Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

--//--

A phone rang…

An unfamiliar melody spreading through the small space and it isn’t until she starts humming it that it comes to her, the realization that it's hers. She reached for it half bored preparing to hit ignore on yet another teleprompter. No one ever calls her anymore. Not since she’s cut ties with Wesker and Simmons and most of the black-market people she used to associate with. Not that she was a social butterfly before. But since China things have noticeably quieted down. And so, the ringing was a surprise.

An unknown caller, it said.

For once she was the one in the dark, with not a single clue who could it be.

If she let it ring any longer she may never find out…

A fast click of the button and…

“Hello?”

“Ada?”

“Depends who is asking.”

“One of your least favorite people I’d imagine.”

“That’s not very helpful. It’s a very long list,” she replied, already bored by this conversation.

“Does Racoon City ring any bells?”

It did, and quite a few at that. But there was only one redhead with an irritating voice there and determination that almost matched her own...

“Claire Redfield.”

“Believe me I am as surprised as you are by this but alas I had no choice.”

“So, I am your last option? How touching.”

There was a silence on the other end which with Claire was never a good sign. She always had something to say, a smart quip on the tip of her tongue. And the lack of it made Ada pause, an unfamiliar feeling slowly creeping in, making her heart quicken. She was always the one who was one step ahead and it felt strange to be the one behind, and her mind worked hard to put the pieces of the puzzle together, catch up. Yet at the same time she felt paralyzed by the implications.

“Trust me if it was about me I would’ve never called.”

“It’s really sweet you worry about him enough to call your mortal enemy.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just a thief nothing more. I’ve dealt with far more dangerous people. People being a lose term of course as we both know.”

“Little Redfield all grown up…who would’ve imagined?”

“As much as I’d love to trade insults, there was a point to this call.”

“Leon.” Ada said finally and both girls backtracked a little when the one thing they had in common was brought up.

“A few weeks ago, Leon has returned from a mission, where he and the rest of the DSO agents were ambushed thanks to some poor intel about Los Illuminados. Leon made it out, barely.” Claire paused, thinking of the call that she received that day from Hannigan. “But the rest of his team got infected and turned into zombies. After that there was only one thing left to do. And only one person left to do it.”

“Leon S. Kennedy, always a hero. Even at his own damage.”

“I don’t think he’s separated from Johnny Walker or left his apartment since.”

“Where is he?”

--LL--

It was quiet, eerily so. Nothing but the dull sound of his boots echoing in the space.

He moved with a purpose but slowly - delaying the inevitable for just a few seconds more or maybe punishing himself by letting it drag on, he wasn’t sure. One, two, three steps more…

But then something stirred – a rustling of a bag carrying a dead man and he could postpone this no longer. With muscle memory alone, he had his gun cocked and trained on the bag before a single thought could form in his mind. A single click and the deafening sound of a bullet being fired. And then another, and another until his hand burned and chest felt like they were about to explode. He screamed…

“Quinn!”

A gasp. A harsh intake of air. The sound of his gun still echoing in his ears as Quinn’s face faded away into a one with much more delicate lines, sandy hair turning into raven black. He moved back working on pure instinct, until his back collided with the headboard of the bed, the impact somehow shaking him back to reality. He quickly turned to his night stand to check for the bottle – empty except for a couple of licks of the clear liquid at the bottom. The image before of a dark angel coming to rescue him from this nightmare was most definitely a result of a drunken delirium. He really should lay off the heavy stuff.

“Not Quinn. Sorry to disappoint.” someone said as he worked hard to connect the dots, his head still foggy with sleep and alcohol. “Although judging by your reaction I’m glad I am not. What with his unfortunate demise and all.”

The silky voice underlined with sarcasm she hardly bothered to hide reached his ears and he recognized it even if it has been four years since he last heard it. “Ada,” he said, his mouth feeling like sandpaper, making even that one word difficult to say. Or maybe it wasn’t just that.

Suddenly he was way too aware of the empty bottle by his bed (and a couple of more scattered around the apartment), dirty clothes piled up on the armchair and a small table toppled over that he stumbled upon the previous night and hasn’t bothered to pick up. Not to mention his discarded shirt at the edge of the bed that smelled like puke no doubt. It was hard to recall when did he bother to shower last. And here she was, black jeans and that red jacket with a collar pulled up, looking like not a day has passed since China.

He ran a hand through his dark hair unconsciously, making her smirk. “Giving up your trademark blonde…this must be serious.” she teased.

“Why do you care?” And wasn’t that a million-dollar question...

“Now is that any way to treat a guest?” she deflected purposely, walking around his apartment careful not to trip over the empty bottles and takeout boxes.

“A guest does not break and enter an apartment.” he countered, distracting her from the wreck that was his life.

She pulled out something out of her back pocket dangling it in front of him.

The familiar key chain sparkled in the moonlight. His spare key.

His eyes narrowed in a disapproving gesture, making his headache worse and letting her know that she was getting to him. Still. Which was probably the point of her little visit anyway.

