Hi. I ran errands today and several HYPER-SPECIFIC scenes came into my head, and I had no choice but to write them. This all started with Grace having a panic attack because she doesn't know how to parallel park and it went from there.
We're told Grace works at a field office somewhere in the Midwest, so I've just kind of headcanonly stuck her in Missouri, outside KC. Years ago I headcanoned Raccoon City was in the mountains in the northeast somewhere, because even though Capcom has always insisted it was in the Midwest I'm like hello you guys you gave it mountains and forest. My very Kansan ass is calling bullshit on it being in the Midwest. These days I think Colorado is more likely. It's fun to imagine Leon having to haul supreme ass in the Porsche across the state of Kansas during RE9 to get to Raccoon. Is that what happened? I dunno, you tell me.
Anyway, please enjoy these disjointed scenes. The overall concept is Leon and Claire go on vacation to Missouri to see Grace and Emily. Grace suggests an event for them to go to. Typical feral behavior ensues.
Grace had been driving in what felt like to her increasingly desperate huge circles, around and around, and her anxiety was at an all-time high. She <em>knew</em> this street festival thing was going to be packed. Still her dumb ass had suggested they go, and now she was at the helm of her Subaru, aimlessly driving around, trying to ignore her sweating hands and pounding heart. There was nowhere to park. Nowhere she <em>could</em> park, anyway, and she felt like every single car in the world was on the road today.
Claire and Emily were chattering genially in the backseat and Leon sat steely-faced behind some Wayfarers in the passenger seat as Grace took them on a tour of every side street in the greater KCMO area. Finally, Grace became aware of Leon looking over at her in her peripheral as she white-knuckled her steering wheel.
“Grace,” he began, with the tone he had when he was intensely confused or frustrated by something she was doing but trying to be cool about it, “what are you doing?”
“There’s nowhere to park,” she replied, stressed.
“There’s tons of parking. You’ve passed about 50 places to park,” Leon informed her. “Why are we going in circles?”
“Because I was looking for like a lot or something,” Grace replied tensely.
“A lot is gonna cost you 50 bucks for the day,” Leon said. “Just put it in on one of these side streets. You’ve driven past a million places to park. Just park it.”
“I <em>can’t</em>,” Grace said emphatically, feeling her anxiety spark even further.
Leon’s face was inscrutable behind his sunglasses. “Grace,” he said, “do you not know how to parallel park?”
“No,” she admitted miserably. “And plus there’s like eight million cars behind me every time I turn and—“
“Do you want to learn how to parallel park?” Leon said, calmly.
“<em>Now</em>?” Grace said, her voice high. “No way. There’s—there’s too many cars. No way. I’ll just find a lot—“
“Do you want me to do it?” Claire piped up helpfully from the backseat. “I cut my teeth on street parking in NYC.”
“And yet somehow you still can’t do it,” Leon said, looking back at his wife. “Your idea of parallel parking is getting three-quarters of the ass-end of your truck up on the sidewalk and you look at it and say ship-fucking-shape and walk away.”
Grace was too stressed to admonish Leon for the hundredth time about his language around Emily. It wasn’t just him, it was Claire too. They were great with kids, if you ignored the fact that they cursed like sailors.
“Oh ho,” Claire returned haughtily. “Parked is parked. It’s out of the way. I can cram this little Subaru in somewhere,” she said. “Grace—“
“No, Claire. You’ll annihilate her rims,” Leon cut in.
“I will not. Just because you—“ Claire started, indignantly.
“Guys now is not the time,” Grace said, a touch hysterically. “If I have to listen to you two have an argument about parking I may hyperventilate.”
Claire leaned back into her seat, and Leon looked back over at Grace. “Grace, get out. Trade me places. I will park.”
“There’s a million cars behind me,” Grace fretted. “We’re in the way. People are like—“
“They can blow it out their ass,” Leon said. “It’s not going to kill them to wait. C’mon. Put your hazards on and get out.”
“If someone honks at us I am going to start crying,” Grace informed him, pushing the button for her hazards and unbuckling her seat belt. Leon likewise unbuckled his restraint and pushed open his door, and they crossed in front of the vehicle. Leon got in the driver’s seat and Grace climbed in on the passenger side, heart in her throat, and Leon immediately began to adjust the seat so his knees were not knocking the steering column.
“Alright,” he said, turning off the hazards and pulling down the road. He drove past several cars and then noted an empty space on the side of the road between a Camry and a Yukon. “There. Perfect.” Leon went to throw it into reverse and looked into his rear view, frowning. “Alright, well, this dude needs to not be on my ass for me to do this.”
Grace felt like the potential to be honked at was never higher. She kind of wished she’d never suggested they leave the house.
“Are we gonna be there soon?” Emily asked from the backseat.
“Yes, Em,” Grace replied absently.
Leon rolled his window down and waved the guy behind him around, and after a moment the guy <em>did</em> go around them, with excessive speed and a chirping of tires. Grace wished she was invisible. Leon merely flipped the bird, hard and proud, up the street in front of them. He then resumed parking. With a calmness and assurance Grace could not manage at that point, he angled the Subaru back into the space between cars, then cranked the wheel and pulled forward, and lo and behold her vehicle was perfectly nestled in between the Yukon and the Camry. Leon turned the Crosstrek off and handed Grace the key fob, looking at her evenly. “You need to learn how to parallel park,” he informed her. “It’ll make your life so much easier.”
“Yeah, sure,” Grace said dully, reaching for her little cross-body bag and pulling it on. She was trying to decide if this situation warranted an Ativan.
“Alright, well,” Claire said brightly, unbuckling her seatbelt, “crisis averted. Leon saves the day. Let’s go. I need to inhale some food from a cart or truck.”
They all got out of the car into the very slight chill of the early autumn day, and Emily wandered up next to Grace and put her hand in hers. “It probably is about time to eat, yeah,” Leon said.
“I hope I can find edibles,” Claire said, rubbing her hands together like an excited prospector. Leon looked faintly amused.
“This is Missouri,” Grace said, somewhat tiredly, feeling like the experience of looking for parking on a busy Saturday mid-day in KCMO had aged her. “There’ll probably be nine million edibles. It’s recreationally legal here. There are probably people actively walking around smoking weed.”
“Excellent,” Claire said brightly. “C’mon. Let’s go find something deep fried and some THC cookies.”
The group set off down the sidewalk.
………………………………………………………………….
Grace was draining the remnants of her key lime pie kombucha, one eye on Emily’s slight form next to them, when Claire rejoined them, bag in hand. She looked inordinately pleased with herself.
“Hey Emily,” Leon said. “Do you want a cookie ice cream sandwich?”
Emily immediately perked up and began stomping her feet up and down and nodded emphatically at Grace, who looked down at Emily a bit hesitantly. “Leon, we haven’t even really had anything that passes as real food,” Grace said.
“She ate some corn,” Leon said, benignly.
“Elote,” Claire informed him, off-handedly. “I’m telling you, you would have loved it. Corn and mayo and cheese. You should have gotten some.”
“There was some red stuff sprinkled on there,” Leon returned. “Probably spicy. No thanks.”
Emily had grabbed Grace’s hand and was working it up and down excitedly, her face pleading. “Alright, fine,” Grace sighed. “Cookie ice cream sandwich. But then we need to find you something, that is like—“
“Grace, you are not going to find something healthy here,” Leon cut in, in amusement.
“Maybe,” Grace said, letting Emily begin to drag her, “maybe not.” The group started ambling for the trailer selling all kinds of ice cream treats Grace was willing to believe children dreamed of. Claire was rifling in her bag, and she triumphantly produced what looked like a saran-wrapped brownie with caramel and marshmallows.
“Wow,” Grace said, peering at it as Claire began to unwrap it. “That’s—that’s an edible? Like, that’s got weed in it? That looks like something you’d buy at a bakery.”
“Hey,” Leon said, looking behind him, “are you getting into that <em>now</em>?”
“Hell yeah, brother,” Claire returned cheerfully, unwrapping the saran-wrap enough to free a corner of the brownie. She took a bite and hummed emphatically. “Oh my God that’s so good.”
“Do not eat that whole thing,” Leon said adamantly. “How many milligrams is that?”
“200,” Claire replied, chewing. “I’m not gonna eat the whole thing. I’d be insensate.”
“Yeah, well, last time you had some kind of THC whatever baked into a brownie I had to carry you to bed,” Leon said dryly. “I ain’t carrying you around here. Keep it to a dull roar.”
Claire did not reply, and took another bite of the brownie, chewing appreciatively.
“Oh, Em,” Leon said as they got in line for the ice cream trailer, “they have cookie ice cream sandwiches <em>and</em> some kind of thing with Fruity Pebbles.”
“I want the cookie,” Emily said, making a dramatic crazed child face up at Leon.
Grace watched a family walking away with the same mentioned cookie ice cream sandwiches in hand. They were <em>massive</em>. Emily was going to either experience a sugar high to end all sugar highs by the end of the day or she was going to be sick from eating so much junk. “Em, those things are huge,” Grace said, gently. “I don’t know if you can eat a whole one. Maybe they have, like—“
“I can eat a whole one I swear!” Emily replied pleadingly, having spotted the sandwiches herself. “<em>Pllllllleeeeeaaaaaaseeeee</em>, Grace.”
“Since when could a child not finish ice cream?” Leon asked incredulously. “I’m getting that Fruity Pebbles thing.”
Grace sighed, as Emily vibrated next to her and they waited in line. Grace loved when Leon came to visit, or when Leon and Claire came to visit, but in some ways it <em>was</em> high stress. They were barely controlled chaos at times, bound and determined to blow into town and pointedly undo all the rational, healthy, and gentle parenting Grace did. Grace had once caught Leon permitting Emily to just dump spoonfuls of sprinkles into her mouth at an ice cream parlor. Claire assured Grace children had to learn at some point and expand their palates after feeding Emily a jalapeno popper, as Emily dramatically waved her hand at her lolling tongue and kicked her feet back and forth. Grace had once caught Leon bouncing Emily so high on a trampoline she was practically above the neighborhood roofline, as Grace looked on in horror picturing broken bones and missing teeth.
“Claire, quit eating that,” Leon admonished firmly as Claire was still taking tiny nibbles of the brownie
“I’m done,” she huffed. “Just a nibble. It’s so good.”
