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The steady, rhythmic thrum of the rotor blades vibrated through the reinforced hull of the Sikorsky UH-60, a low, bone-deep hum that resonated in the back of Leon’s jaw. Outside the small window, the Atlantic Ocean stretched out as an endless blanket of obsidian beneath a moonless sky, save for the occasional white-capped wave catching the distant, rhythmic flash of lighting miles off the starboard side.
Inside the cramped cabin, lit only by the low crimson glow of tactical night-lights, Leon S. Kennedy leaned back against the bulkhead. The air smelled of aviation fuel, damp wool, and weapon oil. He slid a wetstone along the fine edge of his combat knife with slow, deliberate strokes.
Scritch. Scritch.
Opposite him sat Chris Redfield.
Chris, truthfully was massive, taking up nearly two seats’ worth of space in his heavy BSAA tactical harness. He was meticulously rechecking his gear; a ritual born from decades of surviving horrors that should have killed him ten times over. He locked the slide back on his custom SIG-Sauer, checked the feed ramp under the red light, and let the steel snap forward with a crisp, metallic clack. His knuckles were bruised; fresh, dark purples and reds from a recent training bout or a prior op, though Leon didn't care to press the issue.
"You're going to dull the damn blade if you keep scraping it like that," Chris said, his voice deep and raspy over the low roar of the twin engines.
Leon didn't look up from the steel, the edge catching a glint of crimson. "It’s a habit. Keeps my hands busy so I don't sit here thinking about how much I hate floating on the open ocean."
"You survived an aircraft carrier in the Yellow Sea," Chris pointed out, sliding his sidearm back into its thigh holster and securing the thumb break with a soft click. "I think a luxury cruise liner won't swallow you whole."
"That carrier blew up, Chris. That’s my point." Leon finally sheathed the blade, the leather click sounding sharp in the close air. He looked across the aisle, dark eyes catching the ambient red light. "Besides, normal cruise ships have buffets and families. This one has a biological auction hosted by the remnant cells of Neo-Umbrella, corrupt diplomats, and black-market arms dealers. Frankly, I'd prefer the carrier."
Chris leaned forward, heavy forearms resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The sheer physical presence of the man filled the small compartment, but beneath the body armor and the rigid posture was a quiet, solid warmth; a grounded stability that Leon had come to rely on over the years, even if neither of them made a habit of spelling it out.
"Briefing stands," Chris said, his tone shifting cleanly into command mode. "The Pride of Neptune. Twelve decks, three thousand passengers, seventy percent of them completely oblivious tourists buying overpriced cocktails. The bottom three decks are a restricted zone; modified cargo holds converted into a high-security black-market floor. DSO intelligence says they’re showcasing a stabilized, aerosolized strain of the C-Virus variant tonight. Live demonstration for potential buyers."
"And BSAA provides the heavy door-kicking muscle," Leon said, a slight, familiar smirk touching the corner of his lips. "While DSO handles the delicate, soft-touch intelligence gathering."
"Soft touch?" Chris grunted, a short, gravelly laugh escaping him. "Last time you did 'soft touch' in Europe, you dropped an entire bell tower on a guy."
"It was a tactical structural collapse, Redfield. Big difference."
Chris shook his head, though the trace of a smile lingered around his eyes; tired, worn eyes that had seen too many dead worlds and lost too many good people. He reached into a pouch on his vest, pulled out a small, high-frequency encrypted earpiece, and tossed it across the small gap. Leon caught it effortlessly with one hand.
"Frequency set to tactical channel four," Chris said. "The rest of my squad is holding perimeter outside the three-mile international waters limit to avoid radar detection. Once you get inside the cargo bay security station and drop their internal signal jammers, I blow the starboard airlock doors and we secure the sample before it goes to the highest bidder."
"Clear and simple," Leon said, fitting the earpiece into his left ear and testing the seal. He stood up, steadying his footing against the gentle sway of the aircraft, and pulled down the lapels of his dark, form-fitting tactical jacket.
Chris stood as well, towering over Leon in the confined space. The gap between them closed instantly. Chris reached out, his heavy, gloved hand coming down to rest firm and warm against the crook of Leon’s neck and shoulder. The weight of it was grounding; a sudden, unyielding tether amidst the rising wind and the impending violence.
