#serrafield (?) feels right to me

[goodpointsandbadpoints]

hi, hello, how about 23 and 25? :3 maybe Chris/Luis (or Chris/Luis/Leon?) since you managed to write a post about that after i had spent the night before thinking about it out of nowhere, which was a coincidence I found funny

have a good day :D

hello!! thank you so much! I'm not kidding when I say I spent days trying to figure out a scene for them. I went with post-re8 angst and softness (my weakness). I hope you like it! 🩵

Pairing: Chris/Luis.

23: wearing someone's clothes, and 25: falling asleep in their arms (prompts)

-

His leadership role is mostly a formality, something useful to have in case people need to point to the one in charge. He’ll take it up when he needs to.

They needed it today. 

He’s had to point fingers before—at suits, at himself, at the bogeyman. He’ll do it again now, fresh off of the flight from Romania, getting through the main gates at HQ. 

He’s tired. 

The day sweeps by before he can fully grasp it. A burst of fire in the morning, empty sky for hours, and then numbness. Buildings, parking lots, counting floor numbers.  

He remembers negotiating things, standing in hallways and making sure the Winters didn’t disappear behind double doors. He wanted them where he could see them for once. Maybe this time, it would help, but part of him doubts it. 

They were in the hotel room across from his. Mia doesn’t want to see him, understandably, but she let him find a place for the night. He’s counted three cars out front that aren’t civilian. Where their drivers are now is anyone’s guess.

He smokes on the balcony, knowing people are watching him. 

“I thought you said to keep warm.”

Behind him, he hears a familiar laugh under a breath, and a set of rings tapping. 

“I’ll just be a minute,” Chris says. 

“You should come inside.” Luis doesn't leave. “You know you wouldn’t let me be out here.” 

Sighing, smoke and condensation hanging in the air, he turns around. 

For all the lightness in his voice, Luis looks as tired as he does. Chris could argue, he could bring up that Luis is the one with poor circulation, or that the night isn’t as cold here as it was in the mountains. But Luis is stern.

It’s the middle of the night. The place is quiet, like it should be. But he feels like something is creeping around the corner, waiting for them around these hallways he doesn’t know, perched under streetlights, waiting to grab what he’s trying to secure. 

In bed, he rubs his eyes. He hears Luis bring his wheelchair up to the bedside, the soft grunt as he stands and makes the short transition onto the mattress. The sheets smell like detergent and that sweet uncanniness of staying under an unfamiliar roof. 

When he goes to pull the blankets over them, he feels Luis’ foot against his ankle. It’s cold.

“Where are your socks?” he asks.

“They were soaked.”

Brief steps from the van to the chair had been enough to do it then. Only a few times, but the snow was deep. 

Luis keeps shifting to get comfortable. Any other day, they would have been able to find replacements, or at least find a dryer to throw everything into. 

Chris climbs out of bed. 

They’d left their things—duffel bags, and whatever cases he didn’t feel okay leaving in the van outside—in a pile in the corner. He rifles through his.

When the wadded pair of socks lands in front of him, Luis huffs. “Thanks.” 

He turns on his side and pulls up his legs, one at a time, but he doesn’t have his usual tools on him right now. 

It’s so cold all the time. Chris can’t tell if it’s just lingering from where they’ve been—hanging in Luis’ knuckles as Chris gently takes over, pressed into their skin like being in those mountains had branded them with something. He rolls the socks over Luis’ ankles. 

A hand comes to run through his hair. He shuts his eyes. 

“Better?” he asks. 

Luis’ palm slides down over his forehead, then up once more. “Get some sleep.” 

A piece of something familiar. He sighs shakily.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sleep right now. Not when he can still feel this morning sitting around him like a scene, or the traces of an emotion he hadn’t been able to finish at the time. 

He’ll feign it, at least. Like so many other times, he pulls Luis closer, keeping out the cold, and he breathes slowly enough that it could be sleeping.

(collection on ao3)