Leon gazed at his wife with a stern face from behind his sunglasses, and Emily ran tight little circles around Grace as they stood there in line.
………………………………………………………………….
“Oh—ooh, produce,” Claire was gushing dazedly, ambling close to a farmer’s stand, piled high with the last fresh produce of the season. At some point she’d produced a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses and put them on her face. She seemed very relaxed and unperturbed by anything and kind of seemed to be operating in a smooth slow motion.
Grace looked on, noting. Claire seemed like something could burst into flames in front of her at that moment and she would just calmly blink at it. Maybe there was something to weed, after all. Not that Grace would know, as she had never tried it. She couldn’t really do so, because of her job, but noting the calming effect the brownie had on normally mile-a-minute Claire, Grace was kind of jealous. Oh, to be so calm.
Grace let out a gust. Knowing her luck she’d try an edible and freak out. It just seemed like something she would do.
“Ooh, look at those tomatoes,” Claire gushed further. “Green zebras. Delicious.”
“Hey,” Leon said, grabbing her and gently steering her, “what’re you gonna do with tomatoes? We’re only here two more days and then we’ve got the long haul trip from hell to get home.”
“I mean, do you guys <em>have</em> to do the drive in one day?” Grace asked, furrowing her brow.
“A bit, kind of,” Leon said tiredly. “I’ve got to be back in DC. It’s about 15 hours, and no matter what I say about her driving we shave about two hours off our time when Claire’s behind the wheel.”
“I could make dinner,” Claire said, still absently ogling the produce as Leon steered her away.
“No,” Leon said. “We’re going to dinner. I’m taking us to dinner. This is vacation. Step away from the kitchen. You spend half your life in ours at home.”
Emily looked up at Leon, grabbing at his shirt. She began jumping against him somewhat and Leon sighed and lowered himself to the ground. Emily climbed up onto his back and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he stood, hooking his arms around her legs. “Where are we going to dinner?” Emily asked.
“I dunno, what do you want?” Leon said.
“Em, do not say—“ Grace started.
“McDonald’s,” Emily said assuredly, and Grace looked put upon.
“I never should have introduced you to a Chicken Nugget,” Grace said.
“I mean don’t get me wrong, I can put away a double Quarter Pounder with Cheese,” Leon said, “but I think we should probably go somewhere fancier.”
Claire was yet again straying from the group slowly. “Holy shit fried pickles,” she said reverently.
“Claire, where are you going,” Leon said, looking over at his meandering, high wife.
“Fried pickles,” she replied over her bare shoulder emphatically. She had on a loose, wide-necked sweater-like top; the neck hung down her shoulder and arm, exposing her freckles and what looked like a relatively severe slash of a scar to Grace.
“What’s a fried pickle?” Emily asked.
“What are you feeding this child?” Leon asked of Grace. “Nothing but organic cardboard? Do you like pickles?” he asked, angling his head towards Emily.
“Yeah,” Emily replied.
Claire sauntered back over to them, and stuck her hand up in the air in front of Leon, making grabby motions. “Wallet,” she said. “We need fried pickles stat.”
“It’s in my back pocket,” Leon returned. “I’m carrying a child, here.”
“With all this junk is anyone even going to want to <em>eat</em> dinner?” Grace asked in wonder.
“Oh absolutely,” Leon replied calmly. “I’m hungry right now.”
“You have had like eighteen things,” Grace said incredulously.
“So?” Leon asked. “Hey—would you <em>stop</em> pinching my ass?” he said over his shoulder, to where Claire lurked behind him, cackling softly to herself. “Just get my wallet and quit trying to leave welts on me.”
Claire stepped out from behind Leon, wallet in hand, and she looked at Grace. “Grace, are you gonna have fried pickles?” Claire asked brightly.
“Oh, what the hell,” Grace said, throwing her hand up in the air. “Sure. Why not.”
“I better get the biggest size,” Claire said. “This one here,” she said, jerking her thumb back at Leon, “unhinges his jaw and absolutely houses some fried pickles, especially if ranch is involved.” Claire made her way over to the line for fried pickles, and Leon stood there stoically with Emily on his back, gazing into the distance behind his sunglasses.
“How,” Grace began, looking over at him, “are you like super ripped and so in shape and yet I feel like every time I see you, you are eating garbage?”
“My stomach hit age 18 and never moved past it,” Leon said evenly, still staring into the distance. “Plus I’m from the Midwest. Claire puts healthy food in me at home. Left to my own devices, I don’t fare well. Cut me some slack. I’m on vacation. I’ll pay for it in the gym when we get home.”
“You should probably have, like, vegetables for dinner,” Grace said knowingly.
“No can do chief,” Leon replied cheerfully. “I haven’t had my red meat allowance for the week. I’ve been saving it. I feel like we should really try some of the barbecue around here. Isn’t that supposed to be Kansas City’s thing?”
“It is,” Grace replied, then furrowed her brow some. “Barbecue sauce kind of gives me heartburn.”
“Kid you are impossible,” Leon said, looking over at her. “I need to just put you in a bubble. You weren’t meant for this world.”
Grace put her hand on her hip. “Listen, just because barbecue sauce gives me heartburn doesn’t mean I need to become a bubble child.”
“No?” Leon asked. “How about the hand-wringing over parking? The constant mother-henning over the amount of sugar Emily is eating?”
Grace had no good response, and for a moment, she put aside her own rules about language. “Leon, shut the fuck up,” she replied, and he kind of grinned at her a little, hiking Emily up his back.
“There we go,” he said appreciatively. “I’ll have you drinking 100-year-old scotch and flipping the bird in traffic before you know it.”
“I think not,” Grace returned, looking at her watch. “We should probably start heading for home soon.”
“Have you ever been on the Real Bees Fake Top Hats subreddit?” Leon asked, abruptly.
Grace had introduced Leon to Reddit and periodically she regretted it. The more time he spent on Reddit, the more Grace started to think Claire might have needed to install parental controls on their devices. Grace had introduced Leon S. Kennedy to Reddit and now he was on there and <em>everyone’s</em> problem. “No, I haven’t,” Grace said. “What is it?”
“Pictures of bees with top hats photoshopped onto them,” Leon said plainly. “It’s great.”
“Did you watch that YouTube I sent you of the guys eating the, like, 100 year old MREs?” Grace asked, hand still on her hip. “I feel like it would be very relevant to your interests.”
“Does anyone hurl?” Leon asked.
“No, I don’t know how though,” Grace said. “It looked pretty gross.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I’ll watch it,” Leon said.
Claire returned with a paper boat of fried pickles that looked like it weighed three pounds. “They’re so good,” she informed them, with casual adamancy.
“Is that ranch I see?” Leon inquired, with barely controlled excitement.
“Yes,” Claire said. “I got extra because I know you be drinkin’ it when you’re eating these pickles.” She held the boat out. “Dig in, everyone.”
“Oh, put me down,” Emily said, squirming. “I need a pickle.”
Leon let her down onto the ground, and Claire handed his wallet back to him. Emily came up and grabbed a pickle, then dunked it in some ranch and stuck it into her mouth. “<em>Mmm</em>!” she enthused loudly, looking at Grace as she chewed.
Grace reached out and took a pickle, dipping it lightly in the ranch and then putting it in her mouth. “Alright,” she acquiesced, “they’re pretty damn good.”
“Everyone take what you want before I upend that thing in my mouth and eat them all,” Leon said.
“No way,” Claire said, pulling the pickles away from him. “Share. If you starch this whole basket and we only get like four a piece I’ll murder you.”
The group began to slowly meander through the loose crowd, eating pickles. After a while, Emily fell back and stuck her hand back in Grace’s, and they walked along behind Leon and Claire, who were munching fried pickles like someone was paying them to do it.
Grace smiled a little. She hoped whatever barbecue place they decided to go to that night had a parking lot, and not street parking.
Hey guys, the voices tormented me enough. For a long time I considered this fic complete and perfect. 10/10. Probably one of the best things I'd ever written.
But then I had more ideas and I realized I wasn't done with Leon having his end-of-the-world-everyone-almost-died freak out.
So I added to it. Just a little more.
It's been a long time since I posted the first part, so you may want to read that to refresh yourself, or read it for the first time if you never did.
Hi. The idea for some smut was bandied about. The idea took root, and grew from there. It expanded, to include biting, headlocks, the public pool, and an ice cream truck. It's late 20s degenerate situationship Claire and Leon, because I love writing them feral and unhinged and probably in sore need of an adult or shock collars, or something. I realize when I write them bumpin' uglies as married 40-somethings, they seem slightly more composed. Maybe age mellowed them. Not in those early years where they couldn't tell each other they loved each other and lived apart. It was all bad decisions and trying not to get caught at shit--by the time they got back together in their late 30s, maybe they were a little more adult and civilized. That was the time for them to consider making their long-distance situationship legitimate, and things like buying houses and putting someone on your health insurance. Late 20s Claire and Leon were busy pounding beers and each other.
ANYWAY. I digress. Prime degenerate Leon and Claire activities. They...well, I guess you'll just have to read to see. I feel like this is both horny and kind of comedic and silly. I quieted the voices in my head by writing this. Huzzah!
It'll go up at AO3 at some point, but right now ain't nobody got time to format all this shit.
Enjoy!!
Claire heard her back door creak open, and the rickety old screen snap shut behind it. She listened more closely and she didn’t hear the mower anymore; she was busy sorting through a pile of shit she’d hauled out of her computer desk drawers. She supposed if Leon was going to make himself busy, she would too, but it was late June and hotter than hell and she was loath to do outdoor chores.
Hence the reason she’d let her backyard grow to a height that Leon merely looked out the back door at and sighed mightily upon beholding when he’d arrived in Long Island yesterday.
“What?” Claire said, innocently. “I mowed the front.”
“And the back yard fence hides your ongoing sins of sloth when it comes to home ownership?” Leon had asked.
“<em>Listen</em>,” Claire said to him pointedly, but she really had no good excuses or arguments, so she hadn’t said anything else and instead had just kind of wandered off, leaving him to look after her in amusement.
She put the Sharpies in her hand down—she’d found about 50 of them, in varying colors—why did she own so many Sharpies?—and walked over to her kitchen, where she could see the door to the back yard. Leon had come into the house, sweaty beyond description, and he was pulling the fridge door open.
