's so unfeasible about these robots? Is it just that they can mirror a human's movements?"
"It's the fact that it's supposed to be able to do this in the middle of a fight where there's no consistent sight lines or any sort of recalibration whatsoever. They just established that the robot's broken anyway, and it's not like—"
"Okay, but isn't that, like, the point? That it's able to do that?"
"Apparently not. It's a rare feature." Leon reaches over and lightly punches Chris's shoulder. "He's just upset that he thinks it's cool when odds are he's gonna have to—"
"I never said anything about not wanting to admit it was cool. I think it's badass as hell. But it's not that realistic."
"Again, I feel like I'm making the same point here, but—"
"That stuff's real here. All that bullshit exists here. You know what doesn't exist here?"
Leon rolls his eyes. "God, did you have this reaction to Pacific Rim too or what?"
"No. That rules. Put me in a Jaeger any day."
"That's what I'm talking about, Redfield! Why is it so easy for you to believe in that level of technology when—"
"Because aliens exist in that world! There's a rift at the bottom of the ocean and monsters are coming through it! But this movie doesn't have anything like that, it's just normal people and normal robots."
Ethan chuckles. "Yeah, what good is a normal person gonna do?"
"Now look what you did, Chris—"
"Ethan—"
"I'm still just messing with you, I swear." Chris pouts at him from the couch and he tosses him a can of soda in apology. "Keep telling me about the robots."
"You could come watch it with us, Ethan."
"Nah, I'm okay. I gotta finish up over here."
Leon pops another gummy into his mouth, ignoring Chris's disgusted look. "I'm just saying: given the system requirements needed to make half of these bots functional or even half the time they show us, the idea of a shadow boxing protocol? Not that unrealistic."
"But for it to still be working? After all this bullshit? You have way more faith in electronics than you should."
"Spoken like someone who hasn't had to jury-rig shit on mission before."
"Hey, I don't lose my guns, Kennedy."
"I don't lose them on purpose! Giant mutant alligators eat them and then I have to run away from chainsaws."
"What is it with you and chainsaws?"
"Ask the zombies! They're the ones who keep picking them up and chasing me with them!"
"Sure, but how often do you actually see chainsaws just lying around? It's not like you're getting sent to lumber yards or whatnot, you're normally in like, cities. Or at least places that have some semblance of paved roads."
"I also get sent to places that are either under construction or, uh, deconstruction."
"I don't think you get to call them 'under deconstruction' if that deconstruction doesn't start until you show up and start blowing stuff up."
"Hey! I can hardly be blamed for blowing stuff up—"
"Sure, Kennedy, sure—"
"—when half the time I'm not doing the stuff that causes the explosions!" Chris makes a noise of disbelief. "Oh, okay, you're one to talk, Mr. BSAA."
"Now what the hell does that mean?"
"I'm normally doing my missions solo. There's only so much havoc I can cause by myself."
"I don't think the better part of the US government would agree with you there."
"I'm not flying helicopters that carry weapons capable of doing billions of dollars of real estate damage in New York City!"
"No, you're just flinging motorcycles off of skyscrapers."
"And you know what, you're welcome for that."
"Laugh it up, Kennedy, that helicopter saved your ass and you know it."
"That missile also saved our asses, it just also blew up a whole bunch of—" Chris takes a throw pillow and smacks him with it. "Hey, hey! Ethan, back me up here!"
Silence.
"Ethan?" Chris puts the pillow down, turning to look at the kitchen. "Ethan?"
Ethan isn't moving. He stands with his back to them. Something next to his elbow is smoking.
Leon muffles a curse and gets up, jogging to the kitchen to turn the stove off and move the pan off the heat. "Ethan? Hey, talk to us, buddy, what's going on?"
Ethan's face is blank. Terribly blank. He's staring at nothing. He's staring into nothing. Chris comes up behind them, exchanging a worried look with Leon before he's carefully shaking Ethan's shoulder.
"Ethan? What's wrong?"
"Rose."
Another worried look. "What?"
"Rose."
"Rose isn't here," Leon says quietly, "Mia's picking her up from school today, remember? Mia has Rose."
"Rose."
Chris's hand goes to his pocket, intent on calling Mia to put Rose on so Ethan can hear his daughter's voice, when his phone rings.
The kitchen gets cold.
Ethan still doesn't so much as blink as Chris answers the phone, holding it up to his ear.
"Addison? What's going on? Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down—what do you mean? Attacked? Who—you're—what? Where's—what happened? What does that mean? Are you—what's—"
Leon watches the color drain from Chris's face. He grabs Ethan's shoulder and pulls him closer, eyes fixed on Chris's expression. "Chris? What's going on?"
"We'll be there as soon as we can," Chris says, voice still firm but shaken, "get yourself to a medic, okay? Okay. Bye."
His hands don't shake as they hang up the phone but his jaw clenches.
"Chris," Leon says firmly, "talk to us. What's happening?"
Chris swallows. "There's been an attack on the base. Three dead. Several more wounded."
"What did they want?"
Chris doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at Ethan.
Slowly, Ethan's head turns. He stares right at Chris.
His eyes are cold.
"Where's my daughter, Chris?"
"Ethan—"
"Where the fuck is my daughter?"
(also for those of you wondering: this is what Leon does ^_^ )
i think because virgil is always vigilant (har har) of his surroundings and he grew up around janus he knows how to eavesdrop really well. well, what if he overhears remus comforting roman and all the conversations regarding roman's insecurities and thus resolves to do small things to show roman he's loved and that his opinion is valued. – anon
Read on Ao3
Warnings: none
Pairings: prinxiety (can be platonic or romantic you decide)
Word Count: 1434
Look, okay, if you grew up with the embodiment of Deceit as the closest thing you had to a parental figure, you would also be very good at listening for hidden secrets whispered in the middle of the night. Let alone have your psuedo-brother trying to put bear traps where he thinks you'll step into them.
The point is that Virgil knows how to listen, okay? He knows how to fold himself in the shadows just enough that most people's eyes will just glaze over him and he can listen to whatever they don't want him to hear. Came in handy when he was younger, trying to avoid the traps Remus would set up in the bathroom or the way Janus didn't want him to know exactly what it was they were having for dinner tonight. Came in even more handy when he was trying to pull pranks on them to get them back for all the shit they put him through and he just needed to know when they'd be out of this corner of the hall specifically and, well, to hear the screams and yelps of shock when oops, did something happen?
It's a very useful talent, one he hasn't ever wanted to give up, even when he started hanging around the Light Sides a bit more. It was easy, at first, to place himself just so in order to startle Patton when he came down into the kitchen, or to catch the worst of Logan's mutterings just to point out a very obvious flaw in his reasoning and scare the crap out of him at the same time. And very few things were as satisfying as getting the MIndscape's oh-so-perfect prince to leap out of his skin when Virgil's grinning face would loom out of the darkness.
(Later, he'd reflect on how much that must have reminded Roman of Remus and think it was doubly cruel, to scare him and remind him of the brother he'd lost.)
But then everything started to settle down a little bit more and he didn't have to use it so often anymore. He didn't have to secretly listen to find out if they hated him, he didn't have to haunt the halls just waiting for someone to drop an interesting conversation he couldn't be a part of, he could just…be there. He could sit on the couch next to Logan and listen to him ramble. He could be in the kitchen when Patton got there and get playfully scolded for whether or not he actually got any real sleep last night. He could—well, it was still fun to startle Roman every once in a while, but he swears he wasn't doing it on purpose.
Then Remus and Janus started to come around more often too and then he was in trouble, because they knew how to read the silence in the room and figure out there was another set of ears and eyes paying attention. He's never going to forget the time that Janus, without so much as taking a breath in his conversation with Logan, reached behind the couch and pulled out Virgil by the scruff of his neck like a raccoon that crawled in through the window. Or Patton's face when he caught Remus stalking about with a net and asked him just what he thought he was doing—which was Patton for you knock that shit off right now—and Remus just cackled and swung the net and dragged Virgil out from the shadows. It wasn't even like he was doing it on purpose the entire time either, he just…did it!
Which is why he says he really didn't mean to when he overheard Roman and Remus that night.
He'd just been walking to the kitchen for a snack, he swears. But then he heard someone sniffle and he'd stopped on instinct, tucking himself into the shadows of the upper halls.
"That's not true, Roro, you know it's not true," Remus's voice drifts up from the living room, "I know you do."
"I know that, somewhere," and Virgil's chest clenches at how young Roman sounds, "b-but I—"
"Oh, come here, Roro." Fabric shuffles. "Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay, I'm not mad at you."
"This is so fucking stupid."
It always hurts to hear Roman swear when he gets upset. That never changes.
"It's not stupid, Roro, I swear. You've been taught to think things over the course of your time with them and it's not your fault that sometimes they don't remember or realize how cruel they've been to you."
