Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

There’s a breeze rustling the back of his neck where sweat cools along the thick fabric of his dress shirt collar, the cool morning air still damp with the previous day’s rain. Leon clears his throat, adjusting the stack of meticulous papers on the podium, several microphones protruding from the thick wood in a mess of cold metal and slithering wires. Camera shutters click and flash from the crowd below. Leon does his best to keep his face neutral, but internally he wishes he could be anywhere else.

“Can you hear me, Mister Kennedy?” a voice filters down from above, professional and smooth, and Leon fights to pry his heavy eyelids open, bright lights splintering into starbursts in his blurry vision. There’s an awful pressure in his chest, hard plastic resting thickly over his mouth and nose, and confusion knits his brow. Something warm and gloved in latex pulls gently on his eyelid, and Leon moans when another piercing light glares into his pupil.

“Dressing looks secure for now, and patient is still responsive,” the voice says briskly, the vague shadow of a blurry figure shifting in and out of focus above Leon. The hand brushes over his upturned forearm, cool antiseptic following in its wake. “We’re just setting you up with some fluids, Mister Kennedy. You might feel a small pinch and some pressure.”

“Leon,” Leon slurs, something metallic coating his tongue when he speaks. He wheezes on a weak cough. “ ‘m Leon.”

“Leon? Alright Leon, try to stay awake for me. Can you tell me what day it is?” Faint sharpness digs into the crook of Leon’s elbow for a moment, throbbing dully beneath his skin before the shadow pulls away, the blur of his hand rising to hang what looks to be a blob of plastic from the ceiling. Leon blinks hazily, a growing ache in his chest making it hard to think coherently.

“Friday,” he mumbles, breath hitching. It’s getting hard to breathe, but his lips twitch weakly into a grin, and Leon swallows hard. “Thinkin’… my evening plans might be thrown off.”

The voice huffs what might be a laugh and says something else, but Leon loses it under a wave of exhaustion that forces his eyelids to flutter closed. His chest shudders, and he feels himself groan, the voice growing louder in response. He hears something about morphine and lines and transfusion , but none of it makes any sense, a warm, twilight haze dragging him safely away from the chaos.

His voice is remarkably steady when he speaks, rising and falling over words he’s rehearsed so many times that the paper copy is practically useless. He starts with his name and position—though, the DSO has prohibited him from sharing anything more than the fact that he’s a federal agent—and moves quickly to an acknowledgement of the Raccoon City Incident, as it’s been labelled, ignoring the lump of dread that forms in his gut. He takes a steadying breath, relaxing his fingers where they cling to the edges of the podium, and that’s when he notices it.

If he’d looked only an inch to the left, he’d have missed it entirely, but the faint metal glint in the corner of his eye is just visible enough for the breath to catch in his chest, words dying in his throat as he recognizes the telltale gleam of a rifle. He steps backwards as quickly as he can, eyes widening—but the damage has been done. Something slams into his chest, knocking him backwards, and he’s powerless to stop it from carrying him to the ground. The next thing Leon knows, he’s staring up at the clouded sky as a secret service agent shelters him with his body, gasping for breaths that won’t come. Something hurts.

Leon resurfaces with a jolt, squinting up at the gleaming metal above him as he tries and fails to get his bearings. A loud wailing fills the background, accentuated by unsteady, frantic beeping, and Leon struggles to pull himself out of the haze urging him back to sleep. He’s… not supposed to do that, is he? He doesn’t know. Leon swallows tightly, slick blood coating his mouth.  There’s a person beside him, fiddling with some sort of machinery he doesn’t recognize, his face vaguely familiar and set in a grim line. Someone else is speaking loudly. Leon blinks dazedly, trying to make sense of the words.

“—pneumothorax; patient’s blood pressure is dropping. ETA three minutes—”

“Can you still hear me, Leon? You’re doing a great job.” The person turns towards him, face blurring. He places a hand on Leon’s arm as the space jolts strangely, the tubes hanging around Leon swinging from the disturbance. He tries to answer, but his tongue doesn’t seem to be working right despite the small, pained sounds catching in his throat. He feels strangely syrupy, like he’s suspended in a dream. He can’t breathe.

The man palpates a spot on Leon’s ribs, shifting to pick up a small metal tool that he doesn’t let Leon catch a glimpse of.

“I’m just inserting a tube to help you breathe a little better. It shouldn’t hurt, but I need you to try and stay still for me, okay? You might feel a little bit of pressure in your chest.” 

Leon chokes, hot copper flooding his mouth. The man curled over him is shouting into an earpiece, but Leon can’t get himself to focus on the words, touching a trembling hand to the tight spot of white-hot pain beginning to bloom in his chest. His fingers come away wet and glistening with blood, the sight of it making Leon feel lightheaded. He coughs again, an awful suctioning sound breaking through the high-pitched ringing in his ears when he can’t quite get the oxygen back. Panic flares under the blanket of shock dulling his thoughts as his chest shudders uselessly, Leon’s fingers clutching fearfully at the agent’s sleeve when he realizes that his lungs aren’t working right. Why aren’t they working right? 

