Chapter Text
09:05
Friday
You have two new messages.
New message:
Hello, this is Gwen calling from Dr. Halstead’s office. Our records show that you have missed a scheduled appointment with us last Thursday. Please call us back at your earliest convenience to schedule a new appointment. Have a great day and we look forward to seeing you soon.
Message deleted.
He removes the towel draped around his neck as he walks to the pull-up bar attached to his doorway. Grabbing it with both hands, he lifts himself up for another round of exercise.
New message:
Hey, Buttchin. How you been? Sorry for not keeping in touch lately. I’ve been fucking busy at work, you won’t believe it. Anyway... I got a mini three-day vacation starting next week, thank god. Call me when you’re free, ok? Hope you’re alright.
He lets go of the bar and walks to the phone as the prompt dictates his options. He presses a button.
Message saved.
You have no more new messages.
Grabbing the towel he discarded earlier, he wipes the sweat off his brow as he looks at the calendar on the fridge. It’s the weekend. He’s on an indefinite hiatus, having just finished a mission; her vacation starts in two days. It took her forever to finally respond and his anxiety had been through the roof.
He slides off the exercise gloves from both hands and opens the cabinet for the bottle of the antidepressant-sleeping pill combo he’d been instructed to take. He gives it a little shake and brings it to eye level. There’s still a handful, enough to last him a little less than a month, he estimates.
Good, he says to himself. Halstead can wait another month. He’d need a new prescription by then.
“Appointment my round ass,” he mutters under his breath as he opens the fridge door to grab cold water. Even seeing a shrink is a forced requirement in his job. Which made sense in a twisted way, he muses. It’s not that anyone really cares about his well-being. It’s just that he needs to remain functional after reliving his worst nightmare over and over.
This is what happens to good people with the right skillset, he tells himself. He always had an altruistic nature; he wanted to make the world a safer place, and in an odd twist of fate, he lost the one job that he had always worked hard for so he could be forced to take another that actually fulfilled his ultimate goal in bigger ways.
Leon S. Kennedy wanted to be a superhero and he got what he asked for.
The world needs him and will continue to until he bites the dust and another takes up his mantle. For the mean time, he’s just going to have to be numb.
With booze. Lots of booze.
He contemplates on pouring himself a shot, but ultimately decides against having his fifth for the morning. It’s not a better alternative to reverting to smoking, but his job requires a durable pair of lungs more than a functional liver.
Picking up the phone, he dials a number to make a different appointment.
11:16
Monday
She rents a two-story apartment in a busy part of town. It’s simple but rather spacious for a person supposedly living alone. He knows that isn’t always the case.
The fact that she had offered for him to stay for the duration of his trip reassured him that she’s living alone for the mean time. She never told him directly, but he’s not dumb; he knows that she was, and might still be, seeing someone else.
Not that he has any right to be hurt. If anything, he deserves to be.
Shaking the thought off, he looks around, scanning the ceiling, the walls, the decor. She’s revamped everything since the last time he stayed over.
She has her hair up in the usual ponytail; her thighs looked toned and silky in daisy dukes. It’s barely noticeable, but at this point, he’s able to tell that she’s wearing a hint of makeup, her lashes looking darker and lips a little glossy.
“Are the decorations and clutter triggering you yet, Mr. Minimalist?” She teases.
“As soon as I walked in,” he replies. “I actually like it. It’s very... you.”
“Thanks,” she leans on the kitchen island to give him a knowing look. “Go bring your bag upstairs while I make some coffee.”
He knows what that look means. She’s trying to assure him that no one else is sharing the place with her. He climbs the staircase.
She had painted the walls of her room red. There are posters and pictures hanging in frames. In the center of the queen bed, he spots the brown teddy bear he had given her last year sitting between pillows. The lion stuffed toy he’d received from her is propped in his bed in the same manner, miles away in his home.
He inspects the pictures on the walls.
There’s several of her with groups of friends, all of them strangers to him; there’s a couple of her as a child, one of them with her brother. He drops his duffel bag in front of a picture of her and Sherry, their arms around each other.