"They need me, Re, they can't just get rid of me."
"No one's trying to get rid of you, Ro, I swear. They just—they just don't realize that they're being so mean to you."
"But they have to know it hurts when they treat me like that, but they don't care. I've tried to tell them that it hurts but L-Logan said—"
"What did Logan say?"
"He s-said that any artist should expect cri-cri-criticism and that I was just—was just not used to it yet but that's not true and I don't know how to tell them that—"
"Shh, shh-shh, it's okay, Roro, I believe you. Hey, hey, you're right and Logan's wrong about this, okay? There's helpful criticism and unhelpful criticism and it's up to you to decide which is which. No, no, don't shake your head, you know the others keep forgetting that whatever we make is for us, right?" A sniffle as Roman must nod. "Then you know it's up to us to decide what we want out of it, yeah?"
"But they don't care what I want, they never care about what I want. I'm their stupid little dancing monkey that churns out—"
"Now I'm gonna stop you right there. You're not anyone's dancing monkey, you're my goddamn brother. You are Creativity, you are Hopes and Dreams, you are Passion and you are just as much a Side as anyone else here. You are fucking incredible at what you do and if they're too stupid to realize it, then that is their fault and not yours."
A pause. A longer pause. Then another sniffle.
"I love you, Re."
"I love you too, Roro, so much."
Virgil had slunk away that night and clutched a pillow to try and calm himself.
Roman…oh, Roman. What had they done to him?
So maybe Virgil starts paying attention to Roman a little bit more in the meetings. Maybe he starts asking Roman what he thinks about the thing he made because that's literally his job, L, he probably knows what he's doing, right? Maybe he starts kicking Janus in the shin when Janus is being a jerk to Roman for no reason because it wasn't fun when you did it to me, I know it's not fun for Roman either. Maybe he starts asking Roman to talk though what his thought process was behind certain things and decisions he made because hey, he knows better than anyone that there's a madness to the method sometimes.
Maybe Remus corners him after he makes a point to have Logan ask what sort of feedback Roman is looking for before just launching whole hog into his criticism. Maybe Virgil stammers out that he didn't mean to overhear them but he couldn't help himself because Roman was crying and he just wanted to help, Remus, I swear. Maybe Remus crushes him in a tight hug and drags him into the Imagination to see what he was talking about when he said Roman was damn good at his job. Maybe Remus starts helping him in the meetings too, grinning a little too wide when someone tries to talk over Roman and looming between both of them lest someone try something on his watch.
Maybe Roman comes up to him and shyly—shyly, like a blushing maid instead of the prince he is, like Virgil is anything special to talk to—asks to sit next to him at movie night. Maybe Virgil grins and says he'd like nothing more.
And maybe Virgil doesn't hear any of the whispered conversations that happen during that movie night because he's too focused on the feeling of Roman's shoulder pressed against his.
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Look. Roman is…useful. He is quick-witted—certainly compared to the rest of the people in their classes—reliable when it comes to completing things on time, and diligent enough to circumvent the usual checking Logan has to do when someone comes up with something. He’s enough of a distraction from whatever the hell everyone else seems to be coming up with to actually make class worth attending. That and Logan can’t bear the thought of letting him think he’s beating him.
God forbid.
And it’s not as if Roman is actually dangerous. He can be academically challenging to face and he can pack a punch, but he’s not going to hurt Logan. He probably couldn’t if he tried.
…okay yes, maybe, he probably could, but he wouldn’t.
Anyway the point is there is no reason for him to be setting off all these alarms.
There’s no reason for Logan to see Roman coming around the corner and his chest to tighten like that. There’s no reason for him to start speaking during class and Logan's throat jumps. There’s no reason for him to approach Logan after class and it makes his hands start to sweat a little. His hands don’t even sweat anymore during debates, there’s no reason for all these alarms to be going off.
And yet, as they walk down the corridor to go check out the new thing in the whatever lab, Logan has to jam his hands in his pockets and pretend it’s just the heat that’s making them sweat.
“I think the update’s already covered the box fixes,” Roman is prattling on next to him, “but I haven’t had a chance to check it out yet. I’m worried that the way it’s adjusted the UI is going to make learning a little more difficult, but I—“
“Oh, for the love of god,” Logan grumbles as they pass a horde of other students, “can you hold it in for five minutes? I've just had to listen to you for the entirety of the past hour.”
As soon as it comes out of his mouth, part of him winces. That…may have come out harsher than intended. Roman doesn’t seem to notice, grinning like a lunatic and shaking his head.
“I held this in all class, dude, it’s coming out now.”
“Then aim it that way.” Logan points over his other shoulder. “Don’t point that babble at me.”
Roman sticks his tongue out at him. “You’re no fun.”
“Put that tongue back in your mouth, you uncivilized heathen.”
Roman giggles, his tongue between his teeth.
“Put it the other way.”
“Nope! You can deal with it.”
“I’m not dealing with your tongue right now, I have to deal with it enough during class.”
“See? You are excited!”
“Where in the hell did you get that idea, I’m just—“
Roman raises his eyebrow when Logan cuts himself off. “What? You’re just what?”
“Just coming with you so you’ll leave me alone,” Logan stammers, jamming his hands further into his pockets and striding off to the lab, “hurry up, I want to get this over with.”
Roman brushes up against Logan's shoulder and without thinking, he grabs his arm and pulls him closer.
“Can’t have you getting clumsy,” Logan mumbles as Roman leans into the touch.
“Thank you. I, um…am not the most balanced of people.”
Logan snorts. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Hey!”
“No, no, tell me again how sure you are that they moved the wall just to make you angry?”
“I measured it! It’s closer than it was!”
“Mhm, sure, and how exactly did they rearrange the building to make sure it was just you they were pissing off?”
“Magic.”
“If you can come up with a half-way feasible explanation involving magic, I’ll…”
Logan trails off, not exactly sure what to offer Roman but damn sure it isn’t what his brain just suggested.
I’ll never be mean to you again. I’ll take you out for coffee. I’ll do your homework for next class.
See? Alarming.
Oblivious to Logan's distress, Roman bounces into the computer lab and plonks himself down in front of one, swinging his bag to the side and typing his information faster than they can blink. Logan shakes his head and logs in as well, making sure the lab monitor isn’t paying too much attention—not that they ever are—and nudging Roman’s water bottle out of the way.
“Do you feel the need to spread your things absolutely everywhere or it is just a natural consequence of Hurricane Roman?”
“I’m no hurricane.”
“I’ve seen the state of your desk, you most definitely are.”
“No, no, I am a tornado,” he says, almost regally, “wildly out of control, the product of a warm front and a cold front, and capable of reaching speeds from 45 miles an hour to 318 miles an hour. But there is definitely no water nor magical calm spot for a soliloquy song in the middle of me.”
Logan snorts despite himself. “Yes, there is no chill anywhere in you at all.”
“As the resident expert in no-chill, you’d know best.”
He swats half-heartedly at Roman's shoulder as they log in. Logan spins a pen idly in one hand, glancing at Roman out of the corner of his eye. He’s got a lock of his hair in his hands, frowning sightly at the ends as he twists it between his fingers. He looks so absorbed in his own little world, scowling like it’s offended him personally when it refuses to do what he wants.
Logan catches sight of his mouth curling up into a smile and quickly turns away.
Stupid Roman. Setting off all of his stupid alarms and making him think his face is cute.
He’s not cute.
Roman isn’t cute.
He isn’t.
In fact, it’s almost astounding how cute he isn’t. It’s incredible. Logan can't help but stare at him sometimes and just marvel at how not cute he is. It’s endearing how cute he isn’t. So endearing that he wants to tell him sometimes, that he’s not cute, he’s not endearing, and it’s almost cute how hard he tries to be cute even though he’s not trying at all, that’s just how he is. It’s cute.
No! No. No.
Roman’s not cute.
Not at all.
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so let's address the elephant in the room first: Resident Evil 9 | Requiem is OUT and it is INCREDIBLE and i need everyone to go play it or go watch Jacksepticeye's playthrough of it before reading this fic pls and thank u
(/j you don't have to but there are some things i reference that are spoilers for the game so read at your own risk)
i'm being real hand wavy with the timeline of this series but basically rose ages a little faster bc of mold reasons so i'm imagining this is like...soon-ish after re9??? not like 9 years the way the official timeline has it. so chris and leon are still in their 50s (ish??) and then ethan is like 30s-40s (again ish) and then rose is around like 16 but mold years go ????
let these old men have their bioweapon bf and daughter jfc
ANYWAY here we go next big plot point coming ^_^ (fuck that means i gotta actually plan it more than just vague ideas uggggggghhhhh eh i'll figure something out)
ONE LAST THING and then i swear i'll let y'all get on with things: would anyone be interested in other re fics that aren't a part of this series?? either like canon stuff or other aus?? let me know
Read on Ao3
Warnings: none
Pairings: lethanfield
Word Count: 7448
Mia Winters did not become who she is today without a lot of things to regret.