“Gross,” Claire commented coolly, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen with her shoulder. “You look like you swam out there.”
He looked over at her incredulously. “News flash—the mower is ten thousand times easier to push when you don’t let the grass grow to eight inches tall,” he said plainly. “I was fighting for my life out there. It’s probably why you hate mowing so much, because you let it get to such a state that it’s like a leg of a triathlon when you finally do get out there to mow.”
“Alright, task master,” Claire said in amusement, watching him lean back over to the fridge. He reached inside and pulled out one of the ever-present cans of Busch, cracked it, and began to slam it. “You should probably drink some water. It’s like 80% humidity out there today.”
Leon paused in slamming the Busch. “The beer you drink <em>is</em> water,” he countered, dryly. “I’m achieving all the hydration I need from this Busch.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s how it works, but okay,” Claire replied, pushing off the wall. Leon finished slamming the can of beer and crunched it in his hand, tossing it off toward her recycling bin. He then grabbed his t-shirt along the back and began to pull it over his head, working his arms out of the sleeves. “You should probably go pop through the shower. You’re going to smell terrible.”
“And whose fault is that?” Leon asked, looking over at her with his shirt in his hands. “Not like I dream of coming to Long Island to do yard work.”
Claire shrugged. “So stop. Never once in all this time have I asked you to do a single thing. Your inherent, like, crochety-dad-with-tools-on-a-Sunday attitude compels you into doing it.”
He sighed, and looked over at her evenly. “I guess if you want something done right, you’ve gotta do it yourself,” he said, and then balled his shirt up and tossed it at her. It landed half on her shoulder and face and she produced a high-pitched noise of dismay.
“<em>Gross</em>, Leon,” she whined, hurriedly tossing the drenched shirt off behind her. “That thing is sopping in sweat. What are you, 16? Don’t throw your sweaty clothes on me.”
He just looked at her and laughed some, then walked past her, running his hands through his sweat-dampened hair. “Alright. Rinsing off. I fear I already smell, there’s no needing to wait for that.”
Claire looked over at him, folding her arms over her chest and arching an eyebrow at him. Leon was generally relatively polite and for the most part collected, but occasionally she was reminded he really was just a guy, party to all the things that made guys gross like smelling bad and made women turn their noses up at them. Claire had long years of it with an older brother in the house; she periodically rolled her eyes at her male coworkers and told them to stop being so disgusting. Leon seemed better at holding it in than the average guy—even during their time in hiding when he was 21, he’d seemed too well-mannered to really let it all hang out—but these days, periodically, perhaps due to the proximity and letting down of walls regarding things such as swapping spit, Leon felt free to be as gross as he wanted to be. She watched him head off to the bedroom, presumably to rifle through his bag, and then he appeared again a moment later, dry clothing in hand, heading for the bathroom.
Claire headed back over to her desk, and the endless piles of shit she’d pulled out of the drawers. Why was she saving expired bank cards? She spotted her weed pipe—didn’t want to lose that. Were these loose papers parts of last year’s taxes? Upon closer inspection she realized they were parts of maybe the last three years of taxes. Digging through all this junk for minutes on end and gazing at things in confusion before she tossed them into the waiting trash can or set them off to the side to hang onto made her wish she was a more organized adult. As a teenager, she remembered the cluttered mess her room at her uncle’s had been, and she remembered going over to her childhood friend Daisy’s house, whose room was perfect and pristine and kind of pink and ruffly.
Being disorganized had been a life-long problem of Claire’s. She could manage to pull it together when it counted, but she thought of going from the single-male-run-household clutter of her Daddy’s house to the absolutely hoarded nightmare of her uncle’s, and she realized maybe her life absent of maternal female role models had led to her being a little bit of a gross male herself. Her house wasn’t <em>gross</em>; she kept things clean and scrubbed and wiped down, but it <em>was</em> a cluttery mess. She didn’t usually see this kind of mess in the houses of her female co-workers; it was more conspicuous in the homes of her male co-workers.
Leon emerged from the bathroom clean, with wet hair, and in a pair of basketball shorts, and briefly spectated her shuffling through her clutter with a perplexed look on her face. “Why were there about six koozies in your desk?” he asked, in amusement.
“I dunno,” Claire replied. “Never know when you need to keep a beverage cold,” she added, blithely.
He picked up a pair of spare shoelaces she’d found in one of the drawers. They were rainbow-colored and he looked at them in continued amusement then tossed them back down onto the pile of junk on the desk. “Give that a break and c’mere,” he said.
“Well, which is it?” Claire asked with a smile, putting her hand on her shorts-clad hip. “You’re constantly extolling me to be more productive. Now I’m actually doing something and you’re telling me to stop?”
“You and I both know this shit is going to end up in a new pile somewhere,” he said, grinning at her.
She looked at him indignantly, picking up the trash can and showing it to him. “Nuh-uh. Look! I’m throwing things away,” she said. “All this stuff is just stuff I don’t really know what to do with yet.”
“Sure,” he said, slyly disbelieving. “C’mon. Give it a rest for minute.”
Claire set the trash can down with a sigh, and followed him over to the couch. He laid down on it, perhaps slightly too big for it, and Claire came and sat down in front of him. She looked down at him gazing up at her and she made a little face like a lightbulb had gone off. “We should go to the pool,” she said.
“The pool?” Leon asked. “Like the public pool? You live within a short drive of beaches and the ocean and you’re opting for a public pool?”
Claire shrugged some. “The beach is a pain in my ass and always has been. The pool is less stress.”
He again looked amused. “I mean, we went to the public pool as kids,” he said. “But that’s because we were 15 and devoid of planning, money, and wherewithal to go further. How is the beach a pain in your ass? You go and lay there and get in the water. It’s the least stressful thing there is.”
“Parking,” Claire said. “Getting out there. Finding a spot far away from douchebags, of which there is a never-ending supply. Sand.” She looked at him. “We used to go out there when I was in college, when I was like 21. Day trip from the city. It was just every dude-bro Guido known to man hitting on us while I tried to, like, be high and look for shells.”
Leon stared at her for a minute and then laughed some. “How does that seem so typically you? 21, hotter than hell, high and oblivious, looking for sand dollars while men on the beach stare at your ass.”
Claire made a persecuted face. “I never found an intact one, and it wasn’t because I wasn’t trying,” she said. “Those were my Long Island beach experiences. Trying to hide alcohol from the cops, listening to other people’s shitty music, trying to find cool shells, dealing with some dude with gel in his hair at the beach for some reason following me around trying to talk to me.”
Leon was laughing again. “Oh, you’re so put upon,” he said. “The beach sounds like an ordeal. C’mere.”
“C’mon,” Claire cajoled, pulling away from his hands pulling on her. “Get up. Let’s go to the pool.”
“I don’t have swim trunks,” he replied, attempting to pull her the other direction.
“You’ve got those shorts,” she said. “That works. I don’t think anyone cares what you wear as long as you’re not naked.”
“What, there’s no nudist beaches on Long Island?” he asked with a grin, pulling on her struggling form. “Hey. Quit squirming. Get over here. I’m not even sweaty anymore.”
Claire was struggling, trying to dissuade his grip, pushing at his hands. “I would rather walk on hot coals than go to a nude beach,” she said. “Seems like prime stalking territory for dudes on a sex offender registry.”
“That’s probably all it is,” Leon said, fighting to get her defiant hands and arms under control. “Just a bunch of horny, naked men standing around wondering where all the women are.” He pulled on her and she lurched forward, and he reached up and got his arm around her, pulling her down the rest of the way.
“Hey—Leon—“ Claire wriggled and tried to rotate in his arms like a rotisserie chicken, finding that the new position put her at a disadvantage as her looped his arm around her neck and hooked one of his legs around hers. “Okay you’ve got me in like a wrestling hold,” she said breathlessly, grabbing onto his arm. “You’ve got me in a headlock.”
“You wouldn’t comply,” Leon informed her. “You needed to be subdued. If you’d—hey. Are you <em>biting</em> me, you crazy feral person?”
Claire had in fact grabbed hold of his arm with both hands and tucked her head down some, sinking her teeth into his bicep. “Hmmm,” she replied, laying there trapped with her teeth sunk into his arm. Leon let out a sigh and settled back into the couch some, his arm and leg not moving. Claire made an adamant noise and sunk her teeth into the solid muscle of his bicep with more force.
“I had multiple older siblings,” Leon said in bemusement. “And about 100 cousins between the States and Ireland. You’re going to have to bite harder than that. I’m no stranger to being bitten.”
Claire made another noise and complied, her teeth latched onto him, and Leon produced a noise in return. “Your teeth are <em>sharp</em>,” he said. “You file those things down or what?”
She hung there for a moment with his arm in her teeth like she was some kind of misbehaving, bitey toddler at daycare, and when he did not move she released her tooth hold on him. “Release me or I’ll keep biting,” she said.
“Joke’s on you,” Leon said, calmly. “I <em>like</em> the biting, with your pointy little puppy teeth and all.”
“Alright, c’mon,” Claire said with determination, beginning to struggle. “That’s <em>it</em>--“ She writhed around in his arms and succeeded in turning herself back towards him, and he tightened his arms around her, attempting to prevent her from fleeing. This went on for a few long moments, until Claire stopped struggling with a huff, half on top of Leon.
“Hey, alright,” he said cheerfully, pulling her over some, more squarely on top of him.
“You are <em>forever</em> telling me in a vaguely paternal way to do shit around my house,” Claire said, struggling to push herself upright. “And I’m finally doing it and you want to practice WWE moves on me on the couch.”
“I don’t come to Long Island to watch you clean your house,” Leon said.
“Don’t come to do yard work, don’t come to watch me clean,” she said, breezily. “What <em>do</em> you come to do?”
He merely stared back at her, a growing grin spreading across the lower half of his face. One of his hands moved down her back, to her ass, gripping it firmly and pulling her against him.
“Oh, I see,” she said knowingly, as he gripped her ass. “We could be going to the pool right now.”
“I don’t want to go to the pool,” he replied simply, kneading the flesh of her ass. He pressed up against her.
“I do,” Claire returned defiantly, even though the grip of his hand on her and him pulling their bodies together kind of had her brain starting to head off in another direction.
“We can go to the pool later,” he said to her, his voice taking on a lower timbre. “What’s next? You want ice cream from the ice cream truck?”