Someone falls to their knees beside his head, and Leon glances up with wide eyes, Hunnigan’s solemn face swimming into view as a pair of hands presses down hard against the hole in Leon’s chest. Hunnigan, he mouths, unable to make a sound, but Hunnigan nods determinedly despite the tears in her eyes and he knows she understands. Her blazer is almost the same washed-out gray as the sky above, the light houndstooth pattern contrasting perfectly with her dark skin. The relief is palpable enough that Leon’s eyelids flutter, hand relaxing its death grip on the agent’s sleeve. He’s so glad she’s here. Leon tries again to speak, but more blood fills his throat, and all he can do is gag. 

“Don’t try to talk. Save your strength,” Hunnigan says tightly, nudging his hip with her knee. She’s done something new with her hair, short curls pinned up elegantly along her scalp. It looks nice. “Keep those pretty blues open, Leon—I need my best field agent.” 

It’s marginally easier to breathe when he sucks desperately at the air, but the shallow gasp still isn’t enough and he can feel it slipping from his lungs before he can fill them. Dark spots dance in the corners of his vision, his shoulder aching from the agony radiating outwards, and Leon uses the rest of his strength to wrap his palm loosely around Hunnigan’s slim wrist. He should tell her about the sniper before he forgets. 

“Hunnigan,” he tries, metal on his tongue.

“I’m here.” 

“Increasing oxygen flow rate to fifteen litres per minute. Heart rate—”

The voice is back, listing off a series of meaningless numbers and measurements in rapid-fire succession. Leon groans, flickering eyelids refusing to open fully. The gentle rocking of the stretcher beneath him is enough to make him dizzy, nausea mingling with so much pain and pressure that his nerves feel like live wires left to brush against every sensation possible at the same time. He tilts his head, clenching his hand around a wrist that isn’t there. 

“Hunnigan?” Leon asks, tongue tripping on her name. “Hunnigan?” 

“Leon?” 

“Where is she?” His voice is a mumble, brows knitting in distress. Wasn’t she just here? 

“You’re here with us, Leon. Is Hunnigan your friend?” 

“Hunnigan,” he pleads, but there’s no answer. 

It hurts. 

He’s moving.

The wind in his hair, hands on his body. The distant sound of an approaching ambulance as Hunnigan’s loud voice begins to fade. He feels like he’s floating.

“We need to get him up to surgery, tell them to be ready for—” 

Blood in his mouth. The glint of a rifle. 

“He’s crashing!” 

His chest is agony, squeezing and crushing and burning all at once. He can’t breathe no matter how hard he tries. 

“Get me—”

A camera flashes. If he could speak he’d tell them to fuck off.

“—now!”

Darkness.

Chapter Text

The chirping blare of a car alarm on the street below drills relentlessly into Claire's aching skull as she moans and buries her face deeper in the pillow, the dizzy remnants of the past night's drinking making it difficult to open her eyes against the morning light that streams through the half-open curtains. Yesterday's tank top is rucked up around her ribs, jeans pressing into her hips; hand completely numb from where it’s been trapped beneath her body. She can’t control her fingers when she pulls it free, the familiar dull discomfort of lost circulation tingling through numb, limp flesh. God, her head hurts. 

Ugh. She definitely overdid it at the bar last night, but in all fairness, her coworkers kept buying her vodka cranberries, and who was she to say no? It had been nice to lose herself in the haze for a while, especially with memories of Raccoon City screaming at her from every major news outlet and headline for the past week. She’s seen Leon’s stupid face more in the past few days than she has in the entirety of knowing him, his glassy blue eyes peering out from under a layer of grime and blood on the front page of the newspapers; shredded police uniform clinging to his broad shoulders the same way it had back in '98. No matter how much she stares, it's hard to fathom that the bruised-looking boy in the image is the same highly-trained government agent who now runs errands for whoever holds his leash and covers up bioterror events to protect the status quo. A long-burning ember of anger flares in her gut, but Claire's not quite ready to confront that mess yet. The last time she'd seen Leon in person…well, Claire just hopes the Raccoon City leak will be enough to spur him into action. 

She groans, blinking against the crust of makeup gluing her eyelashes together. God, she barely even remembers getting home. If she wants to be ready for work in time—

"Fuck." Claire jolts upright, staring blearily at the bedside alarm clock that reads 9:35 a.m. in bold red lettering, meaning there are exactly twenty-five minutes before she needs to be at the TerraSave office downtown. The bus takes forty. "Fuck!" 

Her hair is still wet from the shower by the time she's leaving her apartment, a hastily-buttered bagel clutched precariously in her hand while she locks the door and heads for the stairs, boots clattering on cement at a breakneck pace. The bus is just pulling up as Claire reaches the stop—thank God— the worn leather of her messenger bag bumping her hip as she boards. The hangover headache throbs cruelly behind her eyes, bright L.A. sun spiking through her skull despite the pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. She can't wait until the ibuprofen kicks in. 

The rest of her morning is a blur, the small TerraSave office busier than normal in preparation for an upcoming fundraiser, a project almost entirely under Claire's supervision as a senior employee. She loses track of how many cups of coffee she goes through in a desperate attempt to keep herself alert and focused, the caffeine exacerbating her headache despite the buoyant energy it provides. The chatter of overlapping voices seems to jab into her ears at every opportunity, piercing spots of pain hammering into her skull like railroad spikes. 

