Work Text:
Sometimes, Claire could be a pretty impatient person.
It was to be expected from a woman who, years before, had to face undead things, grotesque monsters, and an entire pharmaceutical corporation because she simply couldn’t sit around waiting for her brother to show up someday, maybe, possibly. She liked to handle things with her own hands, to take action.
That was why, at that moment, she regretted not taking the stairs. The elevator was going up way too slowly. Or at least, that’s what Claire thought. She watched the numbers light up one by one, tapping her foot on the floor while trying not to think about the tone of Leon's voice when he answered her call earlier, during her lunch break.
“Agent Kennedy,” she teased, the smile slipping into her voice as a can of Coca-Cola grazed her lips.
“Hey you,” Leon's all-too-familiar voice came low and raspy; a short but clearly exhausted frequency, and Claire furrowed her brows.
“Is it a bad time?” she stepped away from the counter and set the can aside.
“No, it’s fine,” and once again Leon’s deep voice reached her ears in that strange way — weak, faded.
She walked around the office breakroom, back and forth.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” a lie. She could feel it even miles away. “How about you?”
“I’m okay,” she bit her lip; ran her hand through her ponytail. “Just checking if we’re still on for tonight.”
A pause on the other end of the line. An audible movement; something hitting the floor. Claire was searching for what to say when Leon finally replied:
“Yeah, of course.”
“You sure you are okay?”
“Me? Feeling like a million bucks.”
Claire knew Leon way too well to know that something was wrong. She spent the rest of the afternoon with a tight chest, wondering if something had happened or if her instincts were wrong this time. Either way, she would find out with her own eyes, and that was what calmed her impatient side during the afternoon.
Earlier in the week, they had made plans to see each other that friday, after their respective jobs, under the pretense of “friendship maintenance.” Even with their hectic routines, they tried to meet whenever they could — and their hangouts almost always boiled down to late-night conversations, takeout food, questionable movies, and a bit of shared trauma. But, even if she wouldn't admit it out loud, Claire wouldn't trade these moments for anything in this world.
The elevator finally reached the floor and Claire rushed out. In front of Leon’s apartment door, she rang the bell and crossed her arms, waiting.
Leon already knew she’d arrived and should come quickly, as he always did — sometimes he would leave the door unlocked and just yell for her to come in — however, on that day, he took a while.
And a while.
And a while.
Claire was ready to throw her purse on the floor and break that door down, but seconds later it opened and… my God.
Leon was leaning against the doorframe as if his life depended on it. His cheeks were flushed and his dirty-blonde hair was damp; Claire could smell the shampoo from there, mixed with shaving lotion and Leon's favorite soap.
Despite the clear sign of a recent shower, he didn't radiate that vitality that usually came with it, quite the opposite — his eyes were half-open, his lips slightly pale, and if Claire breathed a little too hard, maybe he would fall backward.
“Damn…” she looked him up and down once more, “you look…”
“Amazing. I know,” Leon groaned as he slowly made room for her to come in.
“What’s wrong?” She walked into the apartment and took off her shoes, but without stopping looking at him — just couldn't bring herself to do it, feeling like he would crumble at any moment. “Is it— like, the flu or something?”
“I’m fine,” Leon grumbled, taking a few unsteady steps to the living room before tossing himself onto the couch; elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
Claire shook her head as she put her bag on the dining table. That's when she noticed the small box sitting there. She picked it up in her hands, analyzing it.
“Fever medicine?” Claire wondered, glancing at Leon.
He raised his head just for a moment, then dropped it back into his hands.
“They gave it to me at the office.”
“And you sure took it.”
She opened the box and took a pill from the blister pack. Then, she went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. She returned to the living room and stopped in front of Leon, who raised his head, looking up at her. His cheeks were even redder now, his eyes glassy with tears, and she felt something in her heart tighten at that sight.
“I forgot,” he muttered softly, taking the medicine and the glass; his warm fingers brushing against her hands.
“Sure,” Claire replied sarcastically, sitting down next to him on the couch. Maybe too close. “How long have you been like this?”