"Watch your back in there, Leon," Chris said, his voice dropping lower, stripping away the mission persona for a fleeting second. "No heroics. We do this clean, and we both walk out."
Leon met his gaze. Up close, he could see the faint lines etched around Chris’s eyes, the slight dust of gray at his temples, and the absolute, unshakeable focus that made Chris Redfield who he was. Leon brought his own hand up, covering Chris’s gloved fingers, feeling the rough calluses beneath the fabric. He gave a firm squeeze.
"When have I ever done anything heroics-free?" Leon murmured gently, a subtle spark of warmth softening his expression before he let his hand drop. "Just don't keep me waiting at the airlock."
Above the exit, the red jump light on the bulkhead flashed a steady, vibrant green. The crew chief slid the heavy side door open with a sharp mechanical groan, instantly filling the cabin with a deafening blast of ocean wind and the sharp, salty spray of the Atlantic.
Five hundred feet below, silhouetted against the dark water like a lit-up city floating on glass, lay the massive, gleaming expanse of the Pride of Neptune.
Leon stepped up to the edge of the open bay, hooking his rappelling line into the rig. He cast one last glance back over his shoulder at Chris, who was already gripping his rifle, watching him with an intense, unwavering focus that promised he wouldn't be far behind.
"See you on the inside, Captain," Leon called out over the roar of the wind.
With a fluid, practiced motion, he stepped off the ledge and vanished into the night.
xXxXxXxXxXx
The plunge through the Atlantic air was three seconds of pure weightlessness before the friction brake on Leon’s line caught with a sharp, violent jerk that rattled his teeth.
He swung smoothly onto the promenade deck of The Pride of Neptune, his boots making zero noise as they absorbed the impact against the polished teak wood. Disengaging his line with a practiced flick of his wrist, he let the cord reel back up into the gloom and melted instantly into the shadow of a grand promenade archway, lowering his night-vision visor.
The sharp tang of salt water mixed with the faint, decadent scent of imported cigar smoke and expensive perfume drifting down from the upper balconies. Above him, strings of warm, Edison-bulb lights glowed like fireflies against the dark sky; live jazz music filtered down softly from the main ballroom, complete with the distant clinking of crystal glasses.
Three thousand passengers were drinking vintage champagne five decks up, completely oblivious to the industrial-grade horror stacked in the belly of the vessel.
Leon tapped his earpiece twice, settling against the cold steel of the bulkhead. "Touchdown. Upper promenade deck. No initial contact."
"Copy that," Chris’s voice crackled through the earbud, low, rich, and steady despite the radio static. Hearing him in his ear gave Leon a strange, grounded focus amidst the cold dark. "Security patrol routes from the satellite intercept show heavy guard rotation near the aft service elevators. You’ve got a narrow window before the next team sweeps through."
"Moving now," Leon murmured.
He drew his suppressed VP70, keeping the barrel pointed toward the deck as he slipped through a set of heavy brass service doors. The transition from the warm, opulent luxury of The Pride of Neptune to the sterile, gray steel of its internal framework was instantaneous. The carpet gave way to diamond-plate steel, and the air turned icy, smelling of diesel exhaust, ozone, and the unmistakable, sickly-sweet metallic tinge of raw bio-weapon containment units.
Leon navigated the narrow catwalks with a quiet, fluid lethargy; a ghost in a dark jacket; his steps rhythmic and completely silent. He passed a pair of oblivious ship mechanics working on a hydraulic line, slipping right behind their backs without breaking stride.
Reaching the primary freight elevator shaft leading down into the sub-cargo levels, he pulled a compact electronic bypass device from his belt and slapped it against the keycard housing. The device hummed softly, cycling through algorithms until the red indicator blinked to a soft, approving green.
"I’m at the shaft," Leon reported, stepping into the industrial elevator. He hit the button for Sub-Level 3. "Initiating descent to the black-market floor."
"Keep your head down, Leon," Chris warned, the background noise on his end filled with the steady, familiar click of his BSAA squad checking their magazines aboard the fast-attack craft. "Sensor sweep shows at least twenty armed hostiles in that hold. And Leon... those aren't ordinary mercenaries. Intelligence flagged former Neo-Umbrella handlers in the mix."
"They never learn, do they?" Leon murmured as the heavy elevator began its clanking, unhurried drop into the bowels of the liner. "Always picking the worst possible venues for a reunion."