***
While Ethan, Rose, Chris, and Leon live their lives as best they can, someone is following Mia Winters.
Mia Winters did not become who she is today without a lot of things to regret.
Joining a bio-terrorist organization. Lying to her husband for years. Choosing to get married for her cover story and picking Ethan Winters. Going on that one last mission with Eveline. Letting Eveline take such a hold over her. Cutting off Ethan's hand when he came to rescue her. Giving up Rose. Giving up her life over and over again only to end up alone with another fake smile on her face.
Did she regret all of those things? Not always, not all the time. But hers is not a story of happy endings, and she knows it.
She drags a paintbrush across her sketchbook in the middle of the night and then later that day laughs with coworkers over a stupid management decision. She talks her sobbing daughter out of another horrible nightmare and argues with a customer over the same phone, hours apart. She goes to dinner with the man who used to be her husband, their daughter, and the two highly trained agents sworn to kill things like them and they're happy—all three of them are happy—and she comes home and screams into her pillow.
There is no moving back. There is only moving forward.
Rose lights up when they meet up for their visits, babbling about school and everything and insisting they go shopping because she needs new jeans and no one else gets how annoying it is to try and buy new jeans. Chris helps her carry her new furniture upstairs when the moving company refuses to try without the elevator, grumbling about their lack of professionalism with her as they put it together. Even Leon, who she's never fully met, not properly, tosses her a bag of gummy candy the next time she's over for dinner because she's the only one who appreciates my taste in candy.
And Ethan…Ethan still smiles at her like that sometimes.
It's not often. He smiles at Rose like that. At Chris like that. At Leon like that. And sometimes that twists into her gut with all her other regrets and eats away at her like Eveline did until she can pull herself back out. He loves her, in some way, still, after everything, and she loves him in some way, still, after all of it. She realized he was right—"Mia, it's no use."—because he was always right when it came to stuff like them, the soft domestic side that she was never that good at, despite her masquerade as a babysitter, and bought a bottle of his favorite wine just to spite the memory of it.
She doesn't regret loving him. She doesn't think she ever could. No one regrets loving Ethan Winters, despite whatever it is he might believe.
She told Chris that when he and Leon dropped her back off after that first dinner.
"No one regrets loving Ethan," she'd said, staring at the only other person with an equal responsibility for getting her husband killed, "but don't make him regret loving you."
"He won't," Chris had replied, broken in a way that only she could understand, "that's not who he is."
"Chris."
He'd looked up at her. She'd stared back at him. Then he'd nodded, slow and solemn, and that twist in her cut coiled and relaxed in one breath. Then she'd looked at Leon and seen the same eyes that had been on the other side of that glass when they had that first horrible meeting. And she'd known. Of course she'd known. She'd married Ethan Winters, she knew what it looked like to be in love with him, because her eyes had never looked like that, not even in their wedding photos.
They could love Ethan the way she couldn't. And she couldn't bring herself to regret it.
***
"Ethan?"
Ethan looks up just as Chris drops onto the couch next to him, one arm around his shoulders, the other holding a glass of water. He sighs, letting his head rest against Chris. "Mm?"
"You've been glaring at the screen for close to an hour." His voice rumbles against Ethan's cheek. "Maybe it's time for a break."
"If I take a break now, it's not gonna get done today."
"Does it have to get done today?"
"It should."
"Mm, that's not a 'yes.'"
"Wait—no—" he fumbles after his laptop as Chris saves his work and takes it from his lap— "Chris…"
"You're getting all foggy-eyed again," Chris says as he puts his laptop on the coffee table, replacing it with the glass of water, "you're done for the day."
Ethan opens his mouth to retort, but he tries to have a sip of water first but then his body remembers that it hasn't had water in many hours and suddenly he's trying to chug the whole glass without stopping. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Chris with an expression somewhere between smug and bewildered and he doesn't hesitate to glare when the glass is empty.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"Just don't."
Chris raises his hands in surrender. Ethan stares at him for a few more seconds before letting himself slump back against the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose with a groan.
"Headache?"
"No."
"You sure? 'Cause that's the face you make when you've got a headache."
"If you think I have a headache, shouldn't you not be talking so loud?"
Chris just chuckles and takes the empty glass from his hand, replacing it with a bottle that rattles when Ethan sits up. He opens his eyes and blinks at the painkillers.
"Huh?"
"Headache." Chris nudges him. "Take two."
Ethan, stunned, does as he's told. Chris replaces the bottle with another glass of water—when did he have time to go get that?—and then puts a hand on the back of Ethan's neck and—oh.
"Wha…?"
"Shh," Chris murmurs, somehow knowing exactly how to massage out a stress headache, "just lean your head forward, I got you."
"H-how're you so—so good at this?"
"You think you're the only one who's ever had to do so much goddamn paperwork you get a headache?" His thumb presses a sore spot the side of his neck and an embarrassing groan leaves Ethan's lips. "Used to trade these to get people to do my paperwork."
"What—oh, left, left—yeah, there, please, that hurts—what do I owe you?"
"Not a damn thing." A hand wraps around one of his as Chris works on a stubborn knot at the base of his skull. "You get them for free."
He's not ashamed to say he loses track of time a little bit, there on the couch with Chris working patiently at the ball of stress at the back of his head. He registers at some point that he's drifted to the side, his head resting against the dip in Chris's chest, his cheek slightly smushed, his eyes closed, Chris taking his weight like it's nothing—which, honestly, it might be. When the pain abates enough that he can open his eyes again, he cranes his neck to look up at Chris.
"Hey," Chris rumbles, hand moving to tangle in his hair, "you feel better?"
"Mm. Mhm."
"You look tired."
"Mhm."
"You wanna lie down? Have a nap?"
"Mm."
He laughs. "You gonna say anything that sounds like words, or no?"
Ethan just hums again, half expected to be picked up like a sack of potatoes and hauled upstairs to his room, only for Chris to wrap his other arm around his waist and lay down, Ethan atop his chest. He opens his mouth to protest but then the hand in his hair starts scratching lightly at his scalp, the other slung across his back like a heating pad, and the steady ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump of Chris's heartbeat under his ear makes talking impossible.
"Go to sleep, Ethan," Chris says softly, "I'll wake you up in a little bit."
"…'ris?"
"Yeah?"
"You…g'nna stay?"
"Yeah, Ethan, I'm gonna stay. I'm gonna stay right here." He holds Ethan a little tighter—cuddle, his tired brain supplies, Chris cuddles him a little closer. "Now go to sleep."
"M'kay."
***
The first time Chris had to go out on mission after everything, it had been surprisingly simple. The mission ran as expected, he came home, nothing changed. And so it went for the next one. And the next one.
Then, Chris came back from a mission that ran a little longer than expected and Rose nearly ambushed him at the door, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, head buried in the crook of his neck.
"Whoa, whoa, hey, Rose," Chris murmured, arms going around her too, bag dropped with a thud on the porch, "hey, hey, I'm okay. I'm sorry I'm late. You're okay."
"I know, I know, I just—fuck—" she'd pulled back, wiping her face and already turning away— "sorry, I—"
"No, hey, c'mere." He pulled Rose right back in, tucking her chin over his shoulder and burying his face in her hair. "I missed you too."
"That you, Redfield?" Leon had come down the stairs and grinned, wrapping his arms around the two of them. "'Bout time you got back, isn't it?"
"Traffic was hell."
"I'll bet." He didn't miss the way Leon's hand smoothed soothingly along Rose's spine. "Come on, I bet you're hungry."
"Yeah. Figured I'd have a quick rinse-off at base when I got back so I wouldn't trek any of it here." He ran his fingers through Rose's hair. "Can I go change real quick before we eat?"
"U-um, yeah, sure. S-sorry."
"Don't apologize," he'd murmured, pressing a kiss to Rose's forehead as he went upstairs.
He'd gone to the bathroom, sorting through his clothes, only to frown.
"Have you seen my old Army hoodie?" he asked when Leon came upstairs to check on him. "Can't seem to find it."
"Uh—I'll check and see if Ethan did laundry."
Leon had gone out to the hallway, heading for the laundry room at the end of the hall, only to pause at the door to Chris's room. He leaned against the doorframe with a low chuckle.
"Hey, Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"C'mere."
Chris had frowned, going to stand next to Leon, only for his eyes to widen at the sight of Ethan, curled up in Chris's bed, Chris's Army hoodie snuggled around him. His hair was mussed, his nose a little pink, poking over the edge of his sleeve, and he had the hoodie on backwards so he could clutch the hood to his face.