He didn't answer right away. He tossed the pill into his mouth and downed the whole glass of water. Then placed it on the coffee table and sighed. He doesn't want to answer, Claire thought.
“I woke up like this. But it’s nothing. I’m fine.”
She nodded; an almost imperceptible smile on the corner of her lips. Leon was the most selfless person she knew — that was one of the things she admired most about him. A tough guy on the outside, but soft on the inside, always putting himself aside for the well-being of others. However, sometimes Leon was too selfless. He put himself aside so much that he ceased to exist for himself.
But for Claire, never.
She touched his arm, covered by the black hoodie he was wearing. He looked at her. She took the opportunity to touch his forehead, but quickly pulled her hand back with a start, as if she had touched a hot stove.
“God, Leon,” she exclaimed, touching his cheek this time, “you’re burning!”
“Hot, huh? Finally getting some recognition.”
“Jesus. That was bad,” Claire stated, and Leon managed to let out a weak, breathy laugh before tossing himself back against the couch cushions; the fluffy pillow hugging his heavy frame. “I’m serious, Leon.”
“It’s just a fever,” he replied, eyes closed.
“It’s concerning,” to that, Leon said nothing. Claire clicked her tongue. She stood up from the couch and put her hands on her hips. Leon opened his eyes as much as he could when he felt the movement beside him. “Come on. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No, you’re not,” Leon leaned forward and pulled Claire by the hand, making her sit back down.
“You need a doctor,” she protested, and Leon still held her hand. His was warm; so warm it almost burned, but Claire didn't want to let go. No way.
“I don’t need a doctor,” he objected, mockery in his voice, as if the realization were absurd.
Claire sighed and stared at his profile; closed eyes, flushed cheeks, damp lips, that annoyingly perfect nose. She was more than familiar with that sight, yet she always caught herself staring as if it were the first time — she tried to look away, knew she should, but it was always an arduous task.
“Did you even eat?” she asked, trying to distract herself from her own thoughts.
“Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
Leon opened just one eye and looked at her sideways for a few seconds before closing it again.
“Very nutritious things.”
“I can only imagine,” she rested her elbow on the back of the couch, propping her head up with her hand. “Noodles seasoned with gunpowder?”
“How did you guess?”
Claire rolled her eyes, but a smile threatened to form on her lips. She looked down at their joined hands; Leon's was larger and practically swallowed hers. His fingers were slightly reddened, perhaps from the recent shower, or the fever. She played with them, intertwining them and then letting go. She held his index finger with her hand. Then his pinky.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Her eyes remained fixed on their intertwined fingers. “I noticed you were weird on the phone earlier.”
Leon partially opened his eyes, staring at some point ahead. He stayed like that for a while, motionless, looking at nothing. Then, he tilted his head slightly to the side, and his eyes were on Claire.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
Claire's fingers stilled.
“Of course I would.”
She looked away, back to their joined hands. Leon's words still hovered in her ears, bringing a sort of cold to the stomach that felt more like a punch. She bit her lip, suppressing a smile from forming, but she knew she couldn't hide her flushed cheeks. Good thing Leon already had his eyes closed again.
“You’re so silly…” she said softly; part of her hoping he wouldn't hear. “I would’ve come right away.”
Leon lifted his head and looked at Claire, who looked back when she felt his gaze. One of his eyes was squinting and the other trying to stay open, as if Claire were radiating a blinding light. A tiny smile appeared on one corner of his mouth, and this time she didn't hold back, mirroring it.
Suddenly, Leon pulled his hand away from hers, but only to bring it up to Claire's face and gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers slid down to her neck, his thumb brushing against her earlobe, then her jawline, and she feared he could feel her heart hammering through that simple touch on her skin.
But then, he pulled back. A small grimace crossed his face, the hand that had been touching her so gently just a moment ago now resting on his own head.
“Fuck,” he muttered, sinking back into the cushions of the couch.
“What’s wrong?” Claire asked, the concern plain in her voice and her furrowed brow.
“It’s just… my head.”