“If he makes it through the neighborhood today, yeah,” Claire replied sassily. “I will absolutely fuck up one of those strawberry shortcake bars.” She gazed back at him, her face lazy and indolent. “What, you mean to tell me you’re turning down ice cream from the ice cream truck?”
He pulled her against him more firmly. “I was known to fuck up a banana fudge pop in my time,” he said, sounding gravelly. “Quit running your mouth and c’mere.”
Claire sighed mightily, as if she was supremely taxed, and leaned forward. His mouth covered hers instantly, tongue sliding in deep; the hand not holding her ass moved up to the back of her head, angling her head to him. Claire kissed him back, just as adamantly, until it felt like a fight for supremacy, their mouths separating momentarily only to fuse again, hotly. His other hand controlled her ass and hips, pulling her against him as he rutted up against her. Claire moaned a little, the public pool, her desk mess, and the ice cream truck momentarily forgotten, letting her hips roll against his.
“Mmm, that’s it,” he murmured to her, in the breathless space between kisses. “You gonna be a good girl for me?”
“Yes,” she murmured back, and then their mouths were fused again, her fingers clutching at his bare shoulders. After a moment Claire broke her mouth away, it hung open and her eyes drifted closed at his lips moving to her jaw, her ear, her neck.
“Been thinking about fucking your tight pussy since last night,” he uttered against her neck, both of his hands coming down to her ass to encourage her writhing against him. “Good and hard and fast. Make you fucking scream. Make you claw my back up. You wanna get fucked, sweetheart?” His tongue traced along her skin and his teeth found her neck, biting lightly.
He <em>had</em> come into town last night and kept fairly to himself; she’d fed him dinner and they’d gone to bed curled up together as per usual, but she should have suspected he wouldn’t keep his hands to himself the whole time he was in town—not that she necessarily wanted him to, anyway. “Yeah,” she breathed.
“I wanna hear you beg for it, like a good girl,” he said, nuzzling against her neck. “What do you say, sweetheart?”
Claire swallowed, eyes closed, her brow knitting together somewhat. “Please,” she said. “I want it. As hard as you can. I want—“ Her teeth bit into her lip and she loosed a moan, feeling his hard length grind against her.
“Mm, that’s how you always want it,” he uttered in her ear. “You wanna get railed like the dirty little slut you are, don’t you? You wanna get fucking pounded, don’t you?”
Claire chewed on her lip; inside her panties was a wet mess and she’d totally forgotten anything she’d been about 10 minutes prior. All that mattered now was getting him to quit doing mouth-running of his own and make good on his promises. “Yeah,” she moaned. “Please,” she added.
He loosened one of his hands to slap her ass through her shorts firmly, loosing a satisfied hum at the way she reared up and gasped. “C’mon, then,” he said, nipping at her ear. “Get to the bedroom, if you want it so bad.” His hands and arms loosened on her somewhat, allowing her to push herself up. Claire righted herself and slid off him, missing the crush of his body against hers, and she got to her feet, watching him push himself into a sitting position on the couch.
Claire turned and headed for the bedroom through the brightness of her noon-time lit house, her feet quick on the aged hardwood, Leon’s heavier footfalls behind her. She nudged the half-closed door open and entered the relative darkness of her bedroom; she kept heavier curtains on the windows in here, anything to keep her room from being lit up like the surface of the sun in the mornings. Leon caught up behind her as she entered, his hands coming to her hips, pulling her back against him next to the bed. His hands ran up the front of her, under the stretchy cotton of her tank top and over the skin of her stomach, up to her tits in their bra. He took hold of them, pushing them upward, kneading them in his hands, as she leaned back against him and panted, her arms coming up to wind their way around his neck. He leaned his head down near her shoulder, humming in her ear, watching her body undulate slightly as she chased the rhythmic grip of his hands on her tits.
“Mmm, look at you,” he said lowly as she angled her face towards his, her bare feet worrying each other on the floor below them. “You <em>do</em> want it bad, don’t you? 15 minutes ago you wanted to go to the pool. You change your mind?” Before she could reply he fit his mouth over hers again, kissing her with such force it almost caused her to bend, and she whimpered into his mouth and he moaned in return. He tore his mouth away from hers, their breath shortened and mingling, one of his hands slipping down into the loose, low-riding waist of her cut-off shorts. His fingers slid down under the fabric of her panties, and sought down to her pussy, then very wet and ready for him to do whatever he wanted to do to it as hard as he could. “Bet you’re not thinking of the pool,” he continued, lowly, as his fingers worked between her folds, into the wetness. “What are you thinking about?”
“I—“ His fingers found her clit, circling it firmly, and she let out a mewl, her hand gripping at his neck above her. “You,” she breathed. “You inside me.”
“Yeah?” he murmured. Her legs were starting to tremble minutely at the attention to her clit. “You thinking about this big cock inside you?”
“Yeah,” she whispered back. “I want it.”
“Your little pussy practically dripping, thinking about having this cock inside you, fucking you until you scream?” he goaded further, fingers never stopping in their pressure to her clit.
“Oh—“ She let her head rock back against him. “Give it to me,” she said. “I want it. Please.”
“When you ask so nicely,” he said, his tone just the tiniest bit amused, or smug, or something that under normal circumstances may have perhaps made her want to throttle him. “Bend over,” he said firmly, drawing his hand out of her shorts, taking his hand away from her chest. She whimpered in disappointment at the sudden lack of manhandling, and instead loosened her arms from around him. She bent forward, hands on the bed, and she felt his hands sneaking under her to undo the button of her shorts, pulling the zipper down. He pushed her shorts and her panties down and they landed around her feet in a small pile of fabric, and his hands smoothed up the inside of her thighs, around to the back of them, up over her ass. “I don’t hear you using your words to ask for what you want,” he prompted, pulling her hips back some with his hand around her hipbone.
“I want it,” she began immediately. “I want you to fuck me. Please,” she said, and she moaned and arched her back when she felt his fingers near her opening, and then further, the warm and thick head of his cock, trailing through her wetness. “Oh,” she gasped. “Mmm. Please. Yes.” She angled her hips, pressing backwards, craving the feeling of him driving in firmly and quickly, filling her up in one stroke. “Oh God,” she murmured, feeling him move his cock up and down against her wet pussy.
“Oh, you’re excited now,” he said in reply, still sounding amused. “Bet that pussy’s begging. Bet you can’t wait for this cock to be inside you.”
“Please,” she said, and his hand tightened on her hip momentarily, then slid around to the skin of her ass, coming down in a little slap. She hummed, throatily, and then his hand moved again, back around the front of her, to her clit. She gasped when his fingers found it again, but then she whined a little as she felt his cock moving away from her. Claire’s hands clutched tightly into the mussed bedclothes under her hands, and she let out a long, quiet keen when she felt one of his fingers sliding into her from behind, his other hand occupied with rubbing her clit firmly.
“I like watching you fuck my hand,” he said to her, pumping the finger in and out, her hips torn between moving back against the finger inside her or moving forward against the fingers at her clit. “Like watching you desperate for more. You always want more, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, teeth biting into her lip again. “Oh—oh—“
“I like watching you writhe like the horny little slut you are,” he said, a second finger sliding into her alongside the first. “I like listening to you beg for cock until you don’t know what to do.” Her hips were moving, frustrated, seeking. “Huh, Claire? Is that good?”
“More,” she panted, letting her head hang. She could feel release starting to build in her, the walls of her pussy clutching at the fingers inside of her.
“So needy,” he uttered back, tormenting her in two places at once at a measured pace. “You get so desperate to come you cry. You want this cock so bad sometimes you can’t even talk.”
“Please,” she said, “Oh Leon—mmm—I need—“
“I know what you need,” he cut in. “Keep being a good girl and maybe you’ll get it.”
“Yes,” she sighed, her toes curling into the hardwood. “I wanna come,” she pleaded.
“Oh?” he asked. “I never would have guessed with you fucking my fingers like this.” Claire moaned, her face flushing; evidently he was in one of his moods where he was going to flaunt her mindless arousal in her face. “C’mon. Don’t be shy. Really fuck ‘em. I can tell you want to.”
“Oh,” Claire breathed, working her hips back against his thrusting fingers more intently. The hand at the front of her followed her motion, fixing itself to her pussy and clit with continued pressure. Release was gaining on her in increments, the feeling building. “Oh God—more, please—“
“That’s it,” he encouraged as her hips rocked back and forth. “Not so shy now, are you? You’d do anything to come, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” she moaned.
“Bet you’d lose your mind if I stopped,” he said. “You’re desperate for that pussy to be filled.”
She froze a little, her brain spooling—it was not unusual for him to stop, to lead her halfway to orgasm and suddenly stop touching her, to make her take her begging to a new level of fervency. “Leon—“ she managed frantically, “no—please don’t—I want to come—“
The two fingers inside of her were suddenly three, the fingers of his opposite hand at her clit insistently. “You’re being such a good girl for me,” he said. “I’ll let you come. I know you’d cry and whine if I didn’t.”
Her face felt hot; he was right, she’d be rendered a whiny mess if he were to suddenly stop what he was doing, if she lost the circling of his fingers at her front and the stretch of his fingers from behind. Sometimes it didn’t stop him—he <em>liked</em> the whining, he seemed to thrive on it. His will wasn’t entirely made of iron, she knew, but sometimes in moments of empty desperation as she begged him for something it sure seemed like it was. “Oh—oh fuck.”
“Well, get to it,” he prompted, almost cheerfully. “You gonna come for me or what?”
“Mmm, yes,” she murmured, lifting her head, her body chasing his fingers wantonly. “More,” she said. “Harder.”
He made a noise. “Put your back into it,” he said. “Fuck my hand harder if you want it harder.”
Claire tightened her grip on the bedclothes, pushing her body back repeatedly against the fingers inside her, forward against the fingers at her clit. She loosed a high pitched gasp; she could feel the crescendo of orgasm building in her. “Oh fuck,” she said, helplessly.
“There you go,” he said lowly, encouragingly. “Fuck my hand like a good girl if you want to come.”
“I’m—oh, mmm,” she moaned, pressing her lips together and rolling them. “Oh I’m gonna come,” she panted, eyes squeezed shut as his hands pushed her to distraction. “I’m gonna—“
“Whole lotta talking,” he said. “You better shut that pretty little mouth and keep fucking until you come for me.” His fingers pinched at her clit and she whined, her hips jerking towards the stimulus. “C’mon. Give it to me.”
