Chapter Text
"And the only way back to my dignity / was to turn into a shrouded mystery" -Taylor Swift
2015
Claire Redfield hasn't been the same since her discharge from the hospital. Leon had circled the car around while the nurses guided her out front, rolling down the window to take notice of the vacant look on her face.
"Does she need help getting in?" He asked them. They shook their heads, each carefully grasping an arm and depositing her in his passenger seat.
The hum of the engine was the only sound in the air as Claire absentmindedly buckled her seatbelt.
Leon turned his head to study her. Her lips were downturned, hair flat, cheeks pale. He knew she needed to be home, to shower off the smell of antiseptic and chase away whatever was currently plaguing her with sleep.
But admittedly, he hated this. The silence. The never knowing what was swirling around in her head.
"Claire," he urged softly. "You okay? How are you feeling now?"
She didn't even glance at him, and that stung in its own way. "Fine."
He white-knuckled the steering wheel in an attempt to stay calm, to be gentle with her like she deserved. Even though he wanted to shake her shoulders and let her true feelings spill out.
The drive home was almost completely silent, until Claire did something that secretly thrilled him. Her slender hands reached out carefully to fiddle with the buttons of the radio, turning the dial until an Adele song drifted through the speakers.
No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do… to make you feel my love.
Leon glanced over, just barely, his eyes widening as he spotted a small smile grace her lips. It felt like a victory.
"You like this song?" He asked, almost afraid to interfere with the moment.
"I like how much she feels every lyric," Claire answered. Her eyes fluttered shut.
He tried to feel it too, at first as an attempt to pick through the warm spots of her mind she hadn't yet let him see, but he really did resonate with the song.
"Bob Dylan wrote it, you know," she added quietly.
"Shit. Really?" Maybe that's why he liked it so much.
"Yeah."
The rest of the ride was quiet, but in a different way, soulful music wrapping around them like unspoken truths.
When Leon pulled up in front of her apartment complex—she really needed to move, this was not a great area—they sat in silence for a few moments. He pushed the parking brake forward.
"You'll need some help up those stairs."
"I've got it," she insisted, little emotion bleeding through, which was slightly alarming. Usually, his insistence to help evoked deep annoyance or anger in her.
He was tired, too. He didn't press.
"Alright."
Claire opened the door, moving to exit the car before his hand urgently wrapped around her wrist. The goosebumps that broke out in response must've been his senses playing tricks on him.
"Claire, I—" He cut himself off. Swallowed. "I'm glad you're okay."
Her light eyes on his weren't as warm as they were in the hospital. "Thanks. For… uh… for your help."
Leon deflated a little, releasing her wrist. His hand immediately felt colder. "Anytime. I'll check in tomorrow, okay? And we have our next meeting the day after."
Her face twisted. It was the smallest indication that she was feeling anything at all.
He waited for her to say something.
She didn't. Just… shut the car door and stalked toward the building.
And even now, hours later, as he flicks his headlights off and grabs his things from the seat that once occupied her, it's hard to shake the feeling that she'll never be the same.
The pavement is slick with the long-awaited winter shower. He wipes his feet off on the rug upon entering the lobby: it's one of those rent-an-office spaces, a small luxury he affords himself to complete busy work and also feel like a normal human being for a change.
Leon trudges down the network of hallways before swiping his badge against his office door.
His mind is occupied, tangled in all the smoke and shadows of Claire Redfield, but his senses never dull. That's how he knows someone is in his office before turning the door handle.
He nudges it open, scanning with bated breath and a hand ready to draw the knife from his boot. This is how it has always been: the never-ending battle, the fight that's never won. He can feel the phantom bruises blooming up his cheekbones, the split lip dripping blood down his chin.
"Long time no see."
Jill had spoken the sentence entirely different. But this voice… it's saccharine, affectionate, mocking.
His chest releases that balloon of air. He shuts the door behind them harder than he intends to. "I'm busy."
"Well, that's no way to greet an old flame."
She's perched on one of the chairs. Her long legs are crossed elegantly in front of her, peeking through a satin dress. That was once an invitation. Maybe it still is.