"Aw, hell," Chris mumbled, "why is this man so adorable?"
"No idea." Leon's head rests against the hinge. "I don't wanna be the one to wake him up."
"Why do I have to?"
"He's in your hoodie, in your bed, in your room. I think he missed you, Redfield, go wake him up."
Chris had wanted to roll his eyes. He really did. But then he'd looked at Ethan and before he'd had a chance to move, Ethan stirred and his eyes opened and he'd shot up in bed, flushed and stammering and, well, what was Chris supposed to do, not go over there and kiss him?
What do you take him for?
***
The black SUVs are a fact of life now. They're not subtle, they're not interested in being that discreet, and they want her to know they're there.
They're there when she meets up with Rose, even if it's Chris who drops her off. They're there when they go out to eat, lingering across the street. They're there when she picks Rose up from school, there when she goes to work, even when she's at home and she hasn't left the house all day, she'll catch sight of one driving by on the street.
She accepts it. She's a former member of a bio-terrorist organization and the mother and ex-wife to two bio-weapons. Luckily, none of her coworkers have ever noticed the pattern of black cars following them around whenever she's with them, and she's not sure whether she wants to breathe a sigh of relief or decry their lack of observational skills. And if she goes out of her way to make sure she's never the one sitting with her back to the window, well, it's unlikely they'll notice that either.
There are only a few of the drivers she ever actually talks to. Paul's the one who's there most often. She doesn't like him, he doesn't like her, and whatever courtesy they have for each other is a thin veil. He's the one who called Rose 'Eveline' the most and that's enough to make Mia hate him on principle. But he's a decent agent, if an asshole about it, and he knows how to pick his fights.
Jack is the other one she'll see most often. She likes Jack. Jack treats Rose like a person, like a kid, and he's always a little bit bumbling in that endearing way that agents are when they're trying to be disarming. She thinks it's his way of trying to make Rose's situation a bit better, like he's more of a bodyguard for her rather than an agent tasked with keeping the asset in line. He makes small talk with Mia and jokes with Rose. If her life were different, she thinks she could have been friends with him.
There are a few others. She doesn't know their names. They all address her as 'Ms. Winters,' no matter what she says, and they seem as twitchy around her as they do around Rose. She's never quite sure how she feels about that.
The only other driver she's ever actually had a conversation with is the one she's only seen once or twice. A younger woman, someone Rose actually smiled at when she got out of the car. She'd introduced herself as Addison, someone else who Chris worked with. She'd explained there was a scheduling conflict and that she was going to be the one picking up Rose when they were finished, and if there was anything they needed, to call her and let her know. Like Rose was just a normal teenager being dropped off, simple as that.
She asks Rose about all of the agents, when Rose wasn't already complaining about them. Paul tried to be nice every once in a while, and it was painful for both of them. Jack played video games with some of the other guards on a regular basis and told her about how they'd all been stupid that week—sometimes Rose got to act as the go-between for all of them gossiping about each other and it made Mia laugh and wince that the closest thing her daughter had to actual friends were the agents tasked with her surveillance. Addison worked on data analysis mostly, not field work, but she would make an effort to try and spend actual time with Rose outside of whatever tests they were running on her.
Before Ethan came back, before Chris got his head out of his ass, Mia would bet that Addison was the closest thing Rose had to someone safe inside that base.
So, when she starts noticing another car tailing her, a black SUV that isn't one of the BSAA trucks, she knows who to tell.
***
"Leon? Dad says dinner's almost ready, you should—oh."
Leon looks up. He's lying on his bed, phone in hand, someone's voice coming from the speaker. Rose hesitates inside the door as the conversation trails off.
"Oops. Sorry. Didn't realize you were on the phone. I'll, uh—"
"Is that Rose?" says the voice.
"Yeah, that's her. C'mere, Rose," Leon calls, holding out a hand to beckon her over, "come say hi."
She lingers at the door for a moment longer before giving in, sitting on the bed next to Leon as he tilts the phone. On the screen is a woman with short blonde hair, a light blue shirt with an embroidered collar, and a cheery smile. She waves when Rose comes into frame.
"Hi Rose! Leon's told me so much about you."
"Are you Sherry?"
"Yes, I'm Sherry. I'm guessing Leon's told you about me?"
"Some. He's not good at talking about stuff all the time."
"Hey!" Leon shoves her shoulder lightly as Sherry laughs.
"No, he's not. It's really nice to meet you, I've been asking for a while."
"You have?" Rose settles more on the bed as Leon puts his arm over her shoulder so she doesn't have to lean in as much to see. "Why?"
Sherry laughs again. "Let's just say he has a habit of trying to adopt stray children. Stray blonde children in particular."
"Wait, he does?" She looks up at him. "You do?"
"I would argue that twice isn't indicative of a habit, but—"
"Oh, no, Grace and Emily absolutely count, Leon. We've all talked about it."
"Wait, who are Grace and Emily?"
"Leon!" Sherry's face falls but she's clearly trying not to laugh. "You haven't told her about them yet?"
"When would I have gotten the chance? It's not like I make it a habit to talk about all the horrifying shit I've had to deal with, not with a kid!"
"I'm not just any kid—"
"Rose isn't just any kid, Leon."
Rose glances at Sherry, who winks as Leon groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus Christ, now there's two of you."
"Five if we count Ashley too."
"Wait, who's Ashley? Why have you never told me about these people, Leon?"
"It's not like you asked!" he defends, ruffling her hair. "Besides, Grace and Ashley don't count. They weren't kids."
"Uh huh." Rose has to laugh at Sherry's disbelief. "Sure, like that would have stopped you."
"Ashley was like, five years younger than I was!"
"Seven," Sherry corrects—Rose already likes Sherry, a lot—"and fine, but you were definitely being a big brother to her the whole time."
"How do you even know about that? You were not old enough to know any of this!"
"Notice how he's not denying it," Sherry says to Rose, who giggles, "and Hunnigan told me."
"Of course, she did," Leon grumbles as both of them laugh. He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, but Rose can see he's trying not to smile too.
"What do you do, Sherry?"
"I'm a DSO agent too. I work with Leon when he's out in the field."
"You're a field agent?"
"Sometimes. I do handler work too, more recently. I took a long break from field work and I'm getting ready to transition back into doing it full time."
"Why'd you stop? Sorry," she says quickly, wincing, "you, uh, don't have to answer that. That was rude."
"It's okay, Rose," Sherry says as Leon's hand rests on her shoulder again, "I don't mind. What…what has Leon told you about me?"
"That you were in Raccoon City when it fell. You and Chris's sister, Claire, you guys all made it out, but you were, um…infected with the—the—"
"The G Virus," Sherry finishes when Rose can't remember which letter it was, "that's right. My father, William Birkin, he was an Umbrella scientist doing research in the lab under Raccoon City. Leon and Claire saved me, got me out."
Leon shifts a little, getting tenser at her words. Rose presses closer to him, wrapping her arms around his chest and waist. He settles a little bit, his head coming to rest against hers, and Sherry keeps talking.
"We didn't know at the time that we'd also been exposed to a version of the T Virus, which is what—"
"Why do all of them have letters? What do they mean? Is it just, like, arbitrary?"
"Sure feels that way," Leon grumbles under his breath. "But that one—that one was the worst one."
"So you—wait, you were—" Rose's eyes widen and she shoots up, staring at Leon, hands flying to his shoulders— "are you okay? Do we need to—are you—"
"Whoa, whoa, easy, Rose, I'm okay," Leon soothes, cupping her face with his hand. "I'm okay. We found a cure for me and Sherry, we're both alright now."
Rose glances back over her shoulder at Sherry's face on the screen. Her expression is a little twisted too, but she smiles when Rose meets her eyes. "He's telling the truth, Rose. We're both okay now. No more virus in either of us."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
"C'mere," Leon murmurs, coaxing her back to his side, "it's okay. There you go."
She wraps her arms tightly around him again, her head on his shoulder. He just brings the phone back up so Sherry can look at them. "Because I had both viruses, the cure took a little longer to do all of its work. That's why I'm not back in the field full time yet."
"Oh. That makes sense."
"Now, he's skipping a lot of parts about how he found the cure," she continues, her smile sharpening, "including Grace and Emily—"
"Who are they?"
"Grace Ashcroft is an FBI agent who was involved in another case that overlapped with this one, and Emily was one of the people she rescued from the lab in Raccoon City."
"Wait, but I thought Raccoon City was—this was years ago?"
"Oh, no," Leon sighs, "they had another lab in Raccoon City after the nuke went off."
"They had a what?"
"Isn't this shit classified, Sherry? Aren't we not allowed to talk about this?"
Sherry shrugs, grinning. "Rose is technically classified and you tell me all about her."
"I think she has a point."