Her breathing was growing increasingly erratic, harsh; torn between his two hands, the fingers inside of her and the fingers pressing her clit, she writhed. Her mouth fell open, her brows drawn together, her arms shaking underneath her. She teetered on the precipice, momentarily breathless, and then it all came out of her in a gust with a long croon as she came, her knees knocking together, the upper half of her body dropping down some as her arms failed to stay locked and supportive. Frantically she still pushed herself back against his fingers as she vocalized high and helplessly.
“That’s a good girl,” he said to her. “Mmm, look at you. You can’t even stand up and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”
Claire was still languidly moving her hips, the aftershocks of her orgasm periodically shooting through her like sparks, her pussy fluttering around the fingers inside of her. His hand slipped from around the front of her, and he slowly withdrew his fingers from inside her. Claire looked over at him as he moved to her side; she looked at his cock hard and proud and felt the ache inside her, and almost as a casual afterthought as opposed to deliberate arousal, he put the fingers that had been inside of her up to his mouth and sucked them clean. Claire whimpered.
“I kind of like it when you do the work,” he informed her, as he got onto the bed and she tried to will power back into her limbs. He laid back on the bed and took his cock in his hand, stroking it lightly. “Get up here. We’re not done, baby. Ride this cock.”
Claire pushed herself up, stepping out of the puddle of fabric at her feet, and she climbed up onto the bed. His free hand reached for the bottom of her tank top, pulling up on it, and she reached down and pulled it over her head, complying with his wordless directive to shed it. She unhooked her bra and let it drop onto the ground, and she shuffled over to him, swinging a leg over his hips. She put her hands on his chest and let him line his hard cock up with her opening, and once she felt the thick head in place, she began to slowly sink down, moaning.
She started slowly, riding him with a gentle grind, her fingers tight into the skin of his chest. He pushed back in deep with every stroke, and Claire hummed, letting her body find a rhythm. He gazed up at her like he always did, his face somehow both awed and steely, and his hands found her hips, gripping tight.
“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he said. “Fuck like I know you know how to fuck. Ride it like you mean it. C’mon.” He slapped her ass and she jerked, involuntarily. “Give it to me. Fuck me.”
Claire braced herself and tensed her legs and drew up off him, rocking back down onto him pointedly, the bed squeaking under them. She did it again, and again, the muscles in her legs flexing as she bounced and his cock hit home inside her every time. She pushed herself up straighter, riding him so hard her tits bounded and the bed complained.
“Mmm, that’s it,” he said throatily, watching her. “Fuck that cock. Bounce. Go.”
Bounce she did, her legs tensing and releasing, her hips and ass impacting against him every time his cock was buried all the way inside her. His hands came up to her tits, taking them in his hands and squeezing; lip in her teeth, she put her hands over his and encouraged him, leaning her head back as he pinched and teased her nipples. She was moaning, her body pounding down against his. She reached up and grabbed one of his hands, bringing it up to her mouth; she was so fucked out and mindless that she wanted everything, all at once—she wanted every part of him all over her, every part of her all over him. She brought his fingers up to her mouth and sucked them inside, tongue swirling around the digits. Leon groaned at her animal instinct to be closer, to have him in her mouth somehow.
“Harder,” he said. “Fuck me, Claire.”
Claire rode him so hard she started to sweat with the exertion of it, the muscles in her legs burning, the head of his cock so deep inside her and impactful it felt like it would bruise. “Oh fuck,” she keened. “Oh my God—“
“Yeah,” he growled, holding onto her, watching her with lidded eyes. “Fuck that cock, baby. Give it to me, little girl. C’mon.”
Claire bounced mindlessly, her mouth slack. “Oh fuck it feels good,” she gusted, her breath short. “Oh—“
“You like fucking this cock?” he asked, fingers tight into her ass.
“Yeah,” she moaned back, long and high.
“It’s all yours, baby,” he said, sounding labored. “Ride me.”
Claire fucked with such force she felt like if someone slipped now or something unexpected happened it was going to be a career-ending injury. Her face was hot, she was sweating, her legs were begging her to give it a rest, and yet she kept going. Leon was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room, perhaps on earth. And it <em>did</em> feel good, she couldn’t deny that having all of him inside her that hard, deep, and forcefully felt like heaven. He was right—she did always want more. She leaned forward some, bracing her hands on him, still bouncing her ass up and down for all it was worth. Leon set his jaw, grabbed onto her ass, and beneath her he squared himself up abruptly, and on her next downstroke she was met by his hips snapping up into her. Their skin met with a loud, impactful slap, and now as she fucked down onto him he fucked up into her, the pace feral, the depth punishing, the bed creaking pitifully.
“Oh <em>fuck</em>,” she whined, a long warbly croon hiccupped by the impact of their bodies together. “Oh <em>Leon</em>.”
“You’re not the only one who always wants more,” he growled through clenched teeth, thrusting up into her bouncing body. “<em>Fuck</em> you make me crazy—“
“Fuck me,” she keened. “Harder—oh—give it to me—“
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna feel it for a week,” he ground out. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you. I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t take it—“
“Yeah,” she moaned throatily, one of her hands slipping up to her own breast, squeezing it, worrying it. “Fuck me.”
“C’mon, baby,” he said, labored, mouth slack. “Give me everything you’ve got. Jesus, fuck me—“
There were no niceties about this. There was just them fucking like animals, giving up logic and reason to pound away at each other like they hadn’t a single other thought in their head. Claire was sweating, Leon was sweating, anyone who came within 25 feet of her house was probably going to hear the noises from within, turn red, and hurry away. She rode him until she felt like her legs weren’t going to work for 24 hours, and he fucked up into her so hard it punched the air out of her lungs and the sounds she made were hoarse, drawn out, and erratic.
He grabbed hold of her sides and made an animal noise, forcibly flipping her off him. A startled gasp escaped Claire as she suddenly found herself flat on her back, dazed—Leon rolled, got up, and got between her legs roughly. He grabbed the backs of her thighs and pressed her legs up, folding her, and thrust back into her so deep and hard the headboard knocked the wall with a loud thud. Claire rocked her head back, a guttural moan coming out of her. He began to thrust into her forcefully, jolting her body up the bed somewhat every time his hips met hers, her hands clutching into the bedclothes around her head for something to anchor herself.
“You like that?” he asked, strained, fucking into her so hard that perhaps the average person may have found it abusive. Claire was not the average person, and occasionally they were so far outside the bounds of average that she wondered if they weren’t pushing into deviant territory.
“Yeah,” she uttered back, gazing up at him helplessly. He released one of her legs and brought his hand up to grab hold of her face, fingers digging into the plump of her cheeks, forcing her to continue looking up at him.
“You like getting pounded like the little slut you are?” he asked her.
“Yeah,” she managed back, whimpering every time one of his powerful thrusts caused her body to jerk. His fingers tightened on her face, and then he thought better of it, shifting his hand to put his thumb into her open mouth. She hummed mindlessly and closed her mouth around the digit, sucking, and he was looking at her like he’d fucked his brain away several long moments ago, if it had ever been there at all.
The room was filled with the wet sounds of his cock moving in and out of her, their feral noises, the gasping for breath, the loud slap of their bodies against each other, and the loud, repeated thud of the headboard against the wall. Eventually Leon fucking into her like he intended to split her in half pushed her far enough up the bed to where for a few thrusts the top of her head knocked against the headboard like it knocked against the wall; Leon’s hand reached up to the top of her head to shield it from repeatedly slamming against the headboard. After a moment he rethought his plan and just grabbed onto her body, hauling her backwards, moving backwards on the bed himself. Claire let herself be dragged limply, and he was right back inside her, just as deep and powerful as before, leaning over her. They were both ragged, sweaty messes at that point, and Claire reached up to grab onto his back, pulling him closer. Her fingers splayed against his skin and then they curled, her uneven nails digging into the firmness of his muscles. She moaned wantonly, the only thing occupying her brain at that moment was what his cock felt like so deep inside of her, the desperate, animal sounds he produced. She let her nails rake down his back, fingertips tight into the skin the whole time, and he leaned down and kissed her. It was a frantic clash of teeth and tongue, of panting breath and dripping sweat.
“Fuck yes,” he growled into her face. “Claw me up, baby. Fucking give it to me.”
Claire was nearly hoarse at that point, her body bouncing under his, nails digging into him like she meant to wound, like she was fighting for her life. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d clawed him raw; in lucid moments Claire figured it couldn’t have felt pleasant, but he always seemed good natured about it and joked with her slyly about it. He hadn’t been lying—she was going to feel this tomorrow, and maybe the day after, and maybe for a few days. She always welcomed the warm soreness between her legs—maybe there <em>was</em> something wrong with her, but she often craved the feeling.
Leon angled his face away from hers for a moment, looking down to where they were joined, and he groaned. “Look at that, Claire,” he commanded, reaching up to grab her face roughly, angle it downward. “Look at you taking it all like a good girl. <em>Fuck</em>.”
The sight of his cock moving in and out of her always set her to desperate moaning, her face burning, and she gazed helplessly at it, holding onto him like a cat with its claws out. “Oh <em>God</em>,” she panted in total surrender, feeling him thrust into her like this was the last point he was ever going to make. “Oh—mmm—“
He reached down, working his fingers between them, finding her clit yet again. He began to rub at it firmly and insistently, his face looking back into hers. “Come for me,” he urged. “Come on this cock.”
“Oh,” Claire breathed, one of her hands performing a long, slow rake down his back. “Ooh—yeah—“
His hips collided with hers, a bead of sweat dripping off of him onto her chest. His hand on her clit knew one purpose, and his fingers were devastating in their accuracy. She writhed, captive under him, her body spread out to his ministrations. He fucked her like he wanted it to be the last thing she ever remembered in this lifetime. “Take this cock like a good girl and come for me,” he uttered to her, his eyes boring into hers. His pupils were blown wide; he looked like he was either having the fuck of his life or he’d taken way too much. Claire imagined her face didn’t make much more sense gazing up at him; she felt mind-blown and perhaps like the secret to life was his cock inside her.