Leon doesn't ask how she found out which office was his, or how she entered it. He doesn't really care anymore. "Ada—"
"Too busy playing savior with your alcoholic friend, is that it?"
He hesitates just a beat too long, an old tell that years of training couldn't shake. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Ada clicks her tongue in disapproval. "Don't play coy. She's wasting away on that bed of hers as we speak."
Leon's fists curl into themselves in response, crimson blooming where his blunt fingernails strike the meat of his palm. "Leave her out of this."
"She's been in this all along. It's too bad that her and Raccoon City are doomed to share the same fate: soon to be nothing but a desolate wasteland."
He slams his fists down on his desk to drown out her words, chest heaving uncomfortably.
"What will you do when she relapses, alone in that fourth-floor apartment, with nothing but the memory of you to keep her breathing? You'll be out in some foreign country, fighting a virus so different from hers, entirely powerless to reach her."
"Stop," he snarls, rounding on her fast enough that she blinks, a subtle show of surprise. "You don't know the first thing about Claire."
A cold hand cups his stubbled cheek. It's been so long… so long since he's been touched. He can almost pretend it's comforting as his breathing remains unsteady.
"No," Ada whispers. "But I know you."
There's a long stretch of quiet. Her eyes dart to his lips like she might lunge for them, before adding, "Don't waste the best years of your life on a woman who wants to die."
Leon's face hardens. He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to her forehead, mumbling against it, "That's where your intel is wrong, Ada. The best years of my life have always had her in them."
She doesn't know why she's still alive.
The certainty of that is pounding against her skull viciously as she fumbles with the cap of the benzos.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
She can control her impulses, she can.
A stabbing pain shoots through Claire's temples. She clutches her head. A picture flashes over her eyelids.
There are pills scattered over the tile, caught in the grout lines. She doesn't know why she spilled them. She didn't spill them. She didn't spill them. She didn't spill—
Claire yells her throat hoarse, sinking to her knees on the carpet next to the bed. The pill bottle clatters to the ground in a familiar display. It continues to roll until it catches against the building pile of dirty clothes in the corner.
The blinds are crooked and broken. Her sheets, dusted with stars and spaceships like a kid's, are tangled up around her waist.
And as she crumples against the cushioned ground like a defeated cockroach, trying not to look at how many pills are in that bottle, the sun bleeding through those cracks siphons out of the room.
Leon should've just let her die. Why can't he stay away?
Disgusting, depraved thoughts curl around her addled mind. She winces at her own consciousness.
What happens if he shows up tomorrow to her dead body, spilled pills scattering from her clenched hand? When he reaches down and her body is cold—rigor mortis hardening every joint and muscle—will he feel relieved to be delivered of this burden?
Or should she end her life in a more gruesome way, give them one final thing to talk about?
"Stop," she hisses. "God, make it stop."
She doesn't even realize she's crying until the carpet is damp below her cheek.
She should call someone—the cops, or Jill, or Moira, or… Leon. She shouldn't be alone right now.
She should've told the doctor that prescribing Valium to someone like her is like giving a knife to a spree killer. It's far too easy to lie to medical professionals, and even easier for them to believe said lies.
I would drop whatever shit I had going on, at any time, if I saw your name on the screen.
Leon's words wrap around her like a shield, a hug, a sword. It relaxes her momentarily, just enough so she can do the unthinkable.
The ringing feels shrill in her ears, half of her face still smashed against the rough carpet.
"Claire?" His voice sounds tight.
She isn't sure what to say. Her throat is scratchy and a dull pain zips through her body.
A soft sigh. Maybe she wasn't supposed to hear that. "Claire, I can… do you need me?"
What a fucking understatement.
Hot tears mark her cheeks, her voice thick as she whispers, "Yes."
His breath hitches openly, so clear it registers through the phone: "I'm coming over. Fifteen minutes."
And fifteen minutes later, Claire finds herself terribly unnerved by his punctuality when the knock at the door comes without concert. She doesn't get up. She doesn't even move an inch from the floor.
But now that he knows where the spare key is—placed expertly under the welcome mat, might she add—the door makes a soft clicking noise before the hinges groan.