Leon just gives her a look. "Fine, fine. But that's a long story and I'm pretty sure Rose said something about dinner being almost ready."
"It was nice to meet you, Rose!" Sherry chirps. "Make Leon give you my number, I've got so much to talk about with you."
"Do you know why he and Chris won't tell me or Dad about Monopoly night?"
"Oh, I sure do—"
"Alright, that's enough, bye, Sherry!" Leon quickly hangs up the phone as Rose bursts out laughing, nearly falling off the bed with the force of it. "I'm so gonna regret introducing the two of you, aren't I?"
"We should start a club," she manages through her giggles, "me, Sherry, Grace, Emily, and—what was her name?"
"Ashley."
"And Ashley! Blonde Kids for Kennedy."
"That sounds like the worst campaign slogan in the world, thanks."
Still giggling, she wraps her arms around him again, hugging him tightly. "I'm glad you still have Sherry. Really."
He returns the hug, pulling her into his chest, his chin on the top of her head. "Me too. And I am glad the two of you met, even if it means you'll bully the hell out of me."
"…hey, Leon?"
"Mm?"
She worries a bit of his shirt between her fingers. "Do you, um…i-if you could…is…am—never mind."
"What?"
"Never mind."
She pushes herself away from him and tries to get up, but he's faster and grabs her arm before she can get very far. Her mouth opens to insist it's fine, it doesn't matter, let's just go downstairs before Chris starts yelling but the soft look on his face stops her dead in her tracks. He tugs her closer, wrapping his arms around her again, hands splayed wide over her back like he's trying to show her how much he wants to hold her.
…oh.
"You know how important you are to me," he whispers, "right?"
She just nods. He gives her a good squeeze and lets her go with a kiss on the very top of her head.
"C'mon. I think Chris is about to storm up here."
***
There's someone following her. Mia's sure of it now.
She thought she was just being paranoid about the car when she told Addison, but now she's certain of it. There's someone following her. Not all the time, it's not quite that aggressive yet, but someone is definitely following her.
They're avoiding BSAA security like a professional, which has her worried. There aren't ever two black SUVs following her, and they never come around when she has Rose or when Chris or Leon are around, but she'll get this prickle along the back of her neck like she's being watched by something else.
Her first thought, ashamed as she is to admit it, is that Eveline somehow found a way back. But Eveline's dead, long dead, and there's no way she'd come back without Chris or Ethan or Rose knowing about it, and they would tell her right away if Eveline ever showed back up. So it can't be Eveline, even if it gives her the same cold, slimy feeling down her spine and in her gut.
She tries to catch glimpses of them, but the car windows are tinted no matter who's driving them, BSAA or whoever the hell this is, and it's not like she's stupid enough to walk up to the car to get a better look. Sometimes she gets the feeling when there's not a car in sight, though, and whenever she looks around, there's no one suspicious to be seen. Which she knows was a long shot anyway—hardly anyone would assume she was part of a bio-terrorist group after all, that was one of the main reasons the Connections picked her—but she can't help it.
It's like an inverted version of the thrill she used to get when she was with Ethan: a sense of adrenaline that would tingle just under her skin, something that made her smile just a little too wide, laugh just a little too hard. It gave her this energy that she could never explain but it raced through her veins like a drug. It was one of the main things that kept her agreeing to those missions, agreeing to just one more job, just one more lie.
This isn't that. This is the paranoia she accused Ethan of, words wriggling on her tongue even now. This is knowing what is possible, what people are capable of, but not knowing at all what to do about it or what could happen next.
Someone is following her.
And she has no idea why.
***
Leon's missions were less often, but they were worse.
More unpredictable. Riskier. Longer duration. And Chris couldn't get any word about them until the DSO let him, which was…hardly ever.
Rose hadn't been the one to ask, but she'd been the one to make the decision: when Leon wasn't there and nightmares got bad, all three of them slept in his room. Chris mumbled something about it when he'd gotten back from that first mission and Leon had been torn between laughing and crying. Rose did cry. So did Ethan.
He hadn't wanted to believe—couldn't believe he'd been missed that much, that they'd been that worried, but they were. Even Chris, who was the only person Leon had ever relied on to be the last man standing if he wasn't around, had pulled him in for a tight hug and muttered you better get back here, Kennedy, the next time he left for a mission.
Then he'd come home way past midnight, still wincing at the strain in his shoulders, and found Ethan on the couch.
"Hey," he said as quietly as he could, "shouldn't you be asleep?"
"Couldn't." Leon's heart sank at how rough Ethan's voice sounded. "Sorry. I'll go—"
"Hey, hey, no, I didn't mean it like that."
Ethan's eyes flickered over him and he stood up quickly. "What can I do?"
"No, no, 'm fine—"
"Leon. You're home. Let me help you, remember?"
His next protest died in his throat and he managed a chuckle. "I remember. How, uh, how do I do that?"
Ethan had rolled his eyes fondly and ushered him upstairs. He put a bottle of water in Leon's hands and cleaned his face with a warm cloth, checked his wounds with careful hands, and brought him soft clothes to change into after his shower. Leon had let him, drifting in the pleasant quiet, brushing the backs of his fingers across Ethan's cheek when he took the empty water bottle back, the two of them sitting on the floor with Leon's back against the edge of the tub.
"You're gonna spoil me."
"Good." Ethan's eyes met his easily, despite the slight flush to his cheeks. "You deserve to get spoiled."
And, as we all know, Leon is no saint, so he cupped Ethan's jaw in his hand and leaned closer. The kiss was chaste, barely more than a brief press of lips, but he still smiled at the golden sparkle on the tip of Ethan's nose when he pulled away.
"Cute."
"Shut up."
"No, really, it's adorable—hey!" He batted Ethan's hand away when he smacked him gently with the cloth. "Don't start fights you won't win, Winters."
"You know how many times I've been told that and then somehow I win?"
Leon just raised an eyebrow. When Ethan turned to put the cloth down, he struck.
"You know," he remarked as Ethan squealed, his fingers easily finding the soft spots on Ethan's sides and ribs, "you're not really doing a good job of proving me wrong here."
Ethan wriggled like a wild thing, trying to get away from him, already gasping for air. Leon couldn't help but chuckle as he toppled over, quickly straddling his hips to keep him still. He doubled his attack as Ethan pawed weakly at his chest and shoulders, pleas tumbling from his lips in between helpless giggles.
"Please-please—n-no! Nohoho!"
"What happened to all that big talk? Huh? You gonna fight back?" He lazily dodged a clumsy swipe at his face. "C'mon, Winters, you can do better than that."
"Le-eon!" Ethan squeaked when Leon's hand snuck under his arm. "St-stop! I—I—I give! I give! I g-i-i-ive!"
He stopped, hands braced on either side of Ethan as the man slowly caught his breath, still giggling. His cheeks were bright pink, his eyes wide and wet. The man was breathtaking. He laid there on the floor, staring up at him with the last of that fucking smile still on his face. Leon shook his head and brushed his fingers along the curve of Ethan's cheek, cupping his head to get it off the cold tile.
"You gonna argue with me when I call you cute again?"
"N-no."
He chuckled as he leaned down to kiss him. "That's what I thought."
Sure enough, Ethan didn't say a word when golden sparkles erupted all over the two of them.
***
"Shut up, it is not."
"No, listen—if the person responsible owns the car, that means that they would have no reason to leave it on the side of the road! They could've just driven it home!"
"Yeah, but that's a stupid idea, because it means they could've just followed them home—"
"Wait, wait, but what about the wallet found inside? That doesn't match up with any of the suspects?"
"Yeah, because it's the victim's wallet, Ethan."
Rose giggles. "Yeah, Dad. Don't you remember?"
Ethan shakes his head and puts down the piece of paper with the picture of a wallet on it. "It's not my fault that this man has the most boring name in the history of boring names. 'George Jones?' What even is that?"
Leon chuckles. "At least it isn't John Smith."
"Or John Doe." Rose puts her chin in her hands. "So, wait, whose car is it?"
That sets Chris and Leon off again. Rose giggles at Ethan from across the table and he can't stop the smile spreading across his face.
Rose had found this game during a shopping trip with Mia. It's framed like it's a cold case, a murder that took place in a park that needs to be solved. There are suspect interviews, CCTV stills, evidence folders, the whole nine yards. She'd been asking them to play it with her for ages—well, more accurately, she'd been trying to convince Chris and Leon to play it with her and Ethan. He'd been on board from the start. Anything that makes Rose's face light up like that. The other two, though, they'd protested. Chris blustered something about being too busy for something that long—"It's only 4-6 hours, Chris, that's not that long!"—and Leon made some joke about not being a cop anymore.
It only took Ethan asking once to make both of them cave in. He's not sure what to use this newfound power for other than making Rose happy, but he's sure he'll find out sooner or later.