Her nerve endings were singing and she sucked her lower lip into her teeth, again looking down to where they were joined, at his hand on her. “Oh fuck,” she gusted. “Oh don’t stop,” she added, pleading. He hummed, righting his body some, away from the repeated clawing of her nails, using the new angle to drive himself into her with renewed purpose, the headboard beating out a bass rhythm against the wall. Claire’s hand moved to his forearm, latching on again with the pressure of nails. The bite of her nails into his skin was not a distraction to him; his fingers rubbed the same pointed, devastating tight circles on her clit. Her voice was growing in volume and pitch, becoming a high, thready thing.
Orgasm broke in her like the mercury rising in a thermometer; it started slow and grew in intensity, her head thrown back, her mouth open, her pussy constricting around him in pulses. He made an appreciative noise as she spiraled and panted and mewled, sweat-slicked and fucked out.
“Good girl,” he ground out, as she dazedly angled her head back towards him, her body welcoming him back in with every pound of his hips against hers, the wet sound their union made obscene.
Leon thrust into her, her body jolting, and then for the next approximately two seconds things happened so fast she didn’t process them. She felt the pleasure of him hitting home inside her, the stretch, the pressure; there was a terrific sound, and that was followed by an equally terrific thud and lurch and when Claire blinked, her brain trying to figure out what in the fuck had just happened, she was blinking from a new position—she was lower to the ground, the ceiling further away.
Leon froze, his face hanging over hers, and for a second all they did was stare at each other, wide-eyed, halted in perplexity.
“Did we—“ Claire loosed a noise. “Leon, <em>we broke the fucking bed</em>,” she said, astounded, irate, confused, and knowing all at the same time. “Jesus <em>Christ</em>,” she gusted, angling her head up and towards the wall. The bed and box springs were now flat on the floor, detached from the headboard.
Leon was looking at her, face somehow <em>caught</em>, still inside her, and then abruptly he began to laugh. He was really laughing, with his whole chest; Leon didn’t often genuinely laugh at things. He’d spare a chuckle, or a dry noise, or he’d smirk in amusement. A genuine fit of laughter was so rare out of him it was almost disconcerting every time. His face crinkled with the effort of it, his head dropping down to hang some. Claire’s face grew adamant back at him, and she frowned. Normally she appreciated the ability to make him laugh like he meant it; it was probably good for him. She didn’t necessarily know if this situation warranted the gut-busting.
“Leon, it’s not fucking funny,” she said shortly. “We <em>broke my bed</em>.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I can fix it,” he assured through laughter, his shoulders shaking. “I’ll fix it. This—“
“It’s always something,” she said loudly, looking up at the ceiling. “Are other peoples’ lives this much of a clusterfuck, or is it just us?”
“It’s us,” Leon assured her in mirth. “Combined we inflict damage on most things we encounter. I’ll fix it, Claire. Don’t worry.” He was calming down some, the laughter subsiding.
“Alright, well…” She trailed off, letting out a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. Sure, her bed was second-hand, and maybe about 15 years old, but she never once in a million years contemplating fucking so hard it broke. She and Leon probably needed adult supervision. They needed someone or something to enforce structure on them. Together, they were full-speed-ahead hedonism and perhaps bad decisions. Claire laid there for a second, contemplating how most adults she knew who reported to be adults were probably not horny trainwrecks with no impulse control who fucked beds to death.
And then her train of thought was cut off by Leon thrusting into her evenly, pointedly. She gasped and furrowed her brow and made a noise of dismay. “Leon the bed is <em>broken</em>,” she informed him. “We are actively on the floor.”
He was moving in and out of her again, purposeful against her body. “It ain’t gonna stop being broken,” he informed her. “We already broke it. Damage’s done.”
“You—“ She tutted some and furrowed her brow, torn between matronly disapproval and pleasure at the feeling of his thick and still very hard cock moving inside her. “Did it fucking put a hole in the drywall?” she asked breathlessly.
“Not the hole I am concerned with filling at the moment,” he replied in casual but labored off-handedness, thrusting into her.
“Oh my <em>God</em>,” Claire half-groaned, half-gasped; part of her was cringing at his ever-present bad, opportunistic humor, and the other saw no fault with his logic—the man had just been in the act of fucking her so hard it sent a bed to the afterlife, he was probably fairly concerned with coming at that point. And who was she to deny him? The damage was, after all, done—they’d already broken the bed, it was going to stay broken until someone did something about it, which probably didn’t necessarily need to happen right at that moment especially given that one of them had experienced orgasm twice and the other not at all.
His hands once again came to her thighs, pushing her legs up, effectively folding her again, and he exchanged the deep, mean, powerful thrusts for rapid ones, his hips jackhammering against hers. Part of Claire’s brain felt derailed by the fact that they were now on a mattress and box springs on the floor, like she was in college all over again, but she could not necessarily maintain a hardline, serious approach with him fucking her like that. It took him a second to distract her, but distract her he did, drawing her attention back to the sensation of the way his cock felt moving in and out of her soaked pussy. She was less concerned with the fact her bed was broken and more concerned with having a record-breaking, awe-inspiring fuck.
He fucked her like a man possessed, with the skill of his age and the stamina of an 18 year old with a stack of porn and too much free time. Claire sounded grateful pleasure over and over again, her hands once again knotted in the destroyed bed clothing around her head, and Leon fucked her until they <em>both</em> needed to get back in the shower, their bodies drenched.
He let his hips collide with hers one last time, fingers tight into the meat of her thighs, and he was coming, rutting into her with a groan, his cock pulsing inside her. Claire laid there, throat dry, sweat-dampened, and watched him fill her with his spend in exhausted, blissed-out awe.
The exhausted, blissed-out awe lasted for a moment, but around the time he was pulling out of her and flopping over on his back next to her, letting out a breath, his hands in the air uselessly supported by his elbows, she was back to realizing her bed was broken.
“Jesus Christ,” Leon announced, sounding astounded and fried at the same time.
Claire laid there limply next to him, her heart still pounding, as they both gazed up at the ceiling.
“Well, banner day for me,” he went on, cheerfully, sounding winded. “I’ve never fucked a bed out of existence.”
Claire tiredly forced herself over onto her side, looking at him flatly. “Pat yourself on the back later. This is a problem.”
“Fuck, I kinda feel like I deserve some sort of medal for this,” Leon said, looking up at the ceiling, sweat running off him in rivulets.
“You broke my bed,” Claire replied, petulantly.
“<em>I</em> did?” he asked, mildly incredulously. “I think you helped, sweetheart. I wasn’t on this bed fucking <em>myself</em> to oblivion.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Semantics. The bed is on the floor. It wasn’t earlier.”
Leon let out another gust, then angled his head up behind him, looking at the headboard. His hands were still up in the air at the end of his propped forearms, as if he was surrendering. He rolled, with a grunt, over to the edge of the bed, and looked down at the frame below them, on the floor, and then back up at the headboard. “Yeah, I can fix this,” he said, almost to himself, off-handedly. “No problem. Just need a trip to the local Ace or wherever for some wood and hardware.”
Claire laid there and tried to maintain a business-like face in spite of the fact that she could feel his come leaking between her thighs, and watched him roll back over onto his back, rubbing his face.
“I think I need another one of those water beers,” he said.
She looked at him skeptically, and let out a sigh, her face softening. “Yeah, maybe me too,” she admitted. He looked over at her, sweaty and benign.
“Let me lay here and recover and then you can take me to Ace Hardware,” he said. “Or wherever. I’ll fix it. I promise.”
“I somehow feel like we’re failing to pass as adults,” Claire said, gazing at him.
“I’ll take bed-breaking,” Leon replied, his head turned towards her. “I’m forced to be pretty buttoned up and adult most of the time. My free time is for bad decisions and insanity.”
“No shortage of those around here,” Claire said, rolling back over onto her back, looking up at the ceiling.
They laid there for long moments, letting their heart rates return to normal, the slow turn of the ceiling fan above them cooling the sweat on their skin. Eventually Claire pushed herself up with a sigh, and made a noise. “I need to clean myself up,” she said.
“Do you still want to go to the pool?” Leon asked, looking up at her. “I’m debating on whether or not this sweat situation needs to be solved by yet another shower or if I can jump in a pool about it.”
Claire looked over her shoulder at him. “I dunno,” she returned. “Pool closes at 6. Are we going to have <em>time</em> for the pool?”
Leon looked at his watch on his arm, appraisingly. “Yeah. Sure. This won’t take me long to fix and reinforce. All the time in the world for the pool.”
Claire lightly slapped the back of her hand against his naked thigh. “Alright, well, up and at ‘em, chief. We have errands, now.” She scooted to the edge of the mattress and pushed herself up off the floor, as opposed to stepping down from it. She meandered off to the bathroom to clean up the mess between her legs, but not before she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and just kind of stared in mute wonder for a moment. Her hair had been fucked into the biggest rat’s nest she’d ever seen, her hair tie long gone, and it took her a few minutes and careful detangling with the brush to make it sensible again. She unwound another hair tie from around the handle of the brush and pulled her hair up into a sloppy knot, affixing it with the hair tie.
She returned to the bedroom, and almost collided with Leon in the doorway; he was back in the basketball shorts and a t-shirt, looking for all the world just like any other American guy on an errand-filled Saturday, maybe more sweaty. She managed a little <em>ope</em> and moved past him into the room, reaching down for her panties and shorts, pulling them on. She was in the process of hooking her bra around her when she heard the noise from outside, and paused.
In the distance, the unmistakable tinny sound of the ice cream truck’s music was heard. It was in the vicinity, and Claire hurriedly pulled her bra up, sliding the straps up her arms. “Leon,” she called, turning her tank top right-side out, “you hear that?”
“Hear what?” he called back.
“Gimme your wallet,” she called back. “It’s the ice cream truck.”
“Huh?” he called back, and she rolled her eyes a bit and stepped out of her bedroom, coming down the hallway. She stood there in the living room, hand on her hip, the other one held out in front of her.
“It’s the ice cream truck,” she repeated. “Let me see that wallet.”
He looked over at her blankly for a moment, and then his mouth pulled up. “I see you’re taking me up on my earlier offer,” he said in amusement.
“You broke my bed,” she countered evenly, then open and closed her outstretched hand. “Wallet.”
“Again, I was not in there fucking myself so hard a bed broke,” Leon said, his face knowing and sly, “and it takes two to tango.” He reached into the pocket of his basketball shorts, rummaging, and drew his wallet out and slapped it into her hand. “Guess it’s a banner day for you too. Ice cream <em>and</em> the pool.”