He doesn't shout to the empty space that he has entered it, and something about that is quietly endearing to Claire. It feels like the old him, unsteady and shy. For a moment, she feels this warm urge to smile.
His knuckles soon rap against the bedroom door, and it creaks open, revealing a figure almost awkwardly tall for the space.
The shadow looms closer. For a few suspended moments, Leon stands there, chest heaving strangely.
"I wasn't supposed to come until tomorrow," is all he whispers. His arms hang limply at his sides, almost boyish in how little he knows what to do with himself right now.
Claire just grunts in response.
Leon bends down, untangling her lower half from the mess of sheets with a care she'd rather not think about right now. "Any cravings?"
A fresh tear slips down her cheek at the disgusting, pathetic display she's putting on. It's demeaning. Beneath her.
She nods.
He gestures toward the pill bottle whilst soothing her hair back and wiping the tear away. "You gonna take some?"
"Can't."
"Why?"
"I spilled those pills for a reason," she croaks.
Leon freezes, recalling that night and the unanswered question that's been gnawing at him. "Do you… want to? Kill yourself?"
"I don't know."
He nods like that answer makes sense, and it doesn't occur to her in this moment that maybe he feels the same way.
"I don't… I don't like the potential of it. Of what I can do with them."
The pills rattle as he grasps the bottle, shaking out one 5 milligram tablet. They want her on three to four of these a day, as needed.
"These will help with the cravings, alright?" He murmurs, placing the pill in her hand and guiding her to sit upright. "Shit, hold on."
Leon pads out of the bedroom and returns with a cup of water, ice cubes clinking at the top. Claire puts the pill on her tongue, and before she can take the glass from him, he tips it to her mouth. His eyes stay heavy on hers as she drinks it down. "Good."
She wipes her mouth and lets her eyes fall shut.
He nudges her shoulder. When she opens her eyes again, he has a hand extended toward her. "C'mon."
"Huh?"
"This place is no good for you right now. I have an idea." And then he smiles, unguarded and soft. "I'm your sponsor, so you have to listen to me."
She huffs, almost smiling in return. Her hand is cold in his, and he engulfs it like a warm embrace.
Leon leads Claire out of the stale air of her bedroom and into the living room, which—with careful appraisal—is a mess of blankets, half-open books, and tissues stuck in the couch cushions. She flushes with embarrassment.
Then, her eyes land on a greasy paper bag perched on the counter, right in front of the barstool with a loose foot. She's had quite a bit of takeout recently, but she doesn't remember that bag being there a few hours ago.
His eyes follow her line of sight before supplying, "Have you ever been to Ted's? They have my favorite burgers. It's really close."
She just purses her lips and shakes her head.
He steps forward, grabbing the bag unceremoniously. And with a jerk of his head, starts toward the door.
"Where are we going?" she rasps.
The sound of her voice brings Leon pause at the door handle. "You'll see. Just follow my lead." He meets her eyes over his shoulder. "Like old times."
Claire suspects she'd follow Leon anywhere. To the end of the world, even. She still trusts him with everything in her.
They've been walking a few blocks in comfortable silence. It's cold, but not unbearably so; it almost resembles the soothing coolness of an October day.
Leon keeps looking at a photo on his phone and squinting at their path. She decides not to comment on it, enjoying the quiet, free of interrogation and expectation.
The walk eventually stretches into something long enough that her feet drag and sidewalk melts into a paved path, shrouded in unruly grass fighting to escape the ground. Claire sighs sharply, asking, "Do you even know where we're going?"
A little crease lives between his eyebrows. She looks away quickly.
"We're almost there," he soothes. "I think."
"Your burger's gonna be ice cold."
"Our burgers," he corrects with a puzzled look. "Did you really think I was gonna eat a burger in front of your face without getting you one?"
"Wouldn't put it past you. And you don't even know how I like my burgers."
"No tomato, obviously. You don't like raw onions, but luckily for you, Ted's does grilled onions, which I know you do like."
Her lips part, and she sputters, "What the hell? When have we even had burgers together for you to know this?"
Leon just smiles. "I recall a trip to a diner a few days after the Harvardville fiasco. You told me I owed you for the emotional damage you sustained from Senator Davis."