Anyway, now they're both invested, and it's pretty easy to tell that they were both detectives of some sort for years. Chris took one look at one of the interview transcripts and spotted a flaw in an alibi that Ethan never would have seen in a million years. Leon glanced at something written in code and read it like it was plain English. It was…honestly? Really impressive.
…really impressive.
"Hold on." Chris sits up, pulling one of the CCTV images closer. "Walk me through the timeline one more time."
"The victim left work at 6:45pm and drove to Rudy's bar on Belford St. Bar has him and his friends there until 11:30pm, which is when he and Lionel left to drive home. His house is on Clarkson Ave., all the way across town, and traffic light cams have them pulling onto his dead-end street at midnight. A few minutes later, Lionel's car pulls back onto the street." Leon puts down his notebook—yes, the man went and got a notebook. Ethan's still grinning about it. "That's it."
"Time of death?"
"The medical examiner thinks somewhere around 2am," Rose reads, "but there's some ambiguity because of the alcohol left in his system. Why is that?"
"Medical examiners have to mark down cause of death with all contributing factors. If alcohol or other substances are believed to be one of those, they have to put them down, even if they might be completely unrelated." Leon flips another piece of paper over. "The mechanisms of death are also just…attesting to the fact that he's dead, not how he died."
Rose blinks. "Whoa."
"What?"
"I've never heard you sound that serious about anything. That was cool."
"Aww, thanks, kid." He ruffles her hair. "Nothing like talking about corpses for a living, huh?"
"The sister."
Chris looks up at Ethan, who's staring at another one of the pictures. He picks it up, staring at her mugshot. "What's that, Ethan?"
"The sister. She has a tattoo, right behind her left ear. Look." He holds it out. "You can see it right there. It's like a flower, or something."
Chris squints at it. "Yeah? What about it?"
"Can I see the second red light camera picture?" Leon passes it over. "Look. Look at the driver's side window."
"Holy shit." Chris claps Ethan on the shoulder. "Damn, Ethan. Good catch."
"Wait, what? What is it?"
"The sister's driving in the second picture. You can see her tattoo in the light from the streetlight."
Rose peers over Leon's shoulder as Chris hands the photo back. Her face lights up with that wonderful smile as she reaches over to give him a high five. "Good job, Dad!"
"Thanks, sweetie. So that means she was in the car when they left the bar, right? She must've been in the back seat."
"And that means she left Lionel at home with George. So he's lying about the last time he saw George." Leon whistles. "Damn, Winters. You're gonna put all of us out of a job."
"I'm opening the envelope!" Rose dives for the box. "'Who's lying about when they last saw George?' Lionel!"
Chris's hand is still on his shoulder. Ethan glances up at him and Chris winks, quickly pulling him in to kiss his cheek before Rose turns back around. Under the table, Leon knocks his foot against Ethan's and grins at him.
"Okay…he admits he stayed over at the house…he and George had a fight about something—"
"What were they fighting about?"
"Something to do with work, it sounds like? A software update that George didn't want? I don't know, it sounds like it's just flavor text. The interesting thing is that Lionel mentions George left his phone on the counter when he stormed out."
"When was this?"
"Uh—he says a few minutes after midnight."
"There was a call placed then." Leon squints at the phone records. "Incoming, though, and it wasn't very long."
"Well, Lionel probably picked up and whoever was calling realized it wasn't George." Ethan leans over and snags the map off the corner of the table. "How far away is the park from George's house? Is it within walking distance?"
"Not really. Look—" Chris points— "it's farther away than the bar was, in the opposite direction."
"Maybe whoever did it caught him outside and then dumped him there." Rose's leg swings from the chair, her head on Leon's shoulder. "Doesn't the report say they found a whole bunch of mud on his pants?"
"Sure does." Leon squints. "Mud and a whole bunch of gravel."
"Gravel…gravel…wait, Dad, can I see the map?"
"Sure, sweetie."
Rose puts it flat on the table and pushes aside a few other pieces of paper, standing up so she can see better. "If George left his house here, and then walked this way, wouldn't he have ended up by the old warehouse lot? Right here? The one next to the river?"
"Maybe. What makes you think that?"
"Gravel and mud, right? It's a construction site. It's the only place he could have reasonably walked to that has those two things."
"Good work, Rose." Chris is already leafing through another sheaf of papers—how the rest of them are keeping all of these pages straight, Ethan has no idea. Virtues of having to do this sort of paperwork for a living, he supposes. "And the security records show an alert at 12:20am that night. So it's safe to put some sort of activity in that area."
"Okay, but what does that have to do with Lionel's car being on the side of the road near the park? If his sister was driving—"
"What if she killed him and framed her brother for it?" Everyone turns to look at Ethan. "People would assume because it was his car, that he did it, right?"
"But then how did Lionel get home? Traffic cams don't show her going back to George's house again that night."
"And what reason would she have to do that?" Rose tilts her head. "Kinda sounds like she doesn't care that much about either of them from her interviews and stuff. That's a lot of effort to go through for someone you don't care about."
"But then Leon's right: why else would Lionel's car be near the park? What, did she get lost on the way home or drive by it in the morning and then run away?"
Leon's eyes widen. "Wait, wait, say that again?"
"What, that she drove by the park in the morning and then ran away?"
He starts scrabbling for something. "That would make sense. If she knew she left Lionel at George's house and went to go pick him up—look, the park is between Lionel's home address and George's."
"But she wasn't the one who called in the body."
"Well, I mean, if you thought Claire had killed someone—wait, that's not a good example. You'd assume she had a good reason."
Chris raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying she wouldn't?"
Leon raises his hands in surrender. "Not at all."
"So she panics thinking Lionel killed George and runs away from the car," Rose picks up where Leon left off, "then some random stranger calls it in—where did she go?"
"To find Lionel. Probably to call him. But he doesn't know that George is dead yet, so he picks up the phone back at George's house, but he doesn't want anyone else to know that he was there, so he has her come get him in her car." Leon scribbles something down in his notebook. "Okay. So that takes care of that."
"So it wasn't Lionel, and it wasn't his sister. Did anyone else leave the bar at the right time?"
"Uh—" Chris starts going through stuff again. "Let me see…"
Ethan zones out a bit, just watching them. Chris's jaw is set with familiar determination, his knee bouncing ever so slightly. Leon's brow is furrowed, his eyes following his finger as he traces over bits of information. Rose stands over them, her cheeks bright with excitement as she rattles off more theories.
The living room is bright. Everyone is safe. Everyone is happy.
"But that wouldn't explain how—whoa, hey," comes Leon's voice, bringing the other activity to a halt, "hey, Ethan, you okay?"
Chris turns, his expression falling as he looks at Ethan too, a hand coming to rest gently on his shoulder, then his cheek, brushing something away. Rose wraps herself around his arm, staring at him with a worried expression.
"We can stop, Dad," she mumbles, "we can stop if it's making you cry."
"I'm crying?"
"Y-yeah, you're crying."
He swipes a hand over his face. It comes away wet. "Oh. So I am. I'm not sad, Rosie, I'm just—I just got really happy."
Leon's mouth tugs up in a little smile. "Talking about how this dude is definitely lying about how upset he is over George dating the women he had a crush on is making you happy?"
Ethan laughs wetly, shaking his head gently enough not to dislodge Chris's hand on his face. "I'm happy we're doing this. Playing a game. Spending time together. I'm just being sappy, that's all."
Rose hugs him tightly and Chris puts his arms around both of them, kissing both of their heads. Leon traps one of Ethan's legs between his and gives it a soft squeeze. He laughs again, sniffling slightly.
"Come on, let's figure this out and then have dinner. I'm starving."
Leon grins. "Yes, sir."
***
It's a man.
He's like a shadow. Mia can never get a good look at him. But she knows it's a man. It has to be. Whatever fleeting glances she gets are always of someone tall, someone broad. Taller than Chris, not quite as bulky. But he's fast. Faster than anyone has a right to be.
She has Addison's personal cell number now. Not her work phone—they'd agreed they probably shouldn't alert the BSAA to this just yet, just in case, they had no idea whether or not official lines were compromised—but a number not tied to anything on file. She texts every single time she thinks she sees the car, or him. She even tries to get a picture of him in the back of a selfie—it never works. He's too damn fast.
He still never shows up around Rose or Chris. He's always there when she least expects it: when she's out with her coworkers, when she's getting off the bus, when she's in a crowded grocery store. She has a hysterical thought of asking Addison to pull the parking lot footage from that day but dismisses it. It wouldn't do anything but risk them finding out she's onto something. Besides, it's not like she has the clearance to know if Addison finds anything.
Part of her hopes it's just someone from the Connections with a vendetta. Revenge for compromising the E-series, or for ratting them out to save her own skin. Even someone from Dulvey who was related to one of Eveline's many victims, or someone from Romania. A personal grudge against her, not Rose, not Chris, not Ethan.
