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Leon’s so tired.
The front steps of the weathered townhouse seem to swim in his bleary vision, the compact brick building—the one Leon’s been sharing with Chris since they got engaged—highlighted in the dreary gray of the lightly-drizzling rain clouds overhead. It takes more effort than it should to get up to the door, Leon’s hands shaking around his keyring when he goes to unlock it. A brisk wind sweeps across his forehead, rustling his bangs, and Leon shivers involuntarily despite the leather jacket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair is damp and lank against his forehead. God, he hates the rain.
The lock clicks with a final frustrated twist, and Leon stumbles gratefully into the warm entryway of the house. The lights are on, the kitchen aglow where Leon can see it around the corner, and he sighs in relief. The aroma of spices and cooking food fills the house, and Leon lets himself relax for the first time in… he doesn’t even know how many weeks it’s been since he was able to come home, aching body forced on mission after mission until the DSO legally couldn’t keep him working longer without some sort of overtime pay.
“In here!” Chris calls from the kitchen, baritone voice the sweetest thing Leon’s heard in a long while. He peels off his jacket, goosebumps forming on his skin under the thin t-shirt he still wears despite the warmth of the room, but Leon pays it no mind. He makes his way to the kitchen, blinking against the sudden wave of dreamlike haziness that’s descending over him, like he’s adrift in fog. His head pulses, a deep, throbbing ache that’s been plaguing him all day.
“Hey!” Chris greets cheerfully when Leon enters the green-and-white tiled kitchen, his burly form wrapped in a tacky, hamburger-patterned apron that Claire had gotten him for Christmas a few years prior. His muscular biceps stick out from under a tight-fitting black t-shirt, but Leon doesn’t have the presence of mind to appreciate the view for as long as he normally does.
“Hi,” he says tiredly, forcing a smile and welcoming the sensation of Chris’s arms wrapping around him in a warm, solid embrace that smells like rich spices and clean-scented body wash. Leon melts into Chris’s touch, sighing when Chris captures his mouth in a long, slow kiss that washes away every ache and pain. They stay like that for a moment, Chris’s large hand coming up to stroke Leon’s cheekbone.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, pulling away to press their foreheads together. There’s a pause as Chris suddenly hesitates on whatever else he’d been about to say, and Leon can feel the muscles of his forehead arrange themselves into a frown. “Are you getting sick? You’re kind of warm.”
Is he? Leon’s not sure, and he’s too tired to think about it. He makes a noncommittal noise, shifting away from Chris to lean against the granite counter. Chris looks concerned, the telltale crease he wears when he’s stressed beginning to form between his brows.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Leon says faintly, his smile feeling wan even to himself. Chris doesn’t look convinced, opening his mouth to respond—only to be interrupted by the beeping of the oven, a shrill chime that has him smiling again.
“Go sit down,” he urges, pulling out a blue-and-white patterned potholder. “I’ll bring it over to you. Mind grabbing the salad?”
Chris, it seems, has thought of everything, a large bowl of freshly-tossed caesar salad greeting Leon when he turns to head towards the table. A plate of golden garlic toast sits beside it, and Leon feels a warm wave of gratitude wash through him. They don’t get to do this often, but Chris does his best to cook comfort food whenever Leon gets home from long missions, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. He shoves down the lump in his throat as Chris places a steaming tray of lasagna on the trivet in the centre of the table.
“How much do you want?” Chris asks, already slicing the pasta up into squares. Leon’s mouth waters at the sight of homemade tomato sauce and melting cheese, suddenly aware of how little he’s eaten in the past few days. He holds his plate aloft, doing his best to grin.
“Load her up, chef.”
The pasta is perfect, as usual, the perfect balance of savory and spicy that normally makes Leon’s taste buds sing—but he finds himself stalling out only halfway through his portion, blinking down at the inexplicably unappealing food. He must zone out, because Chris trails off with whatever he’d been saying, his own plate overflowing with salad and enough carbohydrates that Leon’s getting acid reflux just looking at it. Leon blinks through a wave of dizziness to meet his gaze, subtly clutching at the table to keep himself steady. Woah, there.
Chris’s expression is so soft it almost hurts, a sad smile on his face as he spins a noodle around his fork.
“Too rich? Sorry, I should’ve made something lighter.”
“No, just not hungry.” Leon shakes his head, reaching up to press a hand to his aching temples. The warm kitchen lights are beginning to feel piercingly bright, blaring into his strangely sensitive pupils and encouraging the spikes of pain slowly intensifying in his skull. “It’s delicious, I just—”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m—” Leon stifles a cough, a wave of exhaustion making him sway in place. His ears ring, and he doesn’t hear what Chris says next, too focused on staying conscious to listen through the haze. A large, strong hand finds his shoulder blade, rubbing Leon’s back gently through the fabric of his skin-tight athletic shirt.