"Just drop the signal jammers so we can blow the starboard airlock. I don't want you down there alone any longer than you have to be." There was an unmistakable edge in Chris's voice; a protective, stubborn grit that made Leon’s chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the mission.
"Are you worried about me, Redfield?" Leon asked quietly, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips as the elevator groaned to a slow halt.
"Always," Chris replied without a second of hesitation, his voice deadpan and deadly serious. The raw honesty hung thick in the air between them across the encrypted frequency. "Now move."
"Roger that."
The heavy steel doors slid open with a sharp hydraulic hiss.
Leon stepped out into the deep shadows of an overhead maintenance catwalk, crouching low behind a row of exposed pipes. Below him lay the cavernous sub-cargo bay, bathed in the harsh, blue-white glare of mobile halogen floodlights.
Dozens of masked figures in tailor-made suits and military fatigues were gathered around a massive, clear containment chamber constructed in the center of the room. Inside the reinforced glass, suspended in a pale blue liquid, sat a steel canister etched with the unmistakable triple-hazard biohazard emblem. Surrounding the canister were four glass stasis tanks holding heavily mutated, pale Bio-Organic Weapons; skinless, muscular nightmares whose chests heaved in slow, rhythmic, sedated breaths.
A man in a pristine white suit stepped up to a podium, his voice echoing off the steel walls as he raised a microphone.
Leon adjusted his earbud, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the master signal jammer console near the far wall, guarded by three heavily armed mercs.
"I've found the market," Leon radioed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And Chris? You'd better hurry. They're opening the floor for bids."
xXxXxXxXxXx
Leon didn’t do subtle when money was on the line, but he certainly knew how to make an entrance.
Instead of slipping through the shadowed ventilation shafts like a dutiful operative, he sauntered off the overhead maintenance platform with effortless grace, vaulting the railing to land lightly on a stack of wooden shipping crates ten feet below. He didn't fire a shot; not yet. Instead, he smoothly tucked his suppressed sidearm into his jacket, adjusted the lapels of his dark tactical suit, and stepped straight into the harsh halogen floodlights of the auction floor.
"Excuse me," Leon drawled, his voice cool, smooth, and echoing over the PA system. "Is this where I register for the paddle? Or did I miss the complimentary mimosas?"
The entire floor froze.
Dozens of high-bidding arms dealers, corrupt diplomats, and masked Neo-Umbrella handlers turned in unison, glass champagne flutes slipping from gloved fingers to shatter against the steel deck.
"Leon, what the hell are you doing?" Chris’s voice exploded in his ear, tight and laced with instant, white-hot panic. "I hear chatter over their comms; you just walked right into the middle of the floor!"
"Making a splash," Leon murmured back, giving a lazy two-finger salute to a horrified buyer in a silk tux. "You told me to drop the jammers, Chris. I'm just creating a little market volatility first."
"Intruder!" the host in the pristine white suit shrieked into the podium microphone, his composure instantly shattering. "Kill him! Protect the canister!"
Four heavy mercenaries stepped forward, raising fully automatic carbines.
Leon didn't flinch. In one fluid, hypnotic motion, he unholstered his VP70, spun beneath the first guard’s barrel, and cracked the steel butt of his weapon across the man's jaw with a sickening crunch. The guard collapsed like a sack of bricks. Leon caught the falling carbine with his foot, kicked it upward into his waiting hand, and used it to sweep the feet out from under the second mercenary before vaulting off the man's chest.
Two more guards closed in, sidearms drawn. Leon ducked a heavy backhand swing, pivoting on his heel to grab the third guard’s wrist, twisting the man's arm until the pistol discharged harmlessly into the ceiling. Using the guard as a human shield, Leon drove him backward into the fourth mercenary, slamming both men hard into the steel support pillar. Before the fourth could recover, Leon delivered a blinding spin kick straight to his helmet, sending him sprawling across the deck.
He moved through the rising chaos like a dancer; sleek, fast, and completely unfazed by the sudden rain of gunfire splintering the nearby cargo crates. Ricochets hissed off the iron deck, but Leon was already past them, weaving between shipping containers as muzzle flashes strobed through the dim hold.
With three rapid, pinpoint shots, Leon took out the power relay above the master signal jammer console. Sparks showered down like fireworks as the unit groaned, its glowing red indicator lights dying instantly.