Part of her hopes it's just a random person looking for information about the BSAA. Someone who'd shake her down for information she doesn't have other than the names of the few agents she's met. Maybe they don't know who Rose is, who she is. All of that. Maybe they just don't know.
She knows that's wishful thinking.
The most likely possibility is the worst one: they know about Rose and they want her.
Mia Winters has a lot of things to regret. She will not let this be another one.
Whoever this is, whoever he is, watching her from behind those sunglasses, she will not let him get Rose.
Roman never really fit in with the rest of the family. Or, 'family,' he supposes, because it isn't really, not for him. Sure, he's one of the main henchman's kid brother who wasn't to be trusted enough not to blab if he didn't work for the family, so they just gave him a basic job to keep him off the streets and out of trouble, but not enough to know anything worth knowing.
Roman never really fit in with the rest of the family. Or, 'family,' he supposes, because it isn't really, not for him. Sure, he's one of the main henchman's kid brother who wasn't to be trusted enough not to blab if he didn't work for the family, so they just gave him a basic job to keep him off the streets and out of trouble, but not enough to know anything worth knowing. And sure, stocking bookshelves in the front of one of the money laundering places wasn't exactly bright and shiny work, but Roman liked it well enough. It was cool to actually read some of the books—even though his boss laughed at him when he asked if they could get a shipment of some of the new horror novels in—"This ain't a real book store, kid, it's just a front. Ain't nobody comin' in here to actually buy the book 'cept for tourists."—and the store always had a strange antique-y sort of vibe to it that let his imagination run wild.
Roman was too nice for mob work, you see, he really was. He was all smiles and earnest attempts at conversation and that really didn't sit well with most of the upper level, where Remus was. Remus had enough of a reputation to keep most people from trying anything with Roman, but part of Roman feels like he caused some of that reputation to slide away. Come on, how many people expected Remus's kid brother to be like…that?
Still, he did his job. He was smart enough to keep his head down and stay out of the way of anything really important and his boss even said he was good with throwing off whatever tourists did wander in, distracting them with 'all the charm of a pup eager to please,' he'd said, and Roman would take that. Didn't matter that he wasn't doing it to be sneaky or anything, he really did want to help them, but it worked to keep most of the family looking elsewhere.
Until Remus got reports of a mole.
Then suddenly there were eyes everywhere. There were sudden drop offs and surprise visits and thinly veiled threats that Roman could never realize were coming until he was hiding in the back room, trying not to panic too loudly. It didn't help that he was a 'pup eager to please' then, not when he rambled when he was nervous and everyone really seemed to love making him nervous right now.
He tried to ask for Remus once and the resulting smack made his ears ring for the next hour.
The standoff happens in a dark parking lot somewhere under the hustle and bustle of city streets. Two of them, one shaking as another young boy screams that he's the mole! It's him! He sold us out!
Janus DeLuca regards both of them with no expression.
“Chief,” the shaking one whispers, “Chief, please.”
He turns to him.
“You know me,” he says again, “it’s me, it’s really me you can trust. Please, don’t listen to him.”
Roman doesn’t say a word. He keeps his eyes on Remus, looking back and forth between them every once in a while. Remus's expression is neutral; his eyes and hands do not shake. Mr. DeLuca glances over his shoulder. After a few long seconds, Remus lowers his gaze to the ground.
Mr. DeLuca watches him for a moment before turning his attention back to the stuttering boy.
“Please,” the boy whispers again, “don’t—don’t leave me with him.”
Tears begin to run down his face.
“Chief, I’m didn't do it. It wasn't me.”
Mr. DeLuca moves forward. The boy keeps crying as he comes to a stop in front of him, even as he reaches out to gently brush them away. The boy's next sob hitches as he cups his face in his hand.
"Ch-Chief?"
“It’s okay, now,” he says softly, “it’s okay, little bird.”
The boy lets out another sob and all but throws himself into Mr. DeLuca's arms, crying into his shoulder. He rubs the boy's back as he cries.
The rest of the men swarm around Roman. He's shoved to the ground and roughly cuffed. Grit from the street rasps against his face. He loses sight of Remus almost immediately. He strains, trying to see him, trying to—
Mr. DeLuca doesn’t look at him once, nor does he see the smile forming on the boy's face as he watches the car drive away.
They give him up. Roman is taken to a prison to await trial. He's deemed a security risk if he can speak with other prisoners. In the lower levels of the prison, there are concrete blocks for solitary confinement. Each prisoner has four walls and a thing slot of light through which food will be pushed.
Four walls, a cot, a sink, a toilet.
Roman stares at the walls. One of them has a series of tally marks on it. He counts once. They add up to make at least a year. If it takes that long to convene his trial, he will be lucky.
The concrete is thick. He can hear barely anything except for the muffled footsteps of the guard who brings his food and the slide of a tray as it’s pushed through. Sometimes, if he strains, he can hear the voices of the other prisoners through the walls.
(Roman doesn’t know that he’s the only prisoner in this block.)
Every time he gets fed, he scratches a mark into the wall. He doesn’t know how many times a day he gets fed. He doesn’t know if it’s consistent. For the first few days—or what he assumes are days—he tries to speak, to not let his voice fall into disuse. But when no one replies and the silence only feels all the more stifling, he stops trying.
Roman exists in the silence, now, does not approach it, let alone break it. He taps out the rhythm of songs he can remember on crossed legs, experimenting with how to create different pitches and tones with his lips sealed. Remus used to call him a canary. He thinks this might be how they felt when they breathed in the gas.
Concrete blocks aren’t known for their heat-preserving properties. On the few nights where he can sleep, it’s fitful and spent shivering under a sheet so thin he can feel his fingertips grating together. His limbs ache by the time he stirs in the morning—or what he assumes is morning—and rubbing them won’t make it go away.
When he cannot lose himself in remember song or stories, he gets lost in nightmares. Without enough stimulation to keep them in check, he starts to lose himself in the rambles of his brain and he can't pull himself out. The guards are used to this, however, and his cell has no objects sharp enough for that. He supposes he should be grateful. He doesn't remember the last time he was allowed to be on his own for so long. He doesn't remember the look on Remus's face when he realized his kid brother couldn't be left alone. He doesn't know what happened to make Remus stop believing in him.
(He doesn't know that Remus isn't here on bad nights.)
He thinks he hears him sometimes, talking outside his cell. He moves to the slot every time, only to see an empty hallway. He thinks he sees people inside too, during long stretches where he can’t sleep and everything feels as though it could rasp his skin off. But they never stay. They leave and he is alone, yearning for someone else. Anyone at all. Just to have someone to talk to, to touch, even if it’s only for a moment.
At one point, he starts to wish for pain.
Somehow this experience will mark him, leave him with bruises, a scar, something because it would be better than endless, monotonous nothing. He wants something else to hurt, something else to focus on. Even tangible anger.
A guard spitting at him. Another prisoner lunging for him. Even one of the family, though he doesn't dare hope for Remus, not now, not after everything, come to see an impostor that tricked them into caring about him, however fake or cordial it might have been.
But no one comes and he slips deeper and deeper until he is numb with cold, with the voices he cannot hear and the touches he burns to feel.
He does not know how long it has been.
When someone unlocks his door, he doesn’t move at first, convinced it is another hallucination. But then he is being taken for a shower. The guards cuff him again. He hides away in a dark part of himself that cannot feel how badly this burns. In all the times he has been taken for a shower, they do not leave him entirely alone. He washes, quick and perfunctory, the only semblance of normalcy he has left. This time, he is not re-cuffed as he exits the shower, not until another set of cuffs is brought. This one has a long bar in the middle designed to keep his hands spread far apart. They lock on with another taste of burning metal.
He is not led back to his cell. He is lead to a loading dock where a police car waits. He is led down the stairs and put into the back of the car. It starts to drive away.
He watches the world pass by until he grows weak with nausea, turning his gaze down into the lap where everything is still a little too brightly colored but much less. The rumble of the car makes him cold. Even as the driver turns the heat on, he shivers.
He doesn’t know where they are at first when they stop, only that the car is suddenly at a halt and the driver is getting out. Then his door is being opened as there are hands, warm hands unlocking the shackles from his wrists.
“Roman,” a voice is calling, “Roman?”
He looks up.
“It’s me,” the man says, “it's Patton, do you remember?”
Yes, he knows this man.
“The warden who was supposed to look out for you just transferred,” he says as he eases the metal from Roman's wrists, “we couldn’t get to you until now, I’m sorry.”
Wait, what? He tries to ask a question but his voice, worn away by the time of disuse, refuses.
“Hey,” Patton says in a softer voice, “can you speak? It’s okay if you can’t, I’m not sure you’ve used it the way you’re used to.”