She sighed, placing a hand on Leon's knee. Seeing him like that caused her a distinct kind of discomfort. She had seen him in much worse situations; weakened by much greater things, but there was something about seeing him laid out by a fever that hurt her in a different way, because it was human. And familiar. And intimate. And she wanted to fix it.
“You should probably eat something,” she decided, standing up right after.
Claire went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, confirming what she already expected: completely empty. A tub of butter and a bottle of ketchup said hello, and nothing else. She rummaged through the cabinets and found nothing but granola bars and those damn instant noodles.
“Looks like it’s pizza tonight!” She yelled from the kitchen, closing the last empty cabinet.
“Perfect,” he replied, and Claire had the feeling he would have said the exact same thing if she’d told him they were eating cockroaches for dinner.
She ordered from their usual place — a memory of the last time they ordered flashing through her mind as she dialed the numbers; a halfway decent movie playing on the TV, cardboard boxes scattered across the coffee table, and their legs tangled together on the couch without either of them realizing when that had happened. Like always.
When Claire came back to the living room, she was ninety-nine percent certain Leon was asleep — many years of friendship and a handful of nights that ended with the two of them dozing off on the couch had sharpened her instincts and her capacity for careful observation.
She approached, watching Leon practically become one with the couch. He was snoring softly, arms crossed over his chest. He looked safe, comfortable, lovable. She almost left him there, untouched, her chest suddenly aching at the thought of waking him up for anything at all.
She sat down beside him carefully, but her movements, despite calculated, were enough to wake Leon. He widened his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to keep himself awake.
“Why don’t you take a nap in your room until the food gets here?” Claire suggested, taking advantage of his brief awakening.
“And leave this pretty lady here alone? Fat chance,” he snuggled further into the cushion, and she smiled; not sure which exactly part of his words caused it.
“I can lie down with you.”
Leon glanced at her sideways. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and Claire sensed something terrible was about to come out of them.
“Am I dreaming?” he said, his voice still low and raspy. Claire rolled her eyes, but couldn't contain the smile on her face. “I thought you said you would lie down with me. Shit, I’m starting to hallucinate. It must be the fever.”
“Shut up,” she said through a laugh, standing up from the couch. “come on.”
Claire led the way, hearing Leon's slow, unsteady footsteps behind her. She walked through the short hallway and entered one of the two doors there. She stepped into the darkness, crossing the bedroom to turn on the lamp on the nightstand beside the bed; a warm, cozy yellowish light indirectly illuminating the room.
The bed was unmade. Leon had a habit of making his bed with obsessive perfectionism — a trait inherited from his years of military training, during which he was required to make his bed following a specific weekly schedule of folds, ranging from geometric lines to flowers.
When he told her about it years ago, Claire found it somewhat absurd and even a bit funny — imagining big military men folding flowers into bedsheets — but after so many visits to Leon's apartment and so many obsessively made beds, she felt a part of her ache at the thought that those training days had left permanent marks even on the small actions of his daily life.
So the fact that his bed was completely undone that day meant he really wasn’t okay.
“Sorry for the mess,” his voice echoed behind her. Claire held a laugh, given that the only thing close to being messy was the bed.
Leon threw himself onto the mattress face down. Claire sat beside him, her back against the headboard. His face was turned toward her, the left side sunk in the pillow, his bangs still slightly damp and partially covering the other side.
Once again, Claire caught herself admiring Leon's profile — the way his mouth was slightly squished, forming a subtle little pout. She smiled and gently pushed his hair back with her fingers, almost as if testing the waters. And again. And once more, in a continuous motion, revealing more of his face which she had always found so beautiful; so perfect, since the first time they met, in a Raccoon City in pieces and flames. Leon was the only piece that was right; the only good thing in that place besides Sherry. It was like finding an oasis in the middle of a desert. And Leon would always be her oasis; a place to return to when everything is on fire. Something safe.
“Claire…” he murmured, a warning tone in his voice, like Chris used to do when she was little and was about to get into trouble.
“What is it?”
“Keep doing this and I’ll wake up tomorrow night. Or next week,” the words came out jumbled, almost like babbles between his pressed lips.