"Jammer’s down, Captain," Leon called out, vaulting over the podium and sending the host scrambling backward into a pile of velvet ropes. "The door is all yours. Bring the party."
"On my way," Chris growled over the comms, a fierce, dark satisfaction bleeding through the static. "Hold tight, Leon."
A heavy, explosive THOOM echoed through the ship's hull, shaking The Pride of Neptune to its very core. The starboard airlock doors erupted inward in a magnificent shower of twisted steel, shattered rivets, and orange flame. Shockwaves blew back the remaining guards, sending dust and smoke swirling through the vast cargo bay.
Through the rising smoke walked Chris Redfield.
He looked broad, lethal, and imposing; a wall of tactical armor and absolute authority. He held his assault rifle low, his dark eyes instantly cutting through the chaos of the room, past the screaming buyers and fleeing handlers, until they locked squarely onto Leon.
Two lingering Neo-Umbrella operatives charged out of the haze toward Chris, rifles raised. Without breaking stride, Chris swept his rifle up, driving the stock hard into the first man's chest plate before pivoting and laying out the second with a brutal, short-range strike. He discharged two quick rounds to neutralize the threats, never once taking his eyes off Leon for longer than a fraction of a second.
For a moment, amidst the blaring alarm sirens and flickering red emergency lights, the combat dissolved. Chris’s gaze softened just enough for a micro-expression of pure, unadulterated relief to wash over his features.
"You just can't stick to the damn plan, can you?" Chris called out over the sirens, stepping into the fray and effortlessly dropping another approaching guard with a precise two-round burst.
Leon casually leaned his shoulder against the glass containment chamber, sliding his sidearm back into its holster with a practiced flair. "Where’s the fun in a plan, Redfield? Besides... I knew you'd come tearing through that door to save me."
Chris marched right up to him, the heavy thud of his combat boots stopping mere inches from Leon’s toes. He reached out, his broad, gloved hand gripping the back of Leon’s neck; possessive, firm, and unyielding; pulling him just close enough that Leon could feel the intense heat radiating off his body armor.
"You're an idiot," Chris rumbled low, his thumb gently catching the line of Leon’s jaw, resting there just a second too long for a purely professional partnership.
"Your favorite idiot," Leon replied softly, smirking up at him, his hand coming up to rest against the sturdy plate of Chris’s chest armor.
Before Chris could answer, a deep, sickening crack resonated from inside the containment tank behind them. The reinforced glass holding the four pale, mutated Bio-Organic Weapons began to spiderweb with bright silver fractures, pale blue containment fluid starting to hiss through the seams.
Chris didn't break eye contact for another second, his thumb giving one last gentle brush against Leon's skin before he turned toward the cracking glass, unslung his shotgun, and racked the heavy slide with a satisfying clack.
"Let's finish this," Chris said.
"After you, Captain," Leon purred.
xXxXxXxXxXx
The containment unit exploded outward in a violent cascade of pressurized fluid and thick, reinforced glass.
Three hundred gallons of pale blue liquid surged across the deck, washing over Chris and Leon’s boots. From the shattered enclosure, four towering Bio-Organic Weapons; skinless, hyper-muscular abominations with elongated, whip-like appendages and exposed, pulsating ribcages; hit the deck with wet, bone-crunching thuds.
They didn't waste time disorienting themselves. With guttural, screeching roars that rattled the steel beams overhead, two of the creatures lunged immediately.
"Right side!" Chris barked, stepping smoothly in front of Leon to take the brunt of the charge.
Chris brought his heavy M40A1 shotgun up, planting his boots, and pulled the trigger point-blank into the chest of the lead BOW. The heavy buckshot blast tore through the creature's chest, staggering it back, but the second monster whipped its elongated forearm around, catching Chris hard across the tactical vest. The impact sent Chris sliding back six feet across the slick deck, his boots leaving dark streaks in the fluid.
Before the creature could follow up, Leon was already in motion.
Leon leaped onto a nearby steel container, used the momentum to vault over the creature's shoulders, and drove a combat knife straight down into the joint where its neck met the shoulder. The monster shrieked, thrashing violently, but Leon held firm, using his weight to twist the blade and sever the neural spinal stalk.