Roman nods and he makes a sympathetic noise.
“I imagine you’re also touch-starved,” he continues, “solitary doesn’t exactly encourage contact. It’s going to take a while before you’re feeling like yourself again.”
Roman flinches.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He knows, but the sting still ripples through his arms. Patton reaches out, palms open.
“Here,” he encourages, “put your hands here, let me see them.”
The squeeze of his hands around Roman's is a lot. It tingles and burns and he doesn’t want to pull away.
“Squeeze, Roman,” he instructs lowly, “good. It will take time, okay? I’m sorry it had to be like this.”
Roman's…out? He made it out? Is he…he’s really free?
“Yes, Roman,” Patton says when he asks the question in his deteriorated voice, “you’re going to be okay now.”
“It’s cold.”
“Come on,” he encourages, pulling him slowly to his feet, “let’s get you inside. They’re waiting for you.”
He looks up and blinks. He's at the mansion. He focuses on the door as it swings open, revealing someone standing there. Does he know them? There’s a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward them. Oh. Oh, it’s Virgil.
“Hello,” he says, nodding to Roman, “they want to see you.”
“He's not going to be able to say much for a while,” Patton explains in a low voice, “and he’s going to need to be re-acclimated slowly. It’s also not a bad idea to have a doctor look at him.”
Virgil nods. “Are you staying?”
“No, they need someone else to clean up the last of the paperwork.” He touches Roman's shoulder one more time. “You’ll be alright now, kiddo.”
Roman turns to watch the car drive away before Virgil calls his name.
“Come inside, Roman,” he says softly, “there are clothes for you to change into.”
He can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears as he leads him up the stairs to a bedroom. He opens the door for him and points at a small pile of clothes.
“You can shower if you like,” he says, “I can wait outside.”
Roman carefully picks up the sweater—his sweater, his favorite one, the thick creamy cable-knit one—and wants and starts to change. The door closes behind him with a very soft click and on second thought, he leaves it open just a little. The sweater is warm and soft and he breathes a little easier as he pulls it down.
“Roman?”
He pushes the door open the rest of the way and Virgil smiles slightly as he comes to stand next to him.
“They’re downstairs in the study,” he says quietly, “come on. They’ll be happy to see you.”
When he hesitates, Virgil reaches out and carefully knocks his hand against Roman's.
“You can take your time, they’ll wait for you.” The idea of them waiting for anyone is too big for his brain to handle. He doesn’t know how long they stand there but eventually he takes a breath and nods. “Ready?”
Roman has to stop again outside the study. Virgil waits with him, patiently, until he stars to walk forward again. He makes it into the room first, causing the low murmur of conversation to pause as they turn their heads.
He's still cold, but there they are.
“Roman!” Remus screeches, powerful enough that even Mr. DeLuca winces, as Remus bolts toward him.
Despite every instinct in him screaming to hug his brother, he flinches and steps back a little, overwhelmed by the noise and the movement as Virgil holds out a hand. He explains what Patton said in a low voice as Remus pauses.
"So I can't hug my brother?"
"Remus, he's like a pup fresh from a shelter right now. He's terrified and skittish and no one's been kind to him in ages. We need to be careful."
But Roman can't let his brother think he doesn't want to touch him, so he reaches out his hands. Remus ducks around Virgil in an instant, taking them both and squeezing hard.
He’s warm. He’s so warm. Roman's hands are burning and he doesn’t know what to do except hold on. Remus squeezes back, both of their knuckles turning white as he tips his head forward to rest against Roman's.
“I missed you, Roro,” he murmurs, “I’m so relieved you’re back.”
"R-Re," he croaks, "I didn't—I never—"
"Oh, Ro-Bro, I know. You're my kid brother, you apologize to the last cookie you eat for making it wait its turn."
"R-Remus—"
“I'm gonna go make you some tea, okay? Your favorite. Are you hungry?"
He shakes his head. Remus frowns.
"Prison food blows, Roro. You need something actually decent in your stomach."
"Slow, Remus," Virgil reminds, startling Roman—how could he forget they were here? Remus just rolls his eyes.
"I'm making my brother a sandwich."
"Remus—"
He watches Virgil chase after Remus, the two of them already bickering about something. It feels surreal. It's not impossible for him to blink and see concrete walls.
Only when there's a quiet creak behind him does he remember that there's someone else here too.
Mr. DeLuca's face doesn’t look the same as it did a lifetime ago. Gone is the imposing black suit and cane, gone is the stern impassive judgment. Instead, he's looking at Roman with something he would dare label fondness, even though he knows that can't be true. The two of them look at each other for a long moment before Mr. DeLuca turns to his desk.
“Come here,” he calls. When Roman doesn’t move immediately, he looks up. “Do I have to come and get you?”
It’s said softly, with a smile, as he looks for something in the desk and Roman goes, coming to a stop in front of the desk as he pulls out a white drawstring bag and holds it out.
With shaking fingers, Roman takes it and pulls it open. His gold necklace falls into the palm of his hand. He swallows and sets the bag on the desk, carefully going to clasp it back around his neck. But his hands tremble and his fingers can’t hook around the clasp right.
“Here,” Mr. DeLuca says quietly, “let me help?”
He takes it from Roman's trembling hands and fiddles with the clasp.
“Which one do you wear it on, the shortest?” Roman nods. “Alright.”
But the instant he moves behind him, he whirls around, shaking his head with his lips pressed together. Before he can stumble his way through ruined apologies, Mr. DeLuca hums gently.
“Not behind you?” Roman shakes his head again. “That’s alright, can you come forward?”
He coaxes Roman away from the desk, standing at his side, arms hovering just above his shoulders as he lowers his head close enough to brush the fabric of his shirt.
“There, that’s it," Mr. DeLuca says as he hooks the clasp and lifts his hands, letting Roman adjust it the way he needs to. Absentminded instinct sets his fingers to fidgeting with the pendant, sliding it back and forth along the chain. "It looks good."
His head jerks up.
“It looks good,” Mr. DeLuca repeats softly, “it belongs to you.”
His expression flickers.
“I didn’t know the warden had left,” he says after a pause, “nor were you supposed to be so isolated.”
Roman just nods, still fiddling with the necklace. Mr. DeLuca watches for a moment before he sighs, deep and profound.
“I’m not used to this part,” he murmurs, “I still don’t know what to do. Comfort is…foreign to me, but I owe you a deep apology, so you may have whatever it is you need from me. What can I do for you, little bird?”
Roman looks up at him and slowly edges a little closer. Mr. DeLuca's eyes widen in understanding and he opens his arms. Roman opens his too and carefully hugs him as though if he moves too much, he’ll disappear. Mr. DeLuca has no such reservations and holds him tightly, threatening to steal his breath as a rush of warmth flickers through him. Roman's hands tremble against his back and he hums.
“You can hold onto me, it’s okay.”
He tightens his grip as Roman does, letting out a soft ‘there you go’ as Roman's hands curl into the back of his shirt. Roman lets out a shaky breath against his shoulder.
“…did you know,” he croaks after a while, “when…when we were both…did you know?”
"Oh, from the second he was foolish enough to frame you. It was proof he didn't know what he was doing; no one who'd spent even a moment talking to you would think you capable of something like that. My only regret is that we weren't quick enough to take care of you while we sorted him out. No, little bird, you were always innocent."
"I'm sorry—"
"Hush, none of that. You have done nothing wrong. It is our fault and our failing that we were not there to catch you. Family looks out for each other and we have failed in that. You need do nothing but let us apologize."
"That's right."
He turns to see Remus and Virgil returning, Remus carrying a sandwich that clatters onto the desk as he swoops in to wrap his arms around Roman too. He can't stifle the sob that works its way up his throat and Remus just coos, kissing his temple as Mr. DeLuca rubs his back.
"I let you down, Roro," he murmurs, "I didn't keep you safe. Now you have to let me keep you safe."
"C-can I still work in the book store?"
"Of course you can," Mr. DeLuca says, "just so long as you're willing to commute in for dinner every weekend."
No small part of Roman blanches at the thought. Dinner? Dinner here? That was—that meant—
"Not those dinners," Virgil interrupts before Roman can spiral too far, "actual dinner. Where Janus gets to mother hen you about eating and you get to watch Remus be scolded for not sitting properly."
"O-oh."
"But in time," Virgil says, more for the others than for Roman, "you settle the pace for this, okay? You've had enough of people making choices for you for a while."
"Come eat, Ro," Remus encourages when Roman just hums, "you need it."
And maybe…maybe this can be a family. The type where Roman can sit on a couch he never thought he'd be allowed to look at, eating a sandwich while Remus and Virgil bicker and Mr. DeLuca—Janus keeps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly every time Roman needs it.
Maybe he can fit in here.
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