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The memories clawed at his skull, trying to sink teeth into his thoughts like a rabid dog, spitting and snarling and refusing to let go of the grip on his conscious. Though Chris tried – and he often did – to bury the thoughts like he buried his friends, they remained, making him sink deeper into the depths he had once had brief reprieve from.
Chris dragged his hand up over his eyes, then to his forehead, with a deep exhale. Closing his palm into a fist as he shut his eyes tightly, he tried to focus on his breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
His head begun to swim, and his breaths grew shallow, uneven.
When he imagined gunshots, he grunted and flung his fist back down onto the cushions beside him, eyes snapping open as he pressed his fingers into the leather. Trying to ground. He was in his living room. He was alive. He was in his living room, and he was alone.
He was alone.
Chris chose this, of course; instead of going to the same seedy bar for the fourth night that week, he had decided to take whatever harbor he could find inside his small apartment. It didn’t help, as he knew that it wouldn’t, because the silence of the room only added to his echoing head, the absence of the crowd causing him to feel horribly, achingly lonely.
Lonely.
The word rattled around his brain before he winced sharply as the floodgate opened once more – shards of images placed together to form several instances in which he was torn apart. In one shard he saw Jill, dropping from his fingertips, his throat raw as he screamed for anything else, to turn back time to catch her, to go back to a time before the world was rotting.
In the next shard he saw Piers.
Clenching his jaw roughly, Chris tried to think of something, anything else, but it was too late. Images attacked his psyche before he could fight them off. In his mind, he saw his partner getting infected, protecting him in his dying breath, fighting with every ounce of his being. He saw himself holding Piers in his arms and desperately trying to drag the other man to safety. Clinging to him for hope and something more, something he didn’t ever want to admit to himself, and he saw himself opening the hatch to the escape pod. He saw Piers close the door before getting inside. He saw him fade away into the darkness, disappearing into the murky waters, as Chris desperately screamed.
Both hands flew up to Chris’s head as he hunched over and shook with anger, trying to anchor himself back down to the present but failing, jaw clenching and unclenching in rapid succession as he tried to fight back his stubborn tears. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t. Not now, when nothing could be changed. When nothing would ever change. The tears were pointless and helped nothing. He could never help anything.
And yet they persisted.
Chris was about to relent when a knock on the door snapped him into alertness. He jumped to his feet instantly and swiped the knife from the coffee table, his body working on autopilot, read to defend himself in case something was to go wrong. They often did, after all.
Before he went to the door, he silently waited, breathing slowly, listening to make sure that it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. After a moment, the knock came again, along with a familiar voice muffled through the wood, “Chris. Let me in.”
His body went slack for a second before he maneuvered into the front hallway, lowering his knife slowly. He sighed and unlocked the door, pulling it open shortly afterwards.
Leon stood outside his apartment door in the same leather jacket he’d been wearing the last time they met. He wore a slight grin on his face and carried a shopping bag in his right hand, his left tucked inside his jacket pocket.
Chris eyed him carefully before saying flatly, “Probably a good idea to announce yourself, you know, before knocking.”
The other man’s smile did not waver, but he met his eyes with some mirth, “Probably.” With that, he motioned to the door, only continuing inside when Chris gave him a slight nod and backed away to give him room.
Chris followed him inside, shutting the door behind them. He was surprised to see him after the China incident. It wasn’t as though they weren’t on amicable terms – they used to be quite close, actually – but they hadn’t formally interacted outside of missions in years. Leon was always on duty somewhere else, not involved with the BSAA, and Chris was too busy with his missions and, as of lately, being stuck in his drunken stupors.
Still though, he couldn’t help but to feel somewhat relieved to have the company, no matter how seemingly random the encounter seemed. After Leon stood inside the hallway, Chris patted the kitchen counter, a silent permission for Leon to set down his bag.
The agent complied, gently placing the bag onto the counter, then rustling through the packaging to produce two flasks.
“An offering,” Leon explained curtly, tossing one of the flasks to Chris, who caught it effortlessly.
Chris examined the flask, noting the engraving onto the metallic finish: ENDURE & SURVIVE.
He chuckled darkly at the sentiment, then closed his fingers around it and looked back up to Leon, a silent question on his lips. Leon seemed to understand because he straightened up slightly before explaining.
“I know it’s been rough. It’s been rough for all of us, but…..you always seem to get it the worst,” Leon sighed, cracking his knuckles, “For once it’d just be nice to relax, and forget about all the bad shit.”