How she’s grown, he thinks. Her hair is up on a ponytail too. He’s not seen her since their traumatic separation. She knows nothing about what he does now, nor the bargain he had to take to ensure her safety.
Averting his eyes from the picture, he shakes the thought away. On the side of the bed, leaning against the wall, he spots an acoustic guitar. He picks it up and plucks the strings. He tightens a couple of knobs and rests one foot up on a chair, lifting the guitar and placing it on top of his knee, and starts strumming.
A few moments later he notices her in the corner of his eye, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. He stops playing.
“How long have you been standing there,” he asks.
“Long enough to recall the title of the song you’re playing,” she responds. “You never told me you could play.”
“You never told me you owned a guitar,” he says, putting the instrument down.
“That’s Chris’s,” she says, uncrossing her arms. “He asked me to keep it, but I never learned how to play.”
“How’s he doing?” He asks. He’s met the guy before. Fit and strong, the kind who would beat up anyone who’d done as much as lay their eyes on his precious little sister.
If he only knew.
“Still trying to save the world,” she shrugs.
“Aren’t we all.”
20:11
In his first trip to her place, they went bar-hopping and have gotten intoxicated. They went bowling after and it was the most fun they’ve had until they got kicked out for rowdiness.
“It’s going to take a whole pool of alcohol to get me to that level of drunkenness now,” he told her when she mused about doing a repeat. She laughed.
He wasn’t joking.
He took her out to their favorite bar in the area instead and they both decided to come home early.
“I can’t believe you managed to fit everything in that duffel bag,” she says, handing him a cold bottle of beer from her fridge.
“A skill I’ve mastered as of late,” he replies, recalling the times he had to arrange his arsenal so they would fit in an attache case during missions.
Something keeps nagging at him at the back of his mind.
That boyfriend of hers.
Does she still have one? Is he aware that he’s around?
Is this considered cheating?
Screw it, he says to himself.
“So. How are you and whatshisface,” he says in pretense. He knows a little too much about him more than he’d like her to know.
She stops whatever she’s doing in the sink to look at him. “Carlyle,” she says, then returns to what she’s doing. “We didn’t work out.” Her tone betrayed a hint of discomfort.
“...Oh,” he says, trying and failing not to sound thrilled. He casually takes a sip from the bottle in his hand. “Sorry to hear that.”
She scoffs. “Sure you are. You never liked him.”
“I never said anything of the sort.”
“Come on, Lee,” she laughs. “You’re a lousy liar.”
He shrugs. “I did say I wanted to practice roundhouse kicks on his face, I suppose.”
“You’re jealous...?”
He pauses, caught off guard. Is that a question? Or an unsure statement?
He’d only spent the entire time they were apart seething in hatred and thinking of a thousand creative ways of visiting unannounced so he can show the bastard that it’s not her brother he should be afraid of, but him— the “best friend”.
If only he didn’t feel so betrayed by her as well, irrational as it was.
He gets up from the couch. “I’ll be in the balcony.”
20:16
He sat on one end of the outdoor sofa, staring into the horizon with his beer in hand. The breeze is cold but soothing. Amidst the city lights, he can make out the mountain tops in the distance. In his mind he wondered if Raccoon City felt like this before it was razed by the selfishness of human curiosity.
The whole apartment reminded him of his fresh-faced days in the academy. Once upon a time, he was excited for the thrill of mystery and action; now he can only look back and contemplate on what his life could have been if he had chosen not to come to the city that fateful night.
Happiness will never be a guarantee. But he’d be less cautious. Less angry. Would they have worked out, he pondered, then realized they would never have met in the first place.
As if playing a joke on his somber mood, he hears a familiar sad tune playing from a radio from inside her room. It was the song he was strumming on her guitar earlier. Nutshell by Alice In Chains.
She comes out to sit on the other end of the sofa, beer in hand.
“Perfect timing, I was just starting to wallow in my own misery,” he says.
“When have you not been wallowing in your own misery,” she jokes, then quickly realized that she might have hit too close to home. “Kidding. You need to teach me how to play that thing.”