It's noon by the time Claire moves to her private office to check her emails, the half-cracked door offering solace from the hubbub of busy voices. Everything hurts. She sighs, fighting down the urge to groan—only for her cellphone to explode into the ringtone set specifically for Chris's calls, a song from his favorite Queen album that she usually enjoys. The crisp guitar chords grate against her eardrums as she fumbles through her pockets in an attempt to find it, turned up far too loud. The song excerpt is already looping by the time she finds the little touchscreen BlackBerry at the bottom of her bag, the 'reject call' button never a more useful feature. Scanning the display, though, shows seven missed calls from her brother, some from as early as eight a.m. She must have missed them in her rush to leave the house. Claire scrolls down the list, the phone lighting up again in her hand as cold dread trickles slowly down her spine. 

This time, she picks up the call.

"Chris? What's going on?" Her voice is slightly more forceful than she'd intended, anxiety fluttering under her ribs in anticipation. "I'm at work." 

"I…sorry, I just wanted to see if you were okay. I tried calling earlier, but you didn't answer."

"I noticed," Claire says drily, but the odd thickness of Chris's voice puts her immediately on edge, body tense as she tries to make sense of the unreadable emotion. "I'm fine, why?"

"Haven't you heard? It's all over the news."

"What is?" The dread is crawling now, a sick, skittering thing that fills her stomach with fear. "Chris? What's on the news?" 

Her brother is silent for a moment, as if gathering himself, and Claire hopes against hope that he's not going to say exactly what she already knows he's going to. 

"It's Leon."

-~-

"My name is Leon S. Kennedy," Leon's voice says smoothly in Claire's earbuds, laptop warm in her lap as she stares blankly at the screen. "Active federal agent from the Department of Security Operations—and, the reason we're all here today, survivor of the Raccoon City Incident in nineteen ninety-eight. There has been considerable speculation and conspiracy regarding my record of events, and with last night's breach of the Kennedy Report, which details an operation I carried out in Spain on behalf of President Graham, I have been encouraged to step forward and shed some clarity on the government's anti-bioterrorism protocols." 

His hair gleams in the dull spring sunlight, perfectly-pressed navy suit at odds with the dark circles Claire can see under his eyes, day-old stubble dotting the tense curve of his jaw. He exhales, shifting—and pauses, the action flooding Claire with anxiety, stomach crawling with the  terrible suspicion that she knows exactly what comes next. She's seen bits and flashes of the event on every second television on her way here, unable to look away from the brief, subtitle-less segments playing silently on monitors overhead until she'd been forced to focus on checking her carry-on and making it through security, instead. Everywhere she'd looked had been Leon's face, looping and disappearing, and Claire had been itching to watch one of the news reports in full.. On her computer screen, Leon's lips part in warning, body shifting into a prepared stance as he steps backwards. He staggers at the crack of a gunshot, only for the image to cut to a grainy cell-phone shot of paramedics wheeling away a stretcher, a strand of Leon's blonde hair the only feature she can make out under the straps and medical equipment. There's so much blood on his shirt. 

The newscaster has begun to speak, but Claire doesn't hear what she's saying, already ripping her headphones free from her ears to sink her face into a hand. Fuck. She's been so fucking selfish.

Claire exhales shakily, picking up her cell phone to reread the text Chris had sent her, the name of Leon's university hospital and room number staring back at her from the over bright display. A patch of sunlight warms her shoulder, dappled beams streaming in through the wide windows overlooking the landing strip, but Claire still feels cold. Three years is too long to hold a grudge, and she'd been too damn stubborn to recognize the obvious and let it go. What had happened over the data chip in D.C. was entirely her fault, anger blinding her to the understanding that Leon was only doing what he thought was right. She'll never approve of his choice in occupation or his decision to hide the data from the press, but he's still her friend, and she'd let her biases erase the trust they've been building for years. 

Claire had just wanted him to apologize. She'd refused every tentative olive branch of coffee or lunch in the weeks afterwards until he'd stopped asking altogether; obsessed with condemning him as just another government lapdog. Leon works for the White House—he's probably experienced firsthand what kind of backstabbing they're capable of, and she was wrong to cut him off on the misguided pretense that he'd been no better. Claire just wishes she'd been able to admit it sooner. By the time realization and guilt had kicked in a month or two later, his number had been changed and getting ahold of him via any method other than Chris was virtually impossible. They've only seen each other twice in the time between then and now, and conversation had been stilted, awkward both times—like Claire had been talking with a stranger. 

Now, she might not ever get the chance to ask for Leon's forgiveness, a well of hollow numbness swelling up under the guilt. The anger that had swallowed her upon reading the Raccoon City report is gone now, the bitterness over being excluded from Leon's account suddenly childish and cruel. He must have had a reason for omitting her and Sherry's presences from his explanation—she knows Leon too well to think that it was out of pride. Claire sighs. 

Chris had been gentle in breaking the news, assuring her that Leon was stable; that the doctors were hopeful, but Claire's pretty sure that just means it's all up in the air. A bullet to the lung is no small injury, even if it had—just barely—managed to avoid hitting Leon's heart. Critical condition is still critical condition. Chris had been audibly choking back tears by the end of the call, and Claire had scheduled a week away from work and booked a flight to D.C. before he'd even hung up. Her brother's never had a good poker face. 