“I also came twice, which makes it a little more mature, even with the ice cream and the pool,” she said, and he chuckled some, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “Anyway. I’m going to go find this guy.” She closed her hand around his wallet and walked to her front door, pulling it open and stepping out into the bright light of the day, the humid air immediately pressing in around her. She pulled the door to behind her and made her way off her front porch, barefoot, walking across her small front yard, looking up and down the street for the ice cream truck. At the end of the street it rounded the corner, and Claire began to walk down towards it with Leon’s wallet in hand, deciding to stick mostly to the grass of people’s front yards to spare her feet from the hot sidewalk. The truck parked, and as she walked, a small group of kids began to gather at the truck, coming out of surrounding houses.
Claire sighed a little to herself. Nothing said full-fledged adult like standing among a group of 5 to 12 year olds at an ice cream truck. She’d lost control of today. She’d try again tomorrow.
She was walking towards the truck, when she heard her name, loud and deep from behind her. She looked back over her shoulder, and Leon was walking along in long strides, trying to catch up with her. He joined her at her side, and held out his hand. “Here, lemme see that thing,” he said, indicating his wallet. Claire handed it back over to him, and they approached the truck.
The man working the truck slid the large service window at the side open, and he looked like air conditioning was an advancement in ice cream truck science he’d welcome, but he managed to look mildly cheerful for the kids and maybe a bit confused at Claire and Leon’s presence. A small child and a minutely bigger child stepped forward to the window, standing close together; they seemed like a unit, siblings, maybe. One of the children had a ten dollar bill in her hand. Leon flipped his wallet open and thumbed through it, squinting against the bright midday sun.
“Here,” he said loudly, stepping forward, and the small group of gathered kids looked back at him, perhaps similarly surprised by the presence of adults. “Here, man.” He drew a stack of bills out of his wallet and handed them up to the ice cream truck driver. “Give these kids whatever they want. Give the rest of the kids in the neighborhood whatever they want. If there’s anything left, keep it.”
The ice cream truck driver accepted the stack of bills from Leon and folded it into his hand, looking at it. “You sure?” he asked, in a strong Long Island accent.
“Yeah, man.” Leon looked back at the group of kids. “Hey, you guys, put your money away. I got it. Just get whatever you want.”
“Thank you,” one of the kids uttered, small. He was in dire need of a haircut, missing a tooth, and wearing a Spiderman shirt.
“Yeah, thank you sir,” the bigger half of the probable sibling unit that’d just been ready to buy ice cream said, grabbing the ten dollar bill from her sibling.
“Sure,” Leon said, then walked back over to Claire, who looked over at him with a knowing but fond smile.
“Mr. Big Spender,” she said, in amusement. “It wasn’t enough to just buy me my strawberry shortcake bar.”
“Fuck it,” Leon said in an undertone, perhaps mindful of the presence of children. “Let the kids cart the tens back in to their parents or stick ‘em back in their piggy banks or whatever.”
“Sure,” she said, still smiling. This seemed very typically Leon—an enigmatic, unreadable bundle of occasional hedonistic abandon with a heart of gold. Bed-breaking aside, acts like this were why she thought of him in her spare time, why he’d grown to be a little more to her than the fellow survivor who occasionally blew into town to get up to no good with her.
Not that she let on that she was maybe any fonder than he thought she was. It just wouldn’t do to open her mouth and complicate things. Claire would accept the yard-mowing, the bed-breaking, and the free ice cream and keep the three little words to herself, even if sometimes she yearned with everything she was to grab his face in her hands and say them right at him, with conviction.
The crowd of kids eventually ambled back towards respective houses on the street, bomb pops and ice cream sandwiches in hand, and Leon and Claire stepped up.
“Oh, you actually want some ice cream too?” the ice cream man asked, his strong accent amused. A Long Island lifer, not a transplant like Claire. “I thought maybe you were attached to one of those kids.”
“If I’m attached to any kids anywhere, nobody’s informed me yet,” Leon returned dryly, and the guy laughed at him, his eyes crinkling. “What do you want?” Leon prompted, looking over at Claire.
“Strawberry shortcake bar, please,” Claire said in amusement.
“Sure thing,” the ice cream man returned, pulling open a cooler. “You want anything, man, or you just Daddy Warbucks today?”
“Oh,” Leon said with a gust, looking out into the distance, “fuck it, sure. You got any banana fudge pops?”
“That I do,” the man said, pulling open a different cooler. “Here you guys go,” he said, handing the plastic-wrapped ice creams down to them. “Enjoy. Have a good one, you two.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Leon said, “you too, man.” He and Claire turned to head back across the few yards to hers, and her front porch. Claire tore open the opaque plastic containing her strawberry shortcake bar on its stick, and took a bite.
“Mmm,” she said, emphatically. “Just as good as I remember. Probably haven’t had one of these things since I was like 15 or 16.”
“They sell ‘em at gas stations,” Leon said, looking over at her as he tore open his own ice cream. “At least around DC they do. In the ice cream cooler. You could have one every other day if you wanted to.” He looked at the banana fudge pop. “Now <em>these</em> things…maybe not so much. Never seen one off an ice cream truck.”
Claire hummed, taking another bite of her ice cream as they walked. “Niche ice cream,” she said. “Rare and unobtainable.”
“Yeah,” Leon said, and took a bite. “I genuinely think maybe I was sub-15 last time I had one of these things.”
“And?” Claire asked, lightly.
“Still tastes like fake banana and chocolate,” he replied. “Just like I remember. Divisive ice cream. Not for the banana haters.”
“A real banana doesn’t taste like that,” Claire said. “Not like Laffy Taffy, or Runts, or whatever.”
“Sure,” Leon said, and then looked over at her with a smile. “Wanna know something?”
“Lay it on me,” she said, as they approached her porch.
“I think real bananas are kind of disgusting,” he said. “I think I only like the artificial candy flavor. Eating a banana’s kind of the absolute last thing I want to do, unless it’s in the form of banana bread.”
Claire looked over at him with a smile, her eyebrow arched. “Bananas are good for you,” she said. “I think they lose that the moment they’re turned into bread, or distilled down to become a candy flavor.”
Leon chortled some. “Honey, I think artificial banana flavor is probably 100% chemicals, and like usual, in spite of my best intentions, I’m predisposed to love shit that is bad for me.”
They climbed the three steps to her porch, and Claire paused, nibbling at her ice cream. “Hardware store and then pool?” she asked, looking at him gamely, with her eyebrows raised.
“If I must, I suppose,” Leon said. “Your bed’s not gonna fix itself and I could probably impress some kids by doing a backflip off the diving board.”
Claire smiled at him, fond. “Sure,” she said, pulling her front door open. “It’s your day to impress, I guess.”
Leon chuckled some, coming into the house behind her, pulling the door shut.
And since we're posting snippets, here's a short little blurb of a scene that popped into my head while writing my post-Infinite Darkness arc. It didn't grow into anything more than what it is but I'm a sucker for writing Chris and Claire interacting, in many different forms. Since I'm not doing anything further with it, I guess you guys can read it!
Claire didn’t get to spend enough time with her brother. He lived in Richmond, because he could not tolerate being in DC, and more often than not was out on assignment for work. It’d been a rocky road; Chris, being Chris, and a Redfield, generally chafed under the yoke of someone telling him what to do, even if it was the government. He had a habit of periodically disappearing for several weeks, and while he was fairly open with her, he also hid a lot from her too.
Once a year he tried to orchestrate some kind of sibling vacation. Chris paid, Claire came, they went. Last year she hadn’t been able to get away from work for very long, so they’d just gone to upstate New York for a week, hanging out in the woods, hunting and fishing. This year, as if to make up for last year, Chris told her he wanted to go to Hawaii. He’d never been, and neither had she. Claire was not going to turn down a free trip to Hawaii. If that was where Chris wanted to go, that was where they were going.
Which brought her to the current moment, laying in a lounge chair next to her brother, sipping away at something that tasted like a fruit cocktail but probably contained enough alcohol to kill her. Chris was already starting to take on color from their brief time there; every morning Claire slathered herself in SPF of the highest degree to keep herself from burning to a crisp, her freckles multiplying. As if reading her thoughts, Chris looked over at her from behind his mirrored aviators. Claire gazed back at him, at her own pale reflection.
“When was the last time you put on sunscreen?” he asked.
“A while ago,” Claire replied. “I’m probably due again.” She sat up and rooted around in the beach bag, searching for the bottle. Chris was still gazing at her.
“Where’d the necklace come from?” he asked. Claire did not pause in her digging, but her brain skipped. She was still wearing Leon’s necklace; she was surprised it had taken Chris this long to comment on it, as neither of them were raised with religion.
“It belongs to the guy I’m seeing,” Claire replied. Chris was still looking at her but his attitude changed.
“You’re seeing someone?” he asked, his tone shifting minutely. “You found someone you can’t run off?”
Claire smiled some. “So far, yes,” she replied.
Chris sat up some. “For how long? Where’d you meet him?” Claire could sense Chris’s overwhelming desire for her to just be <em>normal</em> and <em>okay</em>, and she had a feeling she was about to crush his hopes.
“A while now,” she said, pulling the bottle of sunscreen out of the bag. “You actually know him.”
Chris’s face furrowed in confusion, behind his sunglasses. “Is it one of the guys you work with? I’ve met some of them,” he said.
Claire opened the bottle of sunscreen, squeezing some out into her hand. “No.” She paused for a moment. “It’s Leon Kennedy. I’m seeing him.”
Chris was silent for a long moment while she applied sunscreen. “Claire,” he began tiredly, “seriously? What’s wrong with meeting someone at work or in a bar or <em>anywhere</em> like a normal person?”
Claire shrugged. “I dunno. We reconnected. It’s working.”
“I don’t know if I approve,” Chris said, turning away from her some, looking out at the beach. Claire knew he wouldn’t.
“I don’t know that I need you to approve,” Claire said, although she said it mildly. “I’m an adult.”
“I think,” Chris said, after a moment, “if you knew half the shit the government had Kennedy running around doing, you’d think twice about letting him in your bed.”