He brushes it off. “Last time it was Metallica,” he mused, eyes on the horizon. “Off-roading while blasting Fuel and the rest of Reload.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Now we’re marinating in melancholy to Jar of Flies. What’s the theme for the next one, Claire Bear?”
“Some pop shit that you despise,” she takes a sip from her bottle. “Sherry loves the mainstream stuff. You owe her a visit.”
He says nothing, feeling a little hurt.
“You don’t have to tell her anything, Leon.”
“I know,” he responds. That was an understatement, he says to himself. He’d spare her the guilt the truth will bring, although they wouldn’t be able to hide it from her forever. He’d only hesitated because he’s never been good at lying. She’s much older now, and the idea of her figuring it out is a dreadful thing to imagine. “How is she doing?”
“Pretty good. She misses you,” she responds. “And she still asks that stupid question.”
“What question?”
She hesitated for a second. “If we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Laughter erupted between them followed by an awkward pause. Only the music filled the air for a good minute.
“I’ll try to see her sometime this year,” he says, finally breaking the silence. “Would be nice if you can come with me.”
“I’ll try,” she answers. “Just be prepared to be asked the same question, I guess.”
He says nothing.
“It’s freezing out here.” She gets up from her seat to go back inside the apartment.
He lets out a soft sigh once she’s gone.
No, we’re not together, because I’m broken and can’t fix myself.
Shit’s complicated. Don’t grow up too fast, he imagines himself telling Sherry.
21:25
They sat in front of the TV on opposite ends of the couch while watching a stupid movie that none of them were paying attention to.
An impending sense of doom has taken over him. He subtly looks at her as she stirred uncomfortably in her position. Maybe she’s still heartbroken over her breakup. Maybe she’s annoyed that he’d hijacked her mini-vacation.
He won’t tell her, but the weeks of waiting for her response almost drove him insane from longing. But now that they’re beside each other, all he feels is apprehension.
He just wishes he wasn’t so ambivalent.
He has so much love to give but doesn’t want to lose himself. He craves for her touch and affection but doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with giving it back.
He’d rather have nothing than let her be his everything.
It’s easier playing cat and mouse with a ghost. Someone elusive and unable to reciprocate is therefore unable to truly hurt him. It might be the coward’s option, but it’s the safer one. He could play that game forever.
With Claire Redfield though, he knows he’s going to run out of time and that she’s going to run out of patience.
After all, this is a woman who will never run out of options. She’s attractive and had retained a captivating personality and sense of humor despite all the shit she’d gone through. She’s fun and a bit brash, yet is motherly and mature when it matters. She’s scared but full of hope. She’s kind but doesn’t take anybody’s bullshit.
Except his.
For years, in fact. They’re all about hazy boundaries with a resolution lurking just around the corner. And he’d run away every time it comes closer, only to fold and come right back. He always loses.
So why couldn’t he just get it over with?
“Claire...?”
Just like the last time, she stares back at him, waiting, anticipating.
And just like the last time, he freezes with a conflicted look on his face. He wants to say something— but he couldn’t quell the whirlwind of emotions going on inside him, the storm of contradictions, the push and pull happening at the same time.
He closes his eyes and lets out a long, defeated sigh.
She had moved closer before he even noticed. She takes his face in her hands and brings a finger to his lips.
“Shhh.”
21:42
They found themselves yet again in that familiar situation of some part of him being inside of her. Not that any of them put up any real effort to fight it off to begin with.
They’ve gotten quite experienced at it, although not always with each other in particular. He always thought she’d laugh at him if he ever admitted that his encounters are not as many as she imagined. He’s never been too comfortable with meaningless intimacy despite what his looks or demeanor imply through the years.
Pinned to the edge of the bed, a moan of bliss escapes her throat after every thrust. He holds up her thighs to allow himself to shove at that perfect angle that hit her just right on the spot.