"Huh. I don't remember that."
His smile falters a little bit, but he quickly covers it up by walking ahead of her. The silence feels thicker this time.
"What do you remember?" he asks softly, his back to her.
"What?"
"What do you remember? Of our time together?"
Claire's throat suddenly feels restricted, like there's something stuck in it. "I—" Too much. Everything. Nothing. "I remember… that you were my best friend."
She can't see his reaction, a private moment he gives himself, but his steps visibly falter. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Do you remember the emails you sent?"
She squeezes her eyes shut, a reflexive habit. "I remember."
An arched bridge comes into view, overlooking what was once probably a very beautiful landscape, but is now mostly covered in crackling branches and that tall, dry grass. The bridge is constructed from faded wood planks, fenced on both sides. As their feet brush against it, Leon adds, "Do you know how often I re-read those? Almost daily. I was always waiting for the next one.
It made me feel… human. During all that training. Less like the machine they wanted me to be."
She doesn't respond at first, unsure of what to say. The wood creaks beneath their feet, echoing through the chilled space that grows darker each moment.
"Do you still feel like a machine?"
He finally comes to a stop near the bench she presumes he's been looking for this whole time. His eyes shine when they meet hers: "Not right now."
She takes a seat, and he follows soon after, leaving a bit of space between them for the bag.
Leon quickly divies up the contents of the bag: each of them getting a still-warm burger and definitely-cold fries. He even lifts the wrapper to check that her burger was made correctly.
Surprisingly hungry, Claire doesn't hesitate to take a bite. And holy shit, he wasn't kidding. It's incredible, for absolutely no reason at all. There's nothing special about it.
She makes a pleased sound that she's secretly relieved nobody else is around to hear. Leon's eyes haven't left her since she started eating. They track her bites. "Good?"
She really hates to feed her food to that ever-growing ego of his, but she can't resist nodding.
He smiles brilliantly, like this is the first true feat of his life, and her chewing slows.
"Can I admit something?"
"I feel like you're going to anyway," Claire replies flatly.
"I was relieved to see you crying when I came in." Leon's eyes finally leave hers, which is both a relief and a loss, favoring the haphazard lake in front of them. The water is murky; the glint of the moon winks against it.
"You do seem like you normally feast on the tears of vulnerable women."
He just shakes his head, bangs swaying, before murmuring, "No, I… I was glad to see you feeling something, you know? After the hell you've been through. I was afraid you'd shut it all off."
"I wish I could," she admits.
"I've tried, too. It'll overflow eventually." His words are cryptic, and she's suddenly eager to know more about this personal experience of his.
He also takes these slow, contemplative bites, almost like a tortured artist. She valiantly holds back a laugh.
After finishing her burger in an embarrassingly small number of bites, she balls up the wrapper. "Alright. What do I owe you, then?"
Leon laughs hoarsely. "Don't be an ass."
"What do you mean? You've bought me two magical, memorable meals now. What do you want in return?"
When his eyes finally travel from the moon back to her, the sarcasm in her voice makes them appear oddly pained. "Does everybody always want something from you, Claire?"
She doesn't even know how to reply to that. "Transaction is the natural order of things—"
He huffs in reply, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."
"What?" She's starting to feel prickly all over, uncomfortably angry.
He gnaws on his lower lip. "What do you think I want in exchange for sponsoring you, then?"
Claire's face feels hot. "Probably what guys like you always get in return: a blowjob, or some shit."
She knows it was a cheap shot, and she feels the weight of it as it slips past her lips. Burning a bridge whilst sitting on a bridge. God.
She also knows he's truly angry by the tight set of his face and the bitter laugh that escapes him. "Wow. Okay. So, I really am just a piece of shit to you, huh?"
She curls into herself like a scolded child, hot and embarrassed and angry at herself.
"We can chalk that up to your withdrawals and forget it happened. One last favor," Leon mutters, and his voice has an edge to it she's never heard before.
One thing Claire is utterly unaccustomed to? Apologizing. "No, that… that was out of line. I'm… sorry."
"Not out of line if you meant it. If that's what you really think of me."
He abandons his ice-cold fries and walks over to the other end of the bridge, leaning his weight against the fence. She stays rooted in place for a while, kicking herself.