" Last call to boarding gate sixty-two, " a voice calls over the airport intercom, the burble of conversation and rolling suitcases encouraging the anxious tapping of Claire's foot on the carpet beneath the row of identical plastic chairs. Claire sighs, checking her watch. Her own plane is delayed, something about a refuelling stop. It's already early afternoon, and by the time she gets to D.C., it'll be dinnertime—maybe she'll be able to convince Chris to step out for a bite to eat, because she knows he won't do it on his own. They're both so stupidly stubborn all the time, Claire reflects grimly. Neither of them are willing to back down until everything around them is in flames. 

Claire leans back in her chair, closing the laptop before the video has time to end. She's seen more than enough, and she refuses to give herself the opportunity to click the re-watch button—if she does, there's no way she'll be able to hold her composure.

-~-

Claire tries her best not to shiver in the chill of the hospital hallway, footsteps loud in the hushed atmosphere of the ICU. The agent marching at her side doesn't say another word, dark sunglasses hiding the eyes that had scrutinized her ID extensively, reluctantly allowing her a bracelet labelled VISITOR when she'd proven herself as one of Leon's emergency contacts. The woman is dressed in a suit and stark white shirt, dark hair swept back in a bun so tight that Claire's head aches just looking at it. Her high heels click against the dreary flooring with every step, dark shoes rhythmically interrupting the vast expanse of sickly sage green laminate.

"Here," she says abruptly, stopping so quickly that Claire nearly runs into her back. She pushes the unremarkable wooden door open slightly, then steps back, nodding. Claire swallows.

"Thanks." 

She hesitates for a moment, hand hovering over the wood. God, what if she can't handle whatever she's about to see? The sound of a beeping heart monitor and the rhythmic hiss of what can only be another medical machine are audible through the crack in the door, Claire's own heart fluttering in her chest. She sucks in a deep breath, steeling herself. She's faced worse than this before—she can do this, for Leon. 

Stomach in her throat, she steps through the doorway. 

Leon looks pale even against the crisp white hospital sheets, dwarfed by the army of machines that surrounds his unmoving form like another set of guards, IV poles and beeping monitors connected to him through seemingly endless tubes and wires. Claire can't see his chest under the hospital gown thrown loosely over his torso, but she can see the tubes controlling its rise and fall, two snaking lines of plastic that funnel towards the smaller one secured in his mouth for the ventilator. His hair is loose around his face, longer than Claire remembers it being and casually mussed like he's just taking a nap instead of laid up in a hospital bed. It makes him look so young. 

Beside the bed, Chris sits in one of the small plastic visiting chairs, expression twisting into something soft and sad when he turns to catch sight of Claire. He's holding Leon's hand; thick, tanned fingers curled protectively around Leon's limp palm where it rests against the mattress. It's the only thing Claire can see as her brother rises to his feet, gaze fixed on Leon's perfect nails as Chris gently separates their hands and pulls himself upright. They're shiny, smooth and perfectly buffed, and all Claire can think is that she never knew Leon liked manicures. She supposes she's never asked. 

"Hey," Chris says awkwardly, hesitating. 

"God. Chris—" Claire isn't strong enough to keep her voice from breaking, hand coming up to cover her mouth.

"I know." He's there, suddenly, wrapping her up in a hug as Claire stares blankly at the bed. Her brother is warm like always, big enough to block out the rest of the world, and the lump in Claire's throat forms without warning. A broad hand glides soothingly up and down her back, Chris's sorrowful voice at once comforting and gut-wrenching. "I know it looks bad. They're keeping him under sedation until they think he'll be able to breathe on his own, but he shouldn't be in any pain. They just want him to be comfortable." 

"He's not…?" 

"No. He'll be able to wake up on his own." Chris's hand cups the back of Claire's neck as she finally sobs, her own fingers knotting in the worn material of his t-shirt. She can hear his voice crack, but he holds himself steady enough to say, "it's going to be okay, Claire."

"He just—he looks so—" Dead, she wants to say, peeking out from under Chris's arm to take in Leon's waxy pallor and the purplish bruises around his sunken eyes. She pauses, fighting another sob. "Fragile."

They stand together for a long time, chests trembling in unison with the tears that drip down their faces until Claire manages to wrench her frayed composure back together, wiping her eyes with a hand—even though most of her tears have soaked into Chris's shirt from where she'd been buried against it. She shifts slightly to see her brother doing the same, and the look on his face is so heartbroken that she immediately pulls him into a second hug. 

"Are you okay?" Claire asks, squeezing tightly. "I know you two were…" 

"I'm fine, don't worry about me. Why don't I give you a minute alone with him?" 

Chris isn't very convincing, and he won't meet her eyes when Claire lets him go, but she decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. He's been here alone for hours, probably pacing out of his skin with worry. She can't blame him for being overwhelmed. Chris flashes her a weak smile and heads for the door, broad frame disappearing into the hallway to leave Claire alone with the clicking of machines as her only companion. And Leon, of course, though he remains silent as she turns to settle herself in the chair her brother had vacated. 