And here he thought he’d killed every single emotion he had with ethanol. Not enough apparently. 40 percent my ass.

He turned to his night table grabbing the almost empty bottle and quickly poured the remainder down his throat, more out of spite then anything. There was barely a sip there, not enough to clench his thirst let alone smother the demons inside.

She ignored his gesture, continuing as if nothing happened.

“A little birdy told me where to find the spare,” she said and then added, letting that half smile slip away. “People are worried about you Leon. Your friends…”

‘And you’re not?’ he wanted to ask but that was never their way. For two such fearless people, who faced danger every day and worked with some of the most notorious people in the world without a single thought, they had trouble facing one thing - each other. But Ada being here answered that question on its own, even if she’d sooner be thrown into a lair of zombies then tell him that herself.

“What friends? The only friends I had are now two feet under the ground with a 9mm bullet in their skulls,” he responded, sounding a lot like Chris Redfield which was a sobering thought.

“And here you are… doing your damnest to join them,” she said with not a small dose of sarcasm. It’s not like she was a stranger to self-destruction but he was supposed to be better than that. It was an unfamiliar territory - a role reversal she wasn’t particularly fond of. Being a guardian angel, lending a helping hand with a shotgun and shooting up a couple of zombies was fun but this…

“Are you telling me I put my head on the line with Wesker AND Simmons more than once…only for you to die of alcohol poisoning?” she asked as casually as possible.

The change on his face was evident even if he refused to offer a reply and she let some of her anger simmer down, taking a breath. Surely, she did not expect a thank you. But some acknowledgement would’ve been nice.

He stood up with the intention to get past her and to the bathroom to grab some Ibuprofen for his headache that was growing worse by the second but she stood far too close to the bed making it impossible to pass her by. Her stance was casual but the eyes were dark, looking for his, almost daring him to face her.

So, with one swift move he moved her to the side, pressing a hand against the wall as they stood face to face, blue eyes locked with dark brown, and said “I am so sorry you’ll lose your play toy,” before letting her go. For once, he would be the one to walk away first.

--//--

Half an hour later Leon walked out in fresh clothes and a towel in hand, drying out his hair, his head feeling clearer. For a minute there he let himself believe this whole evening was just some delusion he cocooned in his alcohol fueled brain. That is until he reached his bed and noticed her curled on the side of his bed in jeans and a grey sweater, asleep. If that was even an option for a spy like her. Or him. He could count the nights he fell asleep without checking for his gun on the fingers of one hand.

Maybe this was one of those nights, maybe she felt safe enough with him to do so or she was simply pretending. The questions were endless and the answers never simple when it came to the bitch in red. Messing with his head even with eyes closed…typical.
Either way he was tired with a blearing headache and so he let it be, settling on his side of the bed. Sleep has evaded him as of late. Or he’s avoided it. Semantics. Sleep meant nightmares, enemies he could not kill, only smother with copious amounts of alcohol until they dissipated in the morning light.

He looked towards the window – it was still dark outside, full moon high in the sky illuminating the room, casting shadows around the familiar space. His eyes wondered and shadows formed into shapes, faces and he squeezed them shut, his heartrate picking up as he turned away from the window only to face her.

He could only make out the silhouette, the slight curve of her hips in the dim lit room and sense the remnants of perfume on her wrist as her hand was stretched out next to his pillow.

His eyelids felt heavy and he let them fall closed as he focused on her soft breathing and the warmth of her body so close to his.

And it was as easy as breathing then to let himself surrender.

Chapter Text

A hand was reaching for him, bloody and decaying, rags wrapped around a skeletal hand and he backed away until his back hit something (a wall?) as he felt those cold fingers wrap around his wrist, felt it pulling him forward. His instinct kicked in before even a single thought could form in his head and he jerked his hand to free himself, stumbling and falling forward…but never hitting the ground. Instead he was met by a soft surface of his bed, supporting himself with his hands that were wrapped around slender female wrists. The body laying under him was far from dead (or undead) judging by the harsh breathing and the quick rise and fall of her chest that almost matched his.

It took a few blinks for his head to clear and his eyes to focus, but once they did, he let go of her hands as if they burned him, muttering a quick “I’m sorry,” and giving her as much space as he could, his back hitting the bedpost. But then she reached for him, sitting up and pulling him to face her, hand placed on his lips in a silencing gesture.

There was no need for words.

Not when they were pretense, escape. Words could be molded, modified, but not this. The labored breaths, terrifies eyes and a sweat soaked shirt easily spelled out the harsh truth of what his life has become. He was a far cry from that boy that walked into the police station in Racoon City with dreams of helping people, protecting them, so sure of himself and what he needed to do. That boy wouldn’t even recognize him.

Only one person could, the one that’s been through this hell with him…   

Slowly she moved a few strands of his wet hair from his face with those long, slander fingers, tracing the outline of his cheek and then his jaw before pulling him closer.