Her features are illuminated by the yellow light from the lone nightstand; eyes shut tightly, mouth open wide. Her breasts bounced up and down with his thrusts. He felt his cock grow more swollen at the sight and didn’t think that was possible. He’d jacked off so many times to the thought of her tits. God, he thought, he could write poems about how perfect they are.
Her moans grow louder and her eyes open— he feels her clench around him, twitching at first then completely clamping down on his length in waves.
And just as she was slowing down, he feels himself about to follow, his perfectly paced rhythm becoming erratic. Her arms wrap around him tighter, pulling him closer.
“Claire, I’m close,” he tries to say.
“Come inside. We’ll be fine,” she assures him.
So he spills his seed inside of her, stifling his moans into her neck.
After catching his breath, he tries to slip out of her, but he feels her strong thighs hold him in place. He looks at her and finds himself staring into imploring blue eyes.
“Stay inside of me,” she whispers tenderly. How could he not oblige? He settles back down slowly, shifting slightly to the side so as not to put his full weight on her and to be able to rest his face close to hers.
Her breaths feel hot against his skin. She reaches out to touch his cheek with a hand.
“I know what you wanted to say earlier,” she whispers. “You know I’ve always been here for you.”
“You have.”
“Then what are you so afraid of? I’m not going to hurt you.”
He shakes his head softly.
“...I’m not the same person, Claire. I’ve been damaged.”
I’m not the rookie anymore. If I show you what I’m becoming, you’ll run away.
She smiles, but her face shows absolute disagreement.
“So have I. We’ve both been scarred. But that doesn’t make us unworthy of love.”
But I’ve always been unworthy of you.
As if having heard his thoughts, she tightens the embrace of her thighs on his hips and brings her face closer, brushing her thumb on his lips tenderly.
“Give us a chance, Leon.”
19:22
Friday — The Next Week
They got tired of eating out so he decided to cook something. She says she can never make anything edible but he insisted that she helps out.
“I’ll entrust you with the fillings. You just gotta mash the potatoes with everything,” he tells her. “You couldn’t possibly mess that up, right?”
She punches him lightly on the bicep. She takes a stockpot and starts to fill it with water. “Props to you for trying to make your own dough, though!”
“That’s what makes it fun,” he says as he starts kneading the dough mixture he made.
He winks at her. She gives him a look of adoration in return.
They were talking about where to take Sherry on their next reunion when the cordless phone on the counter behind her rang.
He’s not blind. He can see who’s calling as the number flashes on the small screen.
She looks behind her and realizes what’s going on. In a near panic, she quickly excuses herself to pick it up before it goes to voicemail. Her hushed voice slowly fades as she goes upstairs.
She didn’t come down until he had finished cooking and completely lost his appetite.
05:40
Saturday
When faced with two options that would both lead to anguish, it makes sense to choose the one that’s less painful.
It will grant him some self-preservation, even if he comes out defeated and hurt just the same.
He’s looking out the window from her kitchen. The sun had barely risen, but the streets are getting noisier. He checks his watch. It will take about 40 minutes to get to the airport if he leaves now.
He hears her come down the stairs.
Now here comes the inevitable.
Her arms wrap around his waist— but he gently frees himself from her touch and turns around to meet the betrayed look in her eyes. She moves her gaze ever so slightly to the duffel bag sitting on the barstool before returning it to meet his, pleading for an explanation.
He gives her nothing but a look of contempt.
“I thought you were ready,” she almost whispers.
“Don’t act like I’m too irreplaceable,” he scoffs. “I haven’t even left and you’re already talking.”
She shakes her head.
“I was telling him to fuck off last night. If that changes your mind,” she crosses her arms.
“Didn’t know that takes half an hour to do.”
“Please. I could have declined that call and we’d still be here. Because you keep finding excuses for us not to work.”
Because I feel threatened, he wanted to say, but something different comes out of his mouth. “Now you can ask him to come back as soon as I’m out of here.”
“Yeah, how dare I be involved with someone else, right? Because I’m supposed to wait for you, right? I’m supposed to be patient and lonely while you make up your goddamn mind about me.”