It's still warm, and so is Leon's hand when she reaches out to take it between her own, his fingers lax and soft between the scars and calluses that bump against Claire's thumb as she carefully strokes his palm. It takes Claire a long moment to gather enough courage to look at Leon's face again, clearing her throat against the lump already threatening to make a reappearance.

"Hi," she says softly, observing his side profile with a pang. Long eyelashes brush the tops of his cheeks, the padded contraption that holds his tracheal tube in place cutting through an otherwise tranquil expression. Even asleep, he looks tired. "I really wish you were awake right now so I could apologize. We've been pretty childish about this, huh?" 

Claire tries her best to imagine Leon awake, seated across from her in the last diner they'd eaten at together; the curve of his lips when he glares playfully at her and makes some stupid sarcastic comment. Probably something about how he is much more mature than her, the two-and-a-half year age difference between them always a point of good-natured contention. She can see the gleam of his eyes under the ridiculous curtain of hair that makes him look like a grunge singer from the nineties, the easy grace of his movements when he reaches out to snatch one of her french fries or steal her napkin to wipe his grubby hands on instead of getting his own from the table dispenser. 

A beep from one of Leon's machines pulls her harshly from the memory, her hand tightening around his as the hospital filters back in, dreary and cold. Claire smiles sadly, reaching out to adjust the blanket draped over his hips. She's powerless to do anything else, but the urge to help, to make it better, is overwhelming. 

"You'll be okay," she promises, but she's not quite sure if it's true.

-~-

Visiting hours are over all too quickly, an apologetic but firm nurse ushering Claire and Chris out into the hallway with the assurance that Leon will be taken care of until they can come see him in the morning. There's no real point in arguing, even if it makes Claire's heart twist to see Leon's unconscious figure lying limp and alone as they leave. 

Chris is downright despondent, barely even speaking when she takes him out for a late dinner at some random local restaurant chain and foots the bill. He's been in New York the past few days for a conference, having caught his own flight to D.C. this morning before Claire had even gotten to work, so Claire lets him share the cheap hotel room she'd managed to snag last-minute. She doesn't blame him for being grumpy, though she is slightly lonely when he throws himself into the empty bed without another word and promptly falls asleep at ten p.m. on the dot. It still feels early to her, being from the West Coast, so Claire wanders the hotel for a while and gets a drink at the bottom floor bar before finally braving Chris's woodchipper snoring to turn in for an early night. 

She doesn't get much sleep, even after Chris rolls to his other side and finally breathes like a normal human being, the bags under her eyes barely concealable when she puts her makeup on in the morning. Chris likes to steal blankets, not to mention the space his great, hairy body takes up, and Claire never sleeps well under stress, anyways. By the time they get breakfast and head back to the hospital, she's irritable and jittery, the thought of visiting Leon's cramped room leaving her anxious. She wants to, of course. She needs to. But the thought of seeing him again, so still and pale and vulnerable, an inch away from a complication that could mean his death—she can't.

"Do you have a cigarette on you?" she blurts in a rush as she and Chris exit the taxi in front of the hospital. Chris stops, frowning in surprise. The cool morning breeze brushes past the damp strands of her shoulder-length hair, wet pavement and gray skies drenching her in the miserable aftermath of spring rain. She shivers slightly, sucking in a deep breath. 

"I didn't know you still smoked," Chris rumbles slowly with a wry grin, reaching into the front pocket of his jacket. His eyes are dark with concern, bloodshot, their glassy sheen reflecting the pavement and crisp sky above. He pulls the package of Marlboros out into his massive hand, offering it to Claire without question. "You told me you quit in college."

"It's a special occasion." Claire sighs, reaching for the small roll of tobacco and sweet, sweet nicotine. It fits between her lips like it always has, the familiar click of Chris's lighter casting a glow over her face as he sets it alight. She closes her eyes as the memory-laden smoke fills her lungs, releasing it in a cloud as she leans up against the stone corner of the building. She offers the cigarette to Chris, who takes it gratefully, stuffing a hand in the pocket of his cargo pants and leaning his head back as the end of it glows. Claire's almost surprised he had cigarettes in the first place—he's been smoking less in the past few years, probably to keep his body in top shape, but she knows the mission to Kijiju a few months ago had taken a toll. He exhales, breaking her from her thoughts.

"You okay?" he asks, glancing over with the cigarette between his fingers. Claire's already regretting asking for one, her own lungs unused to the burn after so many years. "I mean, I know you're not, but… you seem restless or something. What's on your mind?"

Claire hums as he passes the cigarette back, breathing in its acrid tang. Truthfully, she's not even sure how to answer the question—aside from the guilt and the obvious fact that Leon is suffering, it's difficult to name exactly where the misery comes from. She thinks for a moment, smoke billowing from her lips into the morning air. Scratch that, she knows exactly what memory is plaguing her subconscious, cruel and bold and refusing her attempts to push it down.

"I know it's dumb," she says, taking another hit of the cigarette to steel her courage. "I just—being in the ICU, seeing him so still… I can't help but think about—"

"Dad."

"Yeah. It's different now, I know that. But I remember when they turned off life support, and all those tubes and wires couldn't do a thing." She can feel tears prickling the backs of her eyes, laughing wetly. "I don't know what I'd do if it happened again." 