“And you want me to ‘forget the bad shit’ by drinking out of a flask that reminds me of survival?” Chris felt bitterness seep into the sentence without even meaning to, and he was about to start again when Leon interjected.
“We aren’t that different, you and me. You can’t ever truly forget, I know that. I just figured the company would be good, for both of us.”
Chris twisted open the cap and took a long sip, before regarding Leon with a fixed look. “And you decided to come find my address tonight just so you could share a drink with me?”
Leon tutted, but his eyes twinkled with humor, “We can be on each other’s side without having to worry about the probability of death. No bioweapons, no misunderstandings, not holding each other at gunpoint…”
He grinned at that, despite himself, then, “I don’t know about that, Kennedy. The night is still young, after all. Hey, what are these drinks laced with?”
…
The night marched on slowly, steadily, softly. The shift in atmosphere was a weight off Chris’s shoulders. It had been countless months since he had truly felt at ease, able to let his thoughts become background noise instead of being front and center.
The two men had migrated into the living room, Chris relaxing into the couch and Leon perched on top of the ottoman adjacent to him, both taking swigs out of their respective drinks and laughing at certain points in conversation. As time went on, the conversation naturally died down somewhat, but they remained in a comfortable balance, long drinks turning to short sips as the radio previously turned on hummed steadily on in the background.
Leon spoke up again first, sliding his hands down his knees before he crossed his arms across his lap and leaned forward slightly, “Chris… I did want to say something while I was here.”
Chris frowned, hesitant about where the conversation was going. He had hoped nothing deep would be brought up. No fake sympathy, no pity, no empty reassurances about anything and everything that had happened back in China.
“What is it?” he responded flatly.
As if noticing the difference in demeanor, Leon continued carefully, “About your partner—”
“I think that’s enough drinks for one night.” Chris cut him off quickly, frown turning into a full-on scowl as he stood up and set the flask down onto the side table harshly.
As Chris turned to the door to presumably let him out, Leon leaped to hit feet as well and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. The same as he had before the fake Ada chase. The motion alone caused Chris to pause immediately, suddenly back on those catwalks, suited in armor, gun ready.
The world seemed to still for several seconds.
“Your partner is gone, but it isn’t your fault. Stop beating yourself up so bad. People are worried about you, and you’re a good man, Chris. You don’t deserve what’s happened over the years.”
Anger flared up in Chris’s chest, “Weren’t your exact words to ‘forget all the bad shit?’ you think bringing up something like this is a good idea?”
He shoved Leon’s hand away from his shoulder before trying to step around him, but Leon moved to block his path, standing in front of him.
“I know what I said,” Leon’s expression hardened, “but enough is enough. You can’t keep living like this.”
Chris swallowed harshly, thinking of his words before he spoke, not wanting to have a blow up despite his rising frustration, “It’s none of your business. I don’t need to be coddled, Kennedy.”
This was escalating quickly. They both knew this. And yet they continued to stare each other down, neither one too quick to back away from an unspoken challenge. It had been the same before, of course—they were equally matched, and while they were dangerously approaching an outbreak of a true stand-off, they both knew deep down they could never bring themselves to harm each other in any form.
Again, Leon was the first one to break the silence.
“I know what it’s like. To feel alone,” he breathed, and that was that. The most vulnerable Chris had ever seen the man, and the most he would get for now.
The tension in the air melted away as Chris sagged, unsure of how to feel. He felt the anger still palatable, but was unsure how he could still feel angry, or even if he should. He was still frustrated for reasons he couldn’t quite place.
Seemingly weathered from the confrontation himself, Leon ran his gloved hand through his hair and then pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing. “Maybe it’s best if I do leave, actually.”
“You can stay. If you want.” Chris told him before Leon could even move to leave, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.
Leon didn’t reply, but nodded slightly, watching with a guarded expression as Chris sat back down onto the couch and sank into the armrest, grabbing the flask he’d sat down and topping it off again with the Whiskey bottle to his left.
Leon glanced at the ottoman, before choosing instead to sit next to Chris on the couch. An arms-length apart, but closer than they’d ever been. The atmosphere lulled into a comfortable silence once more.
Chris felt the agent’s arm brush against his as Leon reached for the Whiskey. As Leon relaxed into the couch, his leg sprawled out and leaning against Chris’s own. Chris continued to drink in silence, warmth spreading throughout his entire body and making its way down to his fingertips. His head started to swim, barely, but still there, and he chalked up the longing he suddenly felt to be just another side-effect of the alcohol.
The radio in the background droned on, and Chris’s mind conjured up a singular memory, one that for once, he didn’t mind remembering.
I know you’ll do the right thing, Chris.