"Keep your head down!" Chris roared, recovering his footing instantly. He racked another shell and fired over Leon’s shoulder, catching the third BOW right in its gaping maw just as it prepared to strike Leon from behind.
The head exploded in a spray of black fluid, and the massive creature crumpled to the deck.
Sparks rained down from the damaged overhead light rigs, bathing the sub-cargo hold in an erratic, pulsing rhythm of shadow and harsh white light. The air was thick with the copper stench of bio-organic blood and burnt cordite.
The fourth and final monster, larger than the rest, reared back, its ribcage peeling back like a grotesque flower to reveal a glowing, unstable core; the aerosolized C-Virus variant loading into its chest chamber for release.
"It’s going to vent the strain!" Leon yelled, dropping from the dead creature's back and backing up to cover Chris’s left flank. "If that gas gets into the ship’s ventilation..."
"It won't," Chris grunted.
Chris reached to his belt, unhooked a heavy thermite grenade, pulled the pin with his teeth, and tossed it to Leon without looking. "You hit the core. I’ll keep it open."
"Got it."
Chris sprinted straight toward the hulking abomination. As the creature swung a massive, clawed arm down, Chris ducked low beneath the swipe, unholstered his sidearm, and jammed the barrel directly into the creature's exposed shoulder joint, emptying the entire magazine to shatter the tendons and force the monster's chest cavity to stay wide open.
"Now, Leon!" Chris shouted, holding the creature's thrashing limb with sheer, brute physical strength, his arm muscles straining against his tactical sleeve.
Leon didn't hesitate. He primed the thermite charge, bounded forward using Chris’s knee as a springboard, and shoved the incendiary device directly into the glowing core of the creature's chest.
"Move!" Leon yelled, grabbing Chris by the harness straps and pulling him backward with all his weight.
They threw themselves behind a heavy steel blast crate a split second before the thermite ignited. A white-hot flash flared through the hold, accompanied by a muffled FOOM as two thousand degrees of chemical fire consumed the creature from the inside out, disintegrating the virus canister before it could disperse into the air.
For a long moment, the only sound in the ruined cargo bay was the dull hiss of melting metal, the crackle of dying electrical fires, and the heavy, ragged breathing of two men leaning against the same steel crate.
Chris slammed the back of his head gently against the metal, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temple. He looked over at Leon.
Leon’s dark jacket was torn at the shoulder, covered in pale blue fluid and soot, his hair sticking to his forehead. But his eyes were bright, locked onto Chris with an intensity that made the surrounding destruction fade away completely.
"Not bad for a night on the water," Leon breathed out, a small, weary smirk playing on his lips.
Chris didn't laugh this time. He turned his head, staring at Leon in the dim, pulsing emergency lights. Without saying a word, Chris reached over, his broad, bare fingers; his glove discarded somewhere in the fight; sliding into the back of Leon’s hair.
He pulled Leon in close.
Leon went willingly, closing the small distance between them until his forehead rested against Chris's. They breathed in the same hot, oxygen-starved air, two men who had fought through hell together for decades, finally standing still in the quiet after the storm.
"You're going to get yourself killed one of these days," Chris whispered, his thumb resting gently against the curve of Leon’s jaw, hot and heavy against his cool skin.
"Not while I've got you around to clean up my mess," Leon murmured back, his fingers coming up to tangle in the front of Chris’s tactical vest, gripping tightly. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, Redfield."
Chris’s eyes darkened, a rare, profound tenderness breaking through his hardened exterior. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Leon's in a soft, lingering kiss; a silent promise made amidst smoke and steel, grounding them both in a world that so rarely allowed them peace.
xXxXxXxXxXx
The taste of smoke and copper melted away the moment Chris pulled Leon deeper into the kiss.
It wasn't desperate or hurried; it was slow, deep, and heavy with the weight of years left unsaid. Chris’s large hand remained cupped around the back of Leon’s neck, his thumb tracing the warm line behind his ear, anchoring him in place. Leon let out a quiet, shuddering breath against Chris’s lips, his fingers tightening in the thick material of Chris’s tactical vest, pulling him closer until there wasn't an inch of air left between them.
When Chris finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction. His forehead remained rested against Leon’s, their shared breath misting in the cooling air of the ruined hold.
"BSAA extraction team is five minutes out," Chris murmured, his voice lower and rougher than usual. His eyes swept over Leon’s face, checking every line for hidden pain or injury. "We need to clear the upper decks before the ship's security recovers from the shockwave."