Chris smiles sadly. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Claire swallows tightly, a silence stretching out in the cool morning air. She's not going to cry, she tells herself venomously, the tears gathering in her eyes still blurring and building until everything is clouded over. She won't . 

"I just wish I could do more."

"You're here for him," Chris says gently, almost hesitant. "That's enough, you know. He'd appreciate it if he knew." 

Claire doesn't trust herself to speak.

She fights down the lump in her throat for a long moment, head turned away so Chris can't see the gloss in her eyes—not that he would judge. Claire takes a deep, steadying breath, resisting the urge to sit down right there on the sidewalk. She's not sure what exactly it is she needs right now, but the distant chirp of birds and rustle of Chris's clothes are strangely comforting. They lapse into a companionable quiet, the weight in Claire's chest somehow lifting as the overwhelming emotion slowly reduces to a simmer. At least Chris understands what she's feeling, even if it doesn't change anything. Claire sighs. She waves a hand when Chris offers the cigarette again, suddenly regretting her choice to indulge. "You keep it, thanks." 

She waits until Chris has finished and stamped out the still-glowing end to turn towards the hospital building, his broad hand patting her shoulder before he, too, steps towards it. 

Overhead, rain begins to fall.

-~-

There's someone by Leon's bed that Claire doesn't recognize, her steps faltering as she and Chris enter the room to see a woman with a tightly-curling ponytail seated in the bedside chair, her delicate fingers carefully cradling Leon's limp, pale hand. She's dressed in loose-legged brown dress pants and a conservative cream cardigan that offsets her dark skin, a wan, polite smile crossing her face as Chris and Claire enter the room. The steady beeping of Leon's heart monitor echoes across the second cheap blanket lumped over his legs to keep him warm, a new addition to the room. She watches the woman squeeze Leon's hand, gaze melancholy behind her glasses. 

"I didn't realize you'd be here so early," she says softly, the clicking of machines punctuating her words. She sighs, glancing down at her watch, but makes no other movement. "I don't mean to intrude, I just…"

She swallows, expression fragile, before a steel mask seems to sweep across her face, locking all that emotion up behind her eyes until the glossy sheen of them is the only sign she'd been upset at all. It reminds Claire of Leon, that same deceptively unemotional self-control present in the woman's demeanor as she squares her shoulders and offers out her free right hand. Claire can't help but find it irritating. 

"Ingrid Hunnigan," she says, nodding professionally when Chris steps forward to shake it. "I work closely with the DSO. You could say I'm… something of a handler, for agents in the field."

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips, as if laughing at some private joke, but Claire can't help but feel uneasy. Leon's never mentioned a Hunnigan before, and the presence of a government worker puts Claire on edge. The fact she's at Leon's side with a misty expression means she's probably not a danger—but Claire's logic is undermined by the sheer bitterness that sweeps over her in a rush, everything that's happened in the past week suddenly compounding into sharp rage. 

"So, what?" she asks, harsher than necessary. Chris shoots her a look, but Claire crosses her arms, determined. "You handle him? Order him around?"

"It's more of a support position," Hunnigan responds calmly. "I do my best to offer information and assistance where permitted, but I also give advice when necessary. We're on the same side, I promise you that. I worked with Leon back when it was still STRATCOM giving him orders." 

"I didn't know you two were so close."  

"Claire," Chris warns, voice a rumble. Hunnigan sighs, cradling Leon's hand between both of her own for a long moment, then stands, brushing her dress pants back into order. 

"Say what you need to," she says, a hint of steel glinting in her gaze, "this will go better if there's nothing between us." 

Claire seethes, stepping forward until she and Hunnigan are face to face. 

"If you could really protect him, then why is he breathing through tubes right now, huh?" 

"Leon is a hard man to protect," Hunnigan says mildly. "He makes enemies, in this line of work, and I would hardly consider myself his guardian. He also wouldn't appreciate it, you know that as well as I do."

Claire scoffs. She's being unfair, she knows, but it feels so good to let loose some of the emotion curled in her gut. "So? You really don't think you could have done more to prevent this?"

"Ms. Redfield." Hunnigan's voice grows colder, lips twisting into a disapproving frown. Her gaze is icy against Claire's, dark eyes like pools of shadow, deeper and more threatening than Claire had initially thought. Her words are venomous when she speaks. "I'm not sure what you think I do for the government, but I can assure you that I had very little desire for Leon to be exposed to the public and made to speak the way he was, and I was not consulted over the matter in the slightest. I attended the event in a show of support for a long-time coworker and trusted friend, not as an official." 

"Claire," Chris warns again, but the swell of rage in Claire's chest, built up with hours of grief and worry, is impossible to hold back with the meagre wavebreak of rationality. Her brother's hand finds her shoulder, but Claire shakes it off with a frustrated growl, pointing directly into Hunnigan's stoic face. 

"Don't pretend like you couldn't have at least seen this coming. All of you people are equally as crooked and untrustworthy, all with your own backstabbing agendas. Can you even call yourself his friend? Or is that just another lie to disguise your real intentions?"