“You want me to stop?”
“Fuck no.”
Claire let out a soft chuckle. She was more than happy to keep going; in fact, she felt like she was achieving a great feat. It was the first time in eight years that she was truly touching that hair — Leon would never admit it, but he was very vain when it came to his dirty-blonde locks; Claire could tell — so she was going to savor every second of it. Deep down, she knew Leon would let her do whatever she wanted, but the fact that he had asked her not to stop; that he wanted her touch on his precious hair, satisfied her in an almost smug kind of way.
She didn't realize when, but suddenly she was fully lying down on the bed too.
Maybe she did realize it, yes. Maybe she wanted this. And maybe, she also pretended not to notice Leon tangling his foot with hers.
It always started like this. A normal night, normal conversations, until they ended up intertwined somehow — their legs, their arms, on rare occasions their hands, those being more frequent after Leon returned from a mission. It never went beyond that; an unspoken agreement between the two, yet Claire always ended up with a mix of strange feelings: the strangeness of knowing that it wasn't just a simple gesture between friends; the embarrassment of knowing that, if it were up to her, they would have gone past that a long time ago, and the agony of thinking she was misinterpreting everything — that her feelings were, in fact, one-sided, and there was no tension between them at all.
She knew all of this was a bit ridiculous. She knew they could simply say what was left only between the lines, but maybe they liked it that way. Maybe they liked that unspoken little agreement. Maybe they liked pretending that all of this was normal, without saying anything else, because that way nothing could be ruined.
But sometimes, Claire wished that everything were, in fact, normal, and more than that — real. Especially in moments like this, watching Leon snore peacefully while she ran her fingers through his untouchable hair. Claire would stick to the agreement vehemently, but she wondered if the price wasn't getting too high; if they weren't just wasting time trying to avoid the inevitable. Because one thing was certain: if one day Leon made the slightest mention of ending all of this and simply giving in, Claire would too. Oh she would. And that wouldn't be bad at all.
Her hand drifted from his hair and settled gently on his cheek. Her thumb brushed his skin, feeling the warmth beneath her palm. A silly, unreal thought crossed her mind — the vague possibility of that being her view upon waking every day, in some alternate reality, where one of them had been brave enough to risk their precious little moments.
Yeah. It wouldn't be bad at all.
She continued watching him, almost falling asleep herself when, suddenly, Leon startled; his eyes wide open.
“Claire,” he mumbled, searching for her with his eyes, even though she was right in front of him.
“I’m here.”
Leon furrowed his brows, staring at her for a few seconds. Then, he grumbled and shifted, turning onto his side in bed, only to pull Claire into his arms. He held her close and intertwined their legs, but this time it was different. This time it was too close. Their faces were inches apart, her nose almost touching his chin. It must be the fever, Claire thought, as she let herself be coddled and squeezed by Leon. Of course she would.
A shaky sigh came from her. It was getting harder and harder to ignore her feelings.
It was almost as if Leon could hear her turbulent mind; he opened his eyes, just a thin slit enough to see her, pulling his face back a little. Claire tilted her head slightly, looking back at him.
One, two, ten seconds like that.
“Sorry, Red,” he breathed the words; his tone slow, quiet.
“For what?” she matched his tone.
“You came all the way here and I’m asleep,” his voice was deep and gentle; a shiver running through her entire body.
“Sleeping on a friday night? Sounds like a great plan.”
A lazy smile stretched across his lips. Claire smiled too, shifting her gaze between his half-closed eyes and his perfectly imperfect teeth.
“Hmmm… that was silly. Silly alert,” Leon closed his eyes, but the smile was still there as he said the little inside joke they shared.
“No, you’re being the silliest,” Claire protested, offended for receiving the alert first. “It’s not your fault you’re sick.”
“Yes, it is. I should’ve gotten sick tomorrow. When you’re not here.”
Claire stared at Leon's closed eyelids while wondering if those words should have the impact they did inside her; stomach turning.
“If you’d gotten sick tomorrow, I would’ve come anyway,” she replied quietly, after a moment.