Leon let out a dry, breathy chuckle, his hand lingering on Chris’s chest plate before he slowly let his fingers slide down. "Right. Can't have the regular maritime authorities asking why two federal agents blew up the bottom half of a billion-dollar cruise liner."
"Technically," Chris said, offering a hand to help Leon up, "you blew up the jammers. I blew up the airlock."
"Team effort," Leon said, taking Chris’s hand. Chris pulled him up in one effortless motion, keeping his grip on Leon’s hand just a second longer than necessary before releasing it.
They moved quickly through the wreckage of the sub-cargo floor. The threat was neutralized; the C-Virus sample consumed by thermite, the host dead, and the remaining Neo-Umbrella handlers fleeing toward the upper lifeboats. The ship’s internal alarm system had shifted from the sharp, pulsing red of a bio-containment breach to the steady yellow amber of a hull emergency, indicating the automated bulkheads had successfully sealed off the damaged starboard airlock.
Leon retrieved his suppressed VP70 from the deck, checking the magazine out of sheer muscle memory before re-holstering it. "What about the three thousand tourists upstairs?"
"BSAA air support jammed the ship's external comms three minutes ago," Chris replied, leading the way toward the secondary service stairwell. "To them, it felt like an engine backfire or hitting a rogue wave. By the time they dock in Miami, the BSAA will have wiped the security footage and spun a story about a generator failure."
"Smooth," Leon said, following close behind Chris’s shoulder as they climbed the narrow steel stairs, heading back toward the upper promenade. "Almost professional."
"I have my moments."
They reached the top of the stairwell, pushing through the heavy fire doors to emerge into a secluded maintenance corridor on Deck 4, just off the main passenger promenade. The contrast was staggering. Through the decorative stained-glass double doors at the end of the hall, the soft, muffled sounds of jazz music and light laughter could still be heard.
Chris stopped near a recessed doorway, stepping out of the direct line of sight from the main corridor. He unlatched his heavy rifle sling, setting the weapon down against the wall, and unclipped his primary chest harness, letting the heavy, soot-covered Kevlar drop to the floor with a dull thud.
Without the bulky body armor, Chris looked less like an impenetrable military commander and more like the man Leon knew beneath the uniform; broad, tired, but immensely grounded.
Leon leaned back against the steel wall, watching him. "You look beat, Redfield."
"I am beat," Chris admitted, wiping a hand down his face, leaving a smudge of dark soot across his jaw. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Leon with that same quiet intensity from earlier. "It's been a long year."
"Yeah," Leon said softly, his playful demeanor softening into something genuine. "It has."
Chris took two slow steps forward, closing the space between them once again. He reached out, his thumb gently catching a small smear of blue containment fluid on Leon’s cheekbone and wiping it away with careful, deliberate pressure.
"My squad’s boat is going to take the biological samples back to the pier," Chris said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through Leon’s chest. "But we have a DSO transport chopper landing on the helipad in ten minutes."
Leon raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk touching his lips. "Is that right? And where is this chopper taking us?"
"Wherever we want," Chris said, his hand sliding down from Leon's cheek to rest firmly against the back of his neck again, fingers tangling gently in his hair. "A safehouse in Maine. A quiet hotel in Boston. Somewhere without sirens, monsters, or command centers."
Leon looked up into Chris’s eyes, seeing the uncharacteristic vulnerability sitting right beneath the surface; a simple, honest offer from a man who spent his entire life running into fires, asking to finally sit down in the quiet with the one person who understood the cost.
Leon reached up, wrapping his hand over Chris’s wrist, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse beneath his skin.
"Maine sounds quiet," Leon murmured, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Chris’s mouth.
"Lead the way, Captain."
xXxXxXxXxXx
The steady, dull beat of the transport chopper's rotors was a soothing rhythm compared to the chaos of The Pride of Neptune. Outside the reinforced window, the vast, black horizon slowly began to yield to the first faint ribbons of dawn, painting the Atlantic skyline in soft hues of lavender and dusty rose.
Inside the cabin, the harsh fluorescent lights were turned off. The only illumination came from the soft, amber glow of the cockpit instruments.