“Do you want to lie down?” Chris’s worried voice echoes in his ears, and Leon can only nod, trying and failing to stand from his seat. It’s like everything is hitting him at once—all the bruises and injuries he’s sustained over the past few weeks crashing down on him in a wave, his muscles suddenly weak and unwieldy. Chris catches him before he falls, a sturdy arm wrapping its way under Leon’s shoulder. The table clatters. “Easy. I got you, just lean on me.”
The world blurs, and the next thing Leon knows, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed as Chris shucks off his jeans and slides a soft t-shirt over Leon’s head. He blinks, and an instant later he’s being tucked under the comforter, the slide of sheets like heaven against his aching body. He sighs, letting his eyes flutter shut. Chris murmurs something, a warm kiss landing on Leon’s forehead, but Leon’s so tired he slips away between breaths, finally succumbing to the heavy pull of sleep.
He doesn’t know how long it is before he wakes up again, eyes aching and head heavy like he’s being drowned in syrup. He feels strangely fuzzy, mouth dry and waves of dizziness assaulting his senses when he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. He shivers, groaning. His head hurts something fierce, pulsing agony jolting into the top of his skull if he moves so much as a muscle. He coughs, the rattle of it shaking his entire chest, and it’s deep enough to make his ribcage ache when he gasps on his next breath.
“Hey, babe,” Chris says softly, swimming into focus at the side of the bed. He looks concerned. There’s a digital thermometer in his hand, and he lifts it, the smile on his face too pinched to be real. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I want to see what your temperature’s at.”
Leon feels too much like liquid to bother with a response, unprotesting when Chris slides the cool plastic of the thermometer under his tongue. A callused hand finds his jaw, stroking the stubble, and Leon lets his eyes flutter closed. His hair feels sweaty and damp where it clings to his forehead, that awful chill still twining around his bones. He shivers again, and Chris tuts, adjusting the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“Almost done, Leon. I just want to know if I should be worried about your fever.”
By the sounds of it, he already is, but Leon just hums in assent and focuses on staying awake. It doesn’t really work. Leon can't help but doze, lost in the murky haze of half-sleep until the device in his mouth beeps, the metal end of it scraping his teeth when Chris pulls it away.
“102 on the dot.” Chris sighs, pressing the back of his hand to Leon’s cheek like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. “Damn. We’ll have to keep an eye on it. How are you feeling?”
“Bad,” Leon mumbles, a paroxysm of coughs punctuating his attempt to answer. He’s trembling by the time it’s over; weak, pained, and still so tired that he feels like he could sleep for a month. Something cool finds his lips, Chris’s hand cradling the back of Leon’s head so fresh water can run down his throat, soothing and chilled enough to calm the burning in his veins. He sighs, sagging against the pillow. Leon can solidly say that this is the worst he’s felt in a long time—even with all the screwed-up situations he finds himself in on a weekly basis, he rarely feels this weak or exhausted, barely able to think through the uncomfortable chills. He manages to pry open his eyelids again, staring up at Chris’s concerned face when gentle fingers begin to card through Leon’s bangs.
“That cough doesn’t sound very good. Why don’t I go get you some cough syrup, and maybe a couple ibuprofen, and you can take another nap, hey? I don’t want you to get any sicker.” The hand leaves Leon’s hair, and he protests before he can think about it, reaching sluggishly out to knot his fingers in the hem of Chris’s shirt.
“Don’t go,” he slurs, tongue tripping over syllables that should be easy. There’s a desperation to his tone he hadn’t expected, but all he knows is that he doesn’t want Chris to leave—in his addled mind, all he can think is that they haven’t seen each other in forever, and if Chris leaves now Leon might not see him again before the government calls him off for another new mission. It doesn’t quite make sense, because his subconscious is pretty sure Hunnigan’s arranged for a week of mandated rest, but tears are beginning to form in his eyes and he can’t quite remember what’s true and what’s not.
“Shh,” Chris murmurs, a large thumb brushing under Leon’s eye to wipe away something damp. “I’m right here. What’s wrong?”
“Stay,” is all Leon can plead. Chris makes a soft noise, the pad of his thumb tracking gently back and forth over the jut of Leon's cheekbone. The bed dips, a heavy weight settling on the mattress, and Leon finds himself being pulled into a solid embrace a moment later. Chris's thick arms hold him close, his cheek pressed up against Chris's collarbone in a warm, tight hug. His vision has gone blurry again, but it doesn't matter because Chris has started humming, a low vibration that travels straight through him—and something long-broken in Leon's chest clicks back into place. This feels right. Good. Safe.
"Love you," he tries to mumble, but it gets muffled in the wall of muscle resting against his face. Chris shushes him again, stroking the back of his hair.
"I'm here. Get some sleep."
Secure in Chris's strong arms, Leon does.