You’re right. I’m being selfish. But I’m just trying not to get hurt.
He grabs his bag from the barstool and starts to walk away but she steps in front of him, blocking his path.
“The problem here is that you can’t regulate your emotions like a damn adult. You ask to get close then you run away. You think I enjoy being played like this?”
I’m not playing games. I’m lost and I don’t know what to do. “What do you want from me?” He says instead.
“I should be asking you that question! You’re the one who keeps coming back. It’s getting fucking old!”
His cellphone rings. He looks at her looking at him— it’s all in her face, the wrath, the disappointment, and he deserves more of it— but the damn phone won’t stop ringing.
He takes it out of his pocket.
“Kennedy.
...Copy that. I’ll be there.”
He puts it back and hears her sigh deeply. He keeps his gaze downward and refuses to look her in the eyes.
“Now you have a real excuse.”
To his surprise, she stomps towards the door and opens it for him.
Holding it open, she says nothing more; he walks to it and against his better judgment, he stops to look at her one last time.
It’s written all over her face:
I’m done waiting for you.
10:12
Four Months Later
His left eye is completely bloodshot. It reminds him of Birkin’s one large eye that always turns a darker color when he’s getting fucked up with bullets. His nose is broken, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Maybe surgery if he wishes, the doctor said, but only advised it if it interferes with his breathing. There’s a cut on his bottom lip that effectively kept him from unnecessarily talking.
Everything hurts.
The last mission was a shit show. Someone fucked up real bad and got him captured along with two other agents. They beat him up real good. He was in the process of getting waterboarded when rescue came.
At least he didn’t get raped. They were talking about how pretty he was when they stripped him before beating him up.
He opens the cabinet. He’s been taking antibiotics that’s making him shit like crazy. The pain pill he’s been prescribed works for about an hour— but he’s supposed to take one only every four hours.
He’s got a million pills sitting in different bottles but none left of the antidepressant- sedative that he badly needs.
Thank god for booze.
He opens his email. There’s a memo from work warning him that psychologist visits are mandatory and that missing another would lead to ‘disciplinary action’.
He scrolls down.
Nothing from her.
He walks to the phone, feeling defeated, and dials a number.
“Dr. Halstead’s office—
“This is Leon Kennedy. I want to set up an appointment.”
Next Wednesday it is. He’d be sure to ask for a higher dose.
He replays his voicemails for the third time that morning.
You have no new messages.
Saved message:
Hey, Buttchin.
Deep sadness turns into desperation as the sound of her voice fills his ears. He pours himself another shot.
Of all the quiet times he had reflected alone, it was ironically in that moment of chaos, when he was naked in a room full of murderous strangers, that he had found himself. There was no feeling of overwhelming regret or bitterness; only steadfastness and conviction that the world is worth fighting for, and that he wants to live and be happy.
In that brief moment, he saw everything through her eyes when she spoke of love and chances.
And he had pushed her away with his petty arguments, because in his mind, all good things come to an end, and it’s easier to be the one who said goodbye than to be the one who was left.
Forget the emails and the calls. He’s going to fly to her place to see her, even if it’s the last time she’ll allow him to. He doesn’t care that he looks like a train wreck. He doesn’t care if there’s someone else— he’ll tell him to fuck off, that he’s got nothing on him because he’s her best friend who’s been with her to hell and back— and that he sincerely wants to be more, but first things first— he needs to fix himself, and to tell her how sorry he is.
And when all is said and done, maybe he’ll be worthy of her.
02:30
The Following Morning
He stands in front of her door. He brought nothing else but the clothes he has on.
No duffel bags. That’s too presumptuous.
He knocks.
He watches her expression turn from sleepy and annoyed, to surprised and somewhat panicked, to horrified and concerned as she peeks out of the door wearing a loose, tattered shirt.
“I’m so sorry...”
At least that’s what he wanted to say, but he could barely move his split lip and his voice cracks as he breaks into a sob that he’s been trying to fight. Snot comes dripping out of his swollen nose.
She swings the door open all the way.
“...Did my brother do this to you?”