Leon sat low on the bench, his head resting back against the cold wall of the cabin. His tactical jacket had been shed, leaving him in a dark, form-fitting henley that clung to the lean, cut muscle of his shoulders. His body throbbed with the dull, familiar ache of adrenaline withdrawal; every pulled tendon, every bruised rib coming into sharp focus now that the fight was over.
Beside him, Chris sat equally exhausted. He had stripped off his combat vest and gloves, wearing only a dark olive shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing thick, scarred forearms.
The silence between them was rare; a peaceful, undisturbed quiet that neither man took for granted.
Chris shifted, his shoulder brushing against Leon's. Without looking up, Leon let his head tilt sideways, resting it against Chris’s broad shoulder. Chris didn't pull away; instead, he raised an arm, draping it over Leon’s back and pulling him in closer until Leon was practically tucked against his chest. The heavy, steady heat radiating off Chris was an instant anchor.
"You're quiet," Chris rumbled softly, his voice thick with exhaustion.
"Just enjoying the lack of things trying to eat us," Leon murmured, his eyes closed. He reached across, resting his hand casually on Chris’s thigh, his fingers absently tracing the heavy fabric of his pants. "How long until we hit the airbase?"
"Forty minutes to the coast. Another hour by car to the cabin." Chris’s hand slid up to Leon’s shoulder, his thumb gently massaging the tight, knotted muscle where Leon had taken a hard hit during the fight. "No comms. No debriefs until Monday. I already told HQ we were going dark for containment quarantine protocols."
Leon let out a soft, amused hum. "Lying to command? That’s not very BSAA of you, Redfield."
"I learned from the best," Chris replied, a faint, rare trace of amusement in his tone. He turned his head, pressing a warm, lingering kiss into Leon’s damp hair.
Leon lifted his head slightly, looking up at Chris through his parted bangs. Up close, in the quiet dimness of the cabin, the harsh edge Chris wore on the battlefield was entirely absent. What remained was just the man; worn by decades of war, heavily scarred, but unyielding in his devotion to keeping the people he cared about safe.
"You did good back there, Chris," Leon said, his voice dropping into something surprisingly soft, stripped of his usual sarcastic armor. "I mean it."
Chris looked down at him, his dark eyes locking onto Leon’s with an intensity that made Leon’s heart give a subtle, unexpected flutter. Chris reached up, his large, rough hand gently cupping Leon’s cheek, his callused thumb brushing across his jawline.
"I had a good reason to make sure we both made it out," Chris said quietly.
Leon smiled, the smirk melting into something genuine and warm. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a second as Chris’s thumb stroked his skin. "Yeah. Maine."
"Yeah," Chris agreed softly. "Maine."
Chris pulled him up just enough to capture his lips in another slow, deep kiss. It was soft and unhurried, tasting faintly of salt and the lingering edge of exhaustion, but grounded in a quiet certainty that neither of them had felt in a long time. Leon melted into it, his fingers tangling in the fabric of Chris’s shirt, anchoring himself to the steady rhythm of Chris’s heartbeat beneath his palm.
When they finally broke apart, Leon rested his chin against Chris’s chest, watching the sunrise bleed across the horizon through the window. For the first time in years, the future didn't look like another warzone. It just looked like peace.
xXxXxXxXxXx
The coast of Maine smelled of salt pine, crushed granite, and damp earth; a stark, cleansing contrast to the metallic tang of bio-organic fluid and burning cordite.
The cabin sat at the edge of a rocky bluff overlooking the gray Atlantic, isolated from the nearest small town by miles of dense timberland. It was a rugged, timber-framed refuge that Chris had acquired years ago through a blind trust; a place that didn't exist on any BSAA or DSO registry.
By the time the dark SUV pulled into the gravel driveway, the sky had settled into a soft, overcast afternoon gray. Rain began to patter gently against the pine needles as Chris cut the engine.
Inside the quiet vehicle, neither man moved right away.
Leon sat in the passenger seat, his head resting against the headrest, staring out at the mist rolling over the tree line. The adrenaline had completely left his system, leaving his limbs heavy and every joint aching. His dark jacket was folded on the back seat, leaving him in his torn henley, his hair messily sticking to his forehead.
Chris turned in his seat, watching him. He reached over, his heavy, warm hand settling over Leon’s knee, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"Home stretch," Chris said softly, his voice low and raspy from fatigue.