“Don’t be,” she whispered in the darkness of his apartment. “It’s not your-”

He closed the small gap between them without letting her finish, unable to hear any more lies tonight. He didn’t need her to comfort him, he needed to forget, focus his attention on something else. The smell of her skin, the feel of her lips against his, the taste of her as he invaded her mouth and the almost pleasant sting of his sculp when her hands grasped at his hair a little too harshly, pulling him to her.

It wasn’t gradual or savory like four years ago. The time and all that they’ve been through has left a mark that wasn’t only visible in words but their actions too. Every pull was a little less polished, every tug a bit harsher. Their skin has become thicker with years and maybe they needed to nudge a little harder to feel something. Anything. They pushed and pulled until there was a pile of clothes scattered on the floor by the bed and they were nothing but a tangle of limbs, desperate for breath. Skin to skin, with nothing left to take off, no obstacle between them yet he never felt further away.

It wasn’t the revealing of the truth - it was hiding. 

An escape instead of comfort. A denial.

They were both good with that. Diversion and detraction, combat 101.        

So, when was the mission over, he wondered as she traced the scars over his chest? When there is a scar big enough it can’t be healed? When there is a bullet fast enough that even they can’t outrun?

Last night he was pondering putting that bullet in his scull himself and here he was now…wondering, worrying about her, about them. Because she was the weight that tipped the scale over to the good side, that tipped him back when he was close to falling, surrendering to darkness.

That was all there was to it. There was no fixing this, no fixing him. 

That was the truth.

There would be nightmares again tomorrow, and undead things in the night and she wouldn’t be there to catch him. That was another truth. One that took a little longer to accept but he was getting there. 

All he could hope for was for her to be there when it gets too much, to find him before he jumps. And he’ll return the favor. Always.

--LA--

“So, what's the mission?” he asks, hours later with the rumpled sheets as backdrop and she pauses briefly, before putting her sweater on. He's had his eyes closed for the last half hour, fooling noone that he was asleep. Still she kind of hoped he’d keep the pretense for a little longer for her sake, let her go quietly.

Now his eyes are focused on the ceiling, but he feels the bed move as she stands, all dressed up. “It would be foolish to believe you came here just for me…wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe I have...” she lets slip, with a smirk tugging at her lips, that goes completely unnoticed by him.

His mock laugh echoes in the space and it sends shivers down her spine and not in a good way. It's a brand-new territory – this situation, this Leon who doesn't hold on to her every word, who doesn't care.

“Well I’d be a fool to come all the way to Washington and not make it worthwhile…” she admitted. “So, you coming or are you too busy sulking away?”

“I’m not that far gone yet.”

“Leon Kennedy missing a chance to be a hero…must be serious.”

“I’d say stealing and selling highly dangerous substances is not exactly saving lives. Quite the opposite I believe.” he quipped, sitting up to finally look at her.  

“Haven’t you heard? I’ve left that life behind since the whole Simmons debacle…” she said casually, enjoying the look of surprise on his face he couldn’t hide. “This job in Washington is just a little fugitive recovery mission.”

“You mean a bounty hunt?” he asked with a laugh. Her first reaction was to defend it, but she let him have it because this was the first real smile she saw since knocking on his apartment doors and she’d sooner get infected by T virus then admit it out loud, but she missed it.

“It’s not as exciting or as lucrative as in the old West…but it pays the bills.”

“I could use some cash.” he admitted, grabbing jeans and a mostly clean shirt from the pile on the couch.

“Obviously as you’ve spent all that hard-earned government money on booze.” she said.

In a minute he was dressed and ready to go, grabbing his keys and gun and placing it in the holster while she waited by the door patiently.

He went to unlock the door and she stopped him to fix his collar, as they stood in the small hallway.

“Can’t let you walk around like a…”

“It's not okay.” he said simply, interrupting her.

“What?” she paused, letting her hand slide down the hem of his jacket.

“This life…me.” he admitted, finally, standing close enough that even those half-whispered words were like a shout in her ear.  

She knew this. Claire knew it. It’s the reason she called her. Because she got it but understood a hug and a bucket of ice cream wouldn’t fix this. Fix him. He didn’t need comfort - he needed a reason to go on.

It was kind of typical for Leon to realize things last.

She wasn’t that great either, not that she’d admit that to anyone. But burning down that lab in China didn’t actually speak of prime mental health. But it was a catharsis of sort. A rebirth. She’s had so many personas and aliases in the past that some days it was hard to remember who she was. But standing here, next to him it was little easier. She wanted to be that woman he saw sometimes even if she was far from it yet.

But she believed they were both mature enough to admit one thing - they weren’t meant to live in a house with a white picket fence with two kids and a dog, they were made for the chase, for the fight. On the opposite sides of the law most of the time but there were days, like today when their paths would cross and they’d get a glimmer of that greatness they could be together.  

“I’m tired of this waiting around, let’s go kill some bad guys.” she said, planting a kiss on his lips and grabbing his hand to lead him out.

“Claire called you, didn't she?” he said as they left the apartment, vice colored with sentiment that made her frown. Was she jealous of the little Redfield?

“Yes, because we are such buds.”

“Liar.”

“Takes one to know one.” she said with a wink and he didn’t argue.

(the end)