"Tread carefully," Hunnigan hisses, the barest crack in her façade sending a bitter bolt of satisfaction down Claire's spine. Her gaze is ablaze behind her glasses. "Do you have any fucking idea what sacrifices he's made for this country? For you? For Sherry Birkin? Of course you don't, because you would rather shift the blame onto me instead of accepting the fact that you never cared to ask—"

"What the hell does Sherry have to do with any of this?" Claire's aware that she's almost shouting, but she can't seem to lower her voice, riled up by the accusation. "Tell me, then. Tell me everything you think I'm so ungrateful for, and then we'll see who's to blame!"

"It's not my place." 

"Oh, bull—"

"Claire!" Chris's voice is a gunshot, silence ringing in his wake, and it's then that Claire registers the quickened beeping of the heart monitor, focus turning to the figure on the bed. Her stomach drops. Leon's brows are knitted, as if in pain, his eyelids fluttering as his feet kick weakly under the blankets. He's definitely not conscious, not with all those potent sedatives swimming in his blood, but his body is awake enough to claw at the sheets in distress. Claire can see the muscles working in his throat, like he wants to make sound but can't around the tube. Chris darts across the room to lean over him worriedly, hand stroking over Leon's slightly-greasy hair. 

"Shh," he soothes, "it's alright, Leon. You're safe." 

Claire turns her face away guiltily, unable to watch the gentle exchange. It's cowardice, but the sight of Chris's careful hands quieting the anguish she's just unknowingly inflicted on Leon makes her eyes sting with unshed tears. Beside her, Hunnigan is stony and tense, nails scraping anxiously at her palm. The sound of the door opening makes them both jump, a scowling middle-aged nurse fixing them with a death glare as she enters.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," she says, even and firm. "Half the ward could hear you arguing, and nobody needs that when their loved ones are critically ill. Mr. Kennedy certainly doesn't need the extra stress, either. Good Lord!"

"It won't happen again." Hunnigan's voice is quiet as she steps aside to allow the nurse access to her patient, tentative in a way Claire wouldn't expect from someone of her calibre. Claire smiles apologetically in rueful agreement, nodding.

"I'm sorry. It's been—a long couple days." 

"It's been twice as long for your friend, I can assure you. Get out of my hospital, and don't come back until you can behave like adults," the nurse demands. She shakes her head as they begin to shuffle awkwardly towards the door, humiliation burning a flare in Claire's chest. She's certain her face is flushed beet red. 

Chris presses a final kiss to Leon's temple, rising with a mumbled goodbye—only for the nurse to stop him with a hand on his arm, shaking her head. 

" You can stay, honey," is all she says, busying herself with checking Leon's vitals. Chris hovers for a second, halfway between standing and sitting, glancing at Claire with a question clear in his eyes. Claire nods silently—Leon needs someone familiar to stay with him while she leaves to clear her mind, and she's not selfish enough to make her brother abandon the room just because she doesn't want to be alone with Hunnigan. She gathers up her jacket and slips out into the hallway without another word, cool, sterile air washing over her in an overwhelming rush of floor cleaner and antiseptic. The scent reminds her of vaccines and blood draws, of gauzy cotton balls and underground laboratories, a shiver running down her spine. She's seen enough doctors and hospitals for a lifetime. 

Claire takes a deep breath, pushing the memories from her mind. Beside her, Hunnigan runs a tense hand over the dark curls stretched over her scalp, rustling the few strands that fall to the sides of her face. She looks just as tired as Claire feels. 

"So," Claire says awkwardly into the silence. "Coffee?" 

-~-

They wind up in the hospital's bottom floor cafeteria-slash-student-café out of convenience, Claire sipping a latte while Hunnigan nurses an Earl Grey tea and watches with graceful indifference as people with umbrellas walk briskly past on the street outside. Her hand is loose around the paper cup, circling the base but not quite touching it, and Claire hasn't seen her take more than a sip or two even though they've been sitting here for over ten minutes. She stirs her latte, trying to come up with some way to break the silence. 

In the end, it's Hunnigan who speaks first, dark eyes piercing even behind the rims of her glasses. "I'm sorry for being so harsh," she says, loud enough that Claire can hear her but still pitched low to keep the conversation within the small square of their table. "There are a lot of things you don't know, and things that you can't know, and I shouldn't have accused you of ignorance. I also know how Leon… I know Leon isn't good at letting people close to him, even when he needs it." 

Hunnigan sighs, expression haggard. Claire is silent for a moment. 

"I get it. I'm angry, too," she offers, "and I shouldn't have called you a backstabber, either. I mean, I don't even know you."

Hunnigan quirks the ghost of a smile at that. "It's not an unfair assumption. I've dealt with plenty of people I can't trust in this line of work, and the news coverage over the assassination attempt proves exactly how wily government officials can get when they want to hush things up."

"Why? What are they hiding?" 

"Did you watch any of it this morning?" 

"No." Claire shifts, uncomfortable with the sudden drop in atmosphere. Hunnigan purses her lips and reaches into a bag for a sleek laptop, powering it on and tapping at the keyboard for a moment before she passes the device to Claire. There's a video thumbnail already filling the screen, the cursor hovering over the play button. "This is from today?"