Leon looked over, a faint, tired smile softening the sharp contours of his face. He placed his hand over Chris’s, feeling the steady heat beneath his palm. "I don't think I've ever been this glad to see a patch of trees in my life."
They got out slowly, the cool, rain-scented air hitting them like a splash of cold water. Chris retrieved their duffel bags from the back while Leon stretched, a low groan escaping him as his ribs protested the movement.
Inside, the cabin was quiet and dark. Chris walked straight to the stone fireplace, kneeling down to light the seasoned birch logs already stacked in the hearth. Within minutes, a warm, golden glow flickered across the exposed timber walls, filling the room with the crackle of wood fire and the scent of sweet cedar.
Leon dropped his bag by the wooden couch and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the waves crash against the black rocks far below.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind.
Chris pulled Leon back against his broad chest, burying his face in the crook of Leon’s neck. The sheer physical warmth of him seeped right through Leon’s thin shirt. Leon let out a long, quiet sigh, relaxing completely into Chris’s hold, tilting his head back to rest against Chris’s shoulder.
"You're freezing," Chris murmured against his skin, his lips pressing a soft, warm kiss into the line of Leon’s neck.
"Just tired," Leon admitted softly, turning slightly within Chris’s arms so he could face him. He reached up, his fingers gently tracing the dark scruff along Chris’s jaw, sliding up to touch the faint gray at his temples. "We actually made it, Hon."
Chris looked down at him, his dark eyes reflecting the warm orange light of the fire. The tension that Chris always carried in his shoulders; the invisible burden of a man trying to save every life in the world; finally seemed to thaw.
"Yeah," Chris whispered. "We made it, Darlin'."
He leaned down, taking Leon’s lips in a deep, slow kiss that tasted of quiet relief. There was no urgency here, no ticking clock or blaring sirens; just two men who had given everything to a violent world, finally taking a piece of it back for themselves. Leon’s arms slipped up around Chris’s neck, pulling him closer, anchoring himself to the solid, unshakeable warmth of the man in his arms.
Epilogue:
Two days later, the rain had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, brilliant autumn sky.
The bedroom of the cabin was filled with the soft, golden light of early morning filtering through the high pine trees. The room was warm, smelled of fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen below, and was completely, delightfully quiet.
Leon woke up slowly, floating up from the deepest, most dreamless sleep he had experienced in years.
He was tangled in heavy wool blankets and soft cotton sheets, but the real warmth came from the broad, solid presence beside him. Chris was lying on his side, one heavy arm draped possessively over Leon’s waist, his large hand resting flat against Leon’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.
Leon didn't move for a long time. He just lay there, watching the sunlight bounce off the wooden ceiling, listening to the soft, even sound of Chris breathing beside him.
Eventually, Chris shifted, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes opened. The moment his gaze found Leon, the hard, watchful edge that defined Captain Redfield melted completely away, replaced by a quiet, affectionate warmth reserved for Leon alone.
"Morning," Chris rumbled, his voice deep and heavy with sleep.
"Morning," Leon replied gently, a soft, genuine smile touching his lips. He reached out, his fingers absently tracing the long, faint scar running along Chris’s bicep. "How’d you sleep?"
"Like a dead man," Chris admitted, letting out a low, content sound as he pulled Leon an inch closer, burying his nose against Leon’s temple. "Haven't slept like that since... I don't even remember."
"Me neither," Leon murmured, sliding his hand up to cup the back of Chris’s head, tangling his fingers in his short hair.
Chris tilted his head up, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the corner of Leon’s mouth, then another to the center of his lips. It was tender, intimate, and entirely unhurried.
"HQ called this morning," Chris murmured against his skin, his thumb gently stroking Leon’s hip beneath the sheets. "Left a message on the secure line. DSO and BSAA officially signed off on the mission report. The C-Virus strain is destroyed, and the paper trail is buried."
Leon let out a soft laugh against Chris’s chest. "So we're officially dead to the world for another five days?"
"Officially," Chris confirmed, pulling the blanket higher over both of them. "Which means you're stuck with me."
Leon looked up into Chris’s dark, fond eyes, seeing the quiet promise of a future they were finally building together, step by step, out of the ashes of their pasts. He reached up, capturing Chris’s mouth in another warm, lingering kiss.
"Chris," Leon whispered softly against his lips, "there's nowhere else I'd rather be."