Honestly, Leon has been nothing but good to her. He carried her to his car and rushed her to the hospital. He made it clear how much he wanted to help her get better. He came over when she called.
And she's been… nothing but difficult. Still looking for reasons to hate him, for that infuriating nod of his head in 2006 that haunts her.
Claire stands up. Walks quietly next to him. He doesn't look over.
"The piece of shit? It's me. Not you—"
"You know, I've spent the last two weeks trying to be the man you want me to be. And, it's… fucking impossible. I don't know how to fix us. You won't even let me try."
"Us?"
He purses his lips. Braces his scarred hands against the wood.
"I think I'd be whatever you wanted me to be."
She just barely catches his words, but she trudges on: "I know I'm difficult. I know I'm hard to be around, hard to want to be around, even more so with this noise inside my head."
"You don't get it," Leon mutters.
"What?"
He rounds on her in half a second. "You're none of those things, don't you understand that? Why the fuck would I be here otherwise? You're always waiting for the other shoe to drop!"
She exhales, and her breath clouds in the air between them. "The other shoe always drops. You know that just as much as me."
He shakes his head. "You make it drop. Because you're scared. Scared of this—"
"Scared of what, Leon?"
His fingertips rub against his lips. "You know what."
Her breath picks up, and she nearly trips stepping backwards, away from this, away from him.
He's persistent, though. His steps mirror hers. "Claire."
"Just, stop!"
"Why did we both start drinking, Claire?" The words cut through her harshly, so deeply she's surprised there isn't blood dripping between them. "What were we both running away from?"
She winces, lifting her hands up like he's about to strike her, and she feels the familiar onslaught of tears: tingling extremities and quivering lips. "I don't want to talk about that."
Leon's face crumples as he realizes the nature of the subject. "I felt the same way. I know."
Claire sniffs, trying to control the tears spilling down her face.
He doesn't hesitate to gather her in his arms when she starts to cry in earnest. "Fuck, I shouldn't have brought it up tonight of all nights."
His cool hand cups the back of her head, allowing her to bury her face in the warmth of his neck. Her nose brushes against his pulse point, and there's something comforting in knowing that he's alive beneath her.
"Don't cry, sweetheart. I fucking hate when you cry."
Sweetheart? Why does that sound so familiar?
She shudders with a memory that floods her with the warmth of love and affection, years displaced. It's almost disorienting in its force.
Fuck. She might still love him. Oh, God—
He soothes the twitch of her muscles as his hand trails down her back. Her thoughts quiet like they were never there at all.
They both decide the fries are absolutely disgusting cold, and throw them in the nearest trash can.
The walk back is raw, like she's a dog that just showed its belly to the sun. Claire's walking beside one of her oldest friends, and maybe it's the emotional vulnerability of these withdrawals, but it feels like coming home to a version of herself she missed. So much.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" Leon asks softly.
"How'd you find the bridge?"
He shrugs. "There's this big, interconnected trail that runs all over D.C. The bridge was a part of it. I saw a photo online, and… I don't know. Thought you might like it."
"You think of me a lot," she teases. It comes out more half-hearted than a tease, weak following the moment they just had.
"I do," Leon says simply. His hands are firmly placed in his wool pockets.
When her apartment complex finally crests over the blocks and blocks of battered sidewalk, he almost looks disappointed.
"Want me to walk you up?"
"It's alright," she answers, and not because she doesn't want him to. "It's late. Go home. Get some sleep."
He tips his weight up on the balls of his feet, fidgeting. "Maybe, uh… take a look at the trail online. See if there's any other spots you want to walk to."
She nods. Tilts her head. "Okay. What's it called?"
Leon looks suddenly anxious, like he's internally trying to talk himself out of something.
Then, he does it. Something that makes her whole body taut like an electrified wire.
He cups her head at the ears, pressing a quick kiss to her scalp. "Lovers Lane," he mumbles against it, his warm breath tickling her skin.
And before she can even blink, he's retreating with the weight of all they've shared tonight.
A grin that she won't be able to erase from her mind tugs at his face. "See you tomorrow, Claire."