Leon furrowed his brows.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Claire furrowed her brows too.
“Why?”
“Because I would’ve never told you I was sick.”
She stared at him; her lack of expression being her answer. Leon smiled at that, as if it were exactly what he expected.
“Silly alert,” she shot back.
“It’s true.”
“Yeah, which makes it sillier. Stop saying silly things.”
“It’s the fever.”
Claire rolled her eyes, a tiny smile escaping her lips. She looked at the collar of Leon’s hoodie; her hand caught one of the drawstrings, fidgeting with it.
“I don’t like it when you don’t tell me things,” she murmured, feeling Leon's eyes on her, but didn't look back at him.
“Yeah? You want me to tell you everything?” His Adam's apple moved as he spoke, and Claire wanted to touch it.
“Yes.”
Leon raised his hand near his ear, fingers shaped like a phone.
“Claire, I’m eating breakfast. Claire, I’m leaving the house.”
“Yes, just like that.”
“Claire, I bought toothpaste.”
“Oh, important.”
Leon's short laugh blew over her face; his breath was mint, fever medicine, and that characteristic undertone that was so human; so natural, perfect — simply Leon. The smell of Leon.
Ah, if only they weren’t so silly. She would have kissed him at that exact moment.
He looked at her as if he knew what she was thinking, and almost as if he were thinking the same thing, but that was probably a delusion of her mind.
“You would get tired of me,” he observed, after a while.
“Try me.”
Leon's eyes narrowed further in her direction. One corner of his mouth curved up, and Claire bit her lip, trying not to smile and smile and smile.
She saw his gaze drop to her mouth. Then, to something beyond her face. Then, Leon's hand traveled to her hair; her breath caught in her throat. He hooked his fingers into her strands and slid them down, right to the edge of her ponytail. Claire felt her hair tie being pushed back, and then her strands were completely loose against the pillow.
It was the fever. It was definitely the fever.
“I like it when you wear your hair down,” he babbled while caressing her hair, half-lazy, half-clumsy, as if it were hard to hold up the weight of his own arm. “I like it tied up too,” he closed his eyes, brows furrowing, on the edge of the precipice of sleep; his caress growing slower. “I like it anyway.”
Claire barely had time to think of something to reply — soon Leon's hand stopped moving through her hair, leaving her with the ghost of his touch. He slept peacefully, while she was consumed by an internal rebellion; by what he had said, by the sleepy, lazy caress, now just a still hand resting on her head — and yet it still brought her a shameful kind of comfort.
The fact that he had fallen asleep the moment he finished speaking was a relief, because that way he wouldn’t see her burning cheeks, or her lost-for-words expression; the mortifying situation she found herself in.
She laughed softly to herself, almost soundlessly. Leon liked her hair down? She would wear it down. She would always wear it down.
Claire felt a bit ridiculous as she looked at Leon — his beautiful long eyelashes, resting delicately on his face, which had a thin, shiny layer of sweat, probably from the fever medicine — it was almost irritating, the way she was enchanted by every little thing from him. She wasn't like this; a woman easily impressed, with fragile feelings; yet, there she was, her heart beating fast and her stomach so cold she almost trembled. Suddenly she was a teenager again; back in her last year of high school, nearly sick to her stomach because a boy had given her a Valentine’s card, but trying to play it tough, like always.
She should resolve this issue soon. She should simply say it — Leon, I want you — or else put a boundary on this weird friendship that overflowed far too much. But all she did was bury herself into Leon's neck and hug him tighter; an unmatched satisfaction taking over her body when he shifted just to snuggle her closer.
Sometimes, Claire could be a pretty impatient person. It was to be expected from a woman who, years before, had to face undead things, grotesque monsters, and an entire pharmaceutical corporation because she simply couldn’t sit around waiting for her brother to show up someday, maybe, possibly. She liked to handle things with her own hands, to take action.
But at that moment, she would leave the reflections on her actions for later; she would leave the questions and demands for another time. In Leon's feverish and gentle arms, she was in no rush at all.
Claire would wait as long as it took.