Hunnigan nods once in confirmation, leaning back as Claire presses play and focuses her attention on the video. The volume is turned low enough that the station's opening motif buzzes in Claire's ears, but she appreciates the switched-on subtitles when the anchor begins to speak. The woman is standing outside what looks to be a government building, microphone in hand. She introduces herself succinctly, then turns to the tall, bearded man whose cold gaze seems to burn directly through the camera lens and into Claire's brain. He doesn't bother looking at the anchor. 

"Mr. Simmons," she begins, tone polite. "There have been a lot of rumors flying around about the shooter involved in the Kennedy assassination attempt, and with law enforcement being turned aside in favor of government investigation, everyone is wondering—have there been any updates to the situation?"

Simmons laughs, a greasy, smarmy sound that Claire already doesn't like. There's something shifty in his expression, the haughty way he lifts his chin and clears his throat. His reaction is entirely inappropriate for the situation. 

"There have, indeed. First, however, I find it necessary to offer some reassurance." He adjusts the lapels of his expensive-looking overcoat, bejeweled rings flashing on his fingers. "The shooter has not yet been apprehended, but we can assure you that the general public is safe from any harm due to the targeted nature of the event."

"Have any suspects been named?"

"Not yet, but we're looking into the matter with a discerning eye. Nobody has yet been discounted from the list of possible offenders, not even our own people. This is a grave issue to us." Simmons nods like he's said something profound, running a thumb and forefinger down his goatee like a cartoon villain. The anchor frowns slightly. 

"Agent Kennedy is currently in critical condition. Have there been any attempts to look into the event's security in the wake of its breach?" 

"Security measures were up to standard, don't assume we've been lax." Simmons finally turns to meet the reporter's gaze, smiling without mirth. "As for Agent Kennedy, his condition has been labelled as 'stable,' and he remains in the capable hands of a well-equipped and attentive medical team."

At that, Claire scoffs bitterly. Stable, huh? She'd like to see Simmons defend that claim after seeing Leon's ICU bed. 

Simmons and the reporter continue on, but she turns her attention to Hunnigan, aghast. "They're really feeding everyone this bullshit? Who the fuck is this Simmons guy, anyway?"

Hunnigan nods grimly. "He's part of our budgeting and operations board, one of the few men who have the power to decide the future of the DSO. The only person who outranks him is the National Security Advisor herself, but you can bet he didn't get to such a high standing through hard work. He's friends with President Benford and supported his election campaign with a vast number of assets that very few know the fulls details to." 

"Ha! I'm sure. Anything illegal?"

"Undoubtedly, but that's not uncommon." Claire watches Hunnigan fiddle with her cup's sleeve again, the first traces of anger seeping hot and steady into her veins. She's always hated bureaucrats. Hunnigan sighs, as if reading her thoughts. "There's something fishy going on, especially with his involvement as a spokesperson—he's the last man I'd expect to oversee the assassination attempt of an agent, but there's only so much I can look into from my office. They'll have eyes on me. They probably do even now, but… I had to take the risk."

"That's terrible," Claire grumbles, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms as the video clip finishes and Hunnigan reaches out for her laptop. Her skin itches with the urge to get up and move, hit something, maybe; frustration building at her inability to help. "All that surveillance, and they still don't know who did it. Yeah right."

The ghost of a smile crosses Hunnigan's lips. "Welcome to my world."

They sit in silence for a moment, the air considerably more companionable than it had been an hour ago. Common ground, Claire supposes grimly. They both have stakes in this mess.

Hunnigan sips her tea as Claire glares up at the stylish, ticking clock on the wall instead of pointing her ire at Hunnigan, fingers tapping on a bicep. "I feel so useless," Claire admits suddenly. "Like I shouldn't even be here watching it all happen when I can't do anything but hope for the best. Is that callous? I should be focused on Leon."

"Grief isn't easy to navigate," Hunnigan says, tone oddly practiced. Her words are calm, quiet, and Claire resists the ache that begins to claw at her heart. "I can understand wanting to keep busy."

"It's not even that. I just need…" 

Claire trails off. Hunnigan nods thoughtfully, dark eyes flicking down behind her glasses. When they come up again, there's a sort of steely glint in her gaze that must have been hidden by exhaustion before, Claire's muscles tensing involuntarily in anticipation. 

"There's only so much damage control I can do from the DSO," Hunnigan repeats, "though someone without ties to any government faction could do follow-up investigation without attracting too much attention. It's risky, but I have confirmation on the identity of the reporter who initially leaked the Raccoon City Incident files—I don't know his source, but he's only a few hours away in Richmond. If someone were able to interview him…"

"I could find out who's behind all of this," Claire finishes firmly. She leans forward to rest her elbows on the table, unconsciously mirroring Hunnigan's secretive posture. 

"I won't promise anything, but… I know you have a reporting background. If you can't get much, we can at least rule him out as a suspect." Hunnigan smirks humorlessly. She sips her tea again, then sets it to the side. "Think about it. I have to go back to the office before I'm missed, but—"

"I'll do it," Claire says at once. She's not going to ignore an opportunity like this. She stands as Hunnigan does, reaching for a napkin from the table and the pen she's been meaning to take out of her jacket pocket for months. "What's the address?"

Chapter Text