Claire thought of Leon, and his absolute unwillingness—inability—perhaps both—to let her know most anything about his work. She knew people died; he made enough off-handed references to such for her to glean that he was not always standing around in an office or the White House. She knew his work did not agree with him. She knew he resigned himself to it. “Maybe,” she said, finally.
“I don’t always know if his head is screwed on right,” Chris went on. “I think he’s probably more of a mess than he’s letting on to you.” Chris sighed. “But you’re acting like you’ve made up your mind.”
“I kind of have,” Claire said. “None of us are saints. He’s good to me.”
“None of us are saints, but some of us are really asking for it,” Chris said, knowingly. “I’m sure he’s probably good to you. You’d make some man—particularly a tough-skinned one—really happy, Claire. Government service makes living a life hard.”
“I’ve become patently aware of that,” Claire said dryly. “It’s not easy having a relationship with someone who lives several states away from you and is essentially a government asset.”
Chris scratched at his head, ruffling his hair. “Yeah. It’s not great. I think you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I wish you’d change your mind.”
Claire was unbothered. “I’m not going to.” She held the bottle of sunscreen out at Chris. “Get my back, would you?”
Chris took the bottle from her and sat up, turning in his chair as Claire did likewise. Chris began to smooth sunscreen on to her back, like he had since they were children. “You’re an adult,” Chris said as he worked. “But I don’t feel like this is headed anywhere good. I know too much about Kennedy. You deserve a <em>normal</em> person, Claire Babbie. A normal life.”
She blinked out into space, her eyes unfocused. “I’m happy, Chris.”
Chris sighed, yet again. “Then I’m happy for you. You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do.”
“I am,” Claire replied. Her mind strayed to Leon, and what he did when the government sent him places.
<em>Nothing good</em>, was Leon’s standard description of it. She thought of him fixing her car, kissing her forehead, holding her as she slept. Maybe she was bending her morality for comfort, she didn’t know. In a lot of ways, it felt too good to stop. She was this far in, and deep inside she knew she was ass over tits for Leon, something she didn’t dare say out loud but was always at the tip of her tongue.
“Well,” Chris said, as he finished smoothing sunscreen on her and tapped her on the shoulder with the bottle, “tell the crazy bastard I said hello. He hasn’t always been overjoyed to see me, but maybe he’ll change his tune since he’s trying to keep you happy and along for the ride.”
“Sure,” Claire said. “I’ll tell him.”
…………………………………………………………
Claire was in her hotel room, poking through the motions of getting ready. Chris had said he wanted to take a nap; these days her brother was like an old man who napped once a day in his downtime, when he had it. She didn’t know when he’d be up, so she was getting ready for dinner and that night, but she wasn’t in a hurry.
<em>I told my brother about you, today.</em> She’d texted Leon about ten minutes ago; the time difference was vast, she didn’t know if he was necessarily paying attention to his phone at that hour or even still awake.
She was brushing her hair out, wet from a shower, when her phone buzzed.
<em>I’m sure that went over great,</em> Leon replied. <em>Your brother’s a smart guy. I’m sure he’s less than enthused.</em>
<em>He’s going to accept whatever makes me happy,</em> Claire replied.
<em>I think if you knew more of the tale of the tape, I don’t know how happy you’d be.</em>
Claire frowned at her phone. <em>Not you too. It’s one thing for my brother to tell me to stay away from a man, it’s another thing for the man himself to try to cloud up and rain all over my parade.</em>
Her phone buzzed a moment later. <em>I’m around for as long as you permit me to be.</em>
<em>Someone’s gotta keep me in line,</em> she replied.
<em>Maybe. I am continually amazed you have chosen me for the task.</em>
Moments like this had Claire’s fingers and brain in a knot. She fucking <em>loved</em> him; his unreadable eyes, his self-deprecating air, his insistence on doing things for her, his off-kilter banter, the way he handled her in bed. She didn’t know if she was a novelty in his life because she spread her legs for him and was less complicated than an op, or if he had feelings for her too. He was too good at being concerned but somehow detached; in moments of idleness, Claire’s brain ran circles around itself trying to figure out what the fuck they were doing. She didn’t let herself question much because everything felt too good, but the questions <em>were</em> starting to crop up, the longer they were at it. Claire couldn’t figure out if Leon would take one look at her and disappear if she were to blurt out that she was mad fucking in love with him, or if he would just accept it in his aloof, resigned way and tell her in typical fashion she should aim higher. She stared at her phone for long moments, paralyzed, unsure what to say back.
<em>I should be asleep,</em> Leon texted to her, effectively ending her dilemma. <em>Not all of us can be in Hawaii. Some of us have to work tomorrow.</em>
<em>I’m only here on Chris’s dollar,</em> she replied. <em>Otherwise I’d be heading to work, too.</em>
<em>He’s a good older brother,</em> Leon replied. <em>He cares about you. I’ve got to sack out. Have fun.</em>
<em>Goodnight,</em> Claire texted back, and set her phone aside. She stared at herself in the mirror for long moments, her face blank. She thought of everyone, Leon included, trying to tell her to question what she was doing. She thought of how she hadn’t questioned much, just gave in. She looked at the necklace around her neck, at the cross and saints, and her brain turned over on itself.
She was this far in. Her heart left her no choice but to keep going.
So I wasn't writing any EPICS today because cleaning frenzy and family obligations, but a short scene popped into my head and I just had to pop down to my CLEAN office to bang it out.
Post RE9. Grace has a Dad on speed dial for when stuff breaks.
"Grace?” Emily was standing in the doorway, wrapped up in her snuggie towel that made her look like a duck. Grace looked over from her computer, her brows drawn together. Emily took ridiculously long baths—Grace thought she’d have a minute to game. It hadn’t even been ten minutes.
“Yeah?” Grace asked. “What are you doing out of the bath?”
“Water’s cold,” Emily said.
Grace furrowed her brow further and stood up from her desk, then walked over to the doorway. She gathered Emily and they went down the hallway to the bathroom, where Grace could hear the bathtub running. She pushed open the door and went over to the tub, full of lavender-scented bubbles, sticking her hand into the water flowing from the faucet.
It was ice cold. It’d been piping hot when Grace had turned it on. She heaved a sigh and turned the faucet off. Great. Just great. She’d left behind apartment life approximately two weeks ago and become the proud owner of a townhome, and now there was no maintenance to come fix things for her. Just her, a scant smattering of tools she didn’t really know how to use, and YouTube and Reddit.
Or spending hundreds of dollars on calling a professional out to look at something.
Grace frowned at the faucet. She was a strong, independent woman. A girlboss, or whatever. She could probably figure this out. Plus, she didn’t want to set fire to her bank account to call a plumber or whoever. This was adulthood, this was home-ownership.
“Okay, Em,” Grace said, “hang on. Let me see if I can figure this out.” Emily looked up at her in her duck towel and Grace exited the bathroom, headed down the hallway, and went to the stairs. Grace didn’t know much, but she knew her hot water heater was in the garage. Grace crossed the dining room and went to the door to the garage, flipping on the light and looking at the water heater.
It looked like it always did in the beams of her headlights as she pulled into the garage. It wasn’t, like, exploded or hissing or smoking or giving any indicator anything was wrong with it. So why didn’t they have hot water?
Grace had options. There was Reddit. There was calling a professional.
She fished her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, unlocking it. There was a third option. She scrolled through her contacts and tapped the screen, holding the phone up to her ear. The door to the garage pulled open and Emily stood there, still in her duck towel, looking on curiously.
“Hey,” Leon’s voice rang into Grace’s ear a few seconds later. “How’s it going, kid?”
“Not great,” Grace said. “We don’t have any hot water.”
“That’s a problem,” Leon said, evenly. “Check your hot water heater yet?”
“I’m looking at it right now,” Grace said. “It seems…fine?”
Leon made a noise. “Is there a puddle of water underneath it?”
Grace looked. “No.”
“Does it appear to be leaking anywhere, anything like that?” Leon asked.
“Uh…no,” Grace said, giving the appliance a once over.
“Your pilot’s probably out,” Leon said. “How old’s your water heater?”
“Uh…” Grace looked the barrel over, looked at the stickers on the front of it, looked around for any indicators. “…I dunno? It doesn’t look too old.”
“They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” Leon said. “Water heaters have a pretty short lifespan these days. But if it hasn’t rusted out, it’s probably just your pilot light.”
Grace nodded. “Okay, what do I do?”
“Look down towards the bottom,” Leon said. “You should see a knob. It should have settings. One of them should say pilot.”
Grace knelt, phone cradled against her shoulder, and looked for a knob. “Okay, I think I found it,” she said. “Words are kinda worn off, but I think…”
“You don’t smell gas, do you?” Leon asked.
“No, I don’t. Now what?” Grace said.
“Okay, so—Claire if you don’t get off this guy’s ass <em>I’m</em> going to brake check you,” Leon said, abruptly, sounding slightly distant from the phone.
“He is in the left lane!” Grace heard Claire proclaim in the background.
“You are trying to go a hundred miles a fucking hour,” Leon fired back. “Just slow down and get off his ass.”
“The left lane is for passing, Leon,” Grace heard Claire say. “Not for camping at 65 miles per hour.”
“We are going to <em>Tractor Supply</em>,” Leon said in exasperation. “Why do we need to break the sound barrier to get there?”
“Leon?” Grace asked, trying to prompt him back to the matter at hand. She was knelt in front of her water heater, listening to Leon snipe at his wife about her driving. They didn’t snipe at each other about much, but driving styles seemed to be a bone of contention between them. Grace had ridden in Claire’s truck. It’d been a harrowing experience. Truth be told, Grace found riding with both Claire <em>and</em> Leon harrowing. Grace drove like a self-proclaimed grandma and had purchased a vehicle based on safety ratings. She had a bumper sticker that said <em>Bestie, Let Me Merge Before I Cry</em>. Claire drove like she was in a Formula One race, weaving her large truck in and out of traffic like it was a Miata. Leon may have done the speed limit but he’d never heard of slowing down through turns and he also apparently <em>really</em> trusted the brakes on his Porsche because he always braked at the absolute last second, causing Grace to want to grab the door handle and brace her legs against the floor.
“Yeah,” Leon said, coming back to the phone fully, still sounding a bit distracted. “Anyway. Do you see a flame down there? Should be a little hole where you can see if your pilot’s lit.”
Grace leaned down further and peered around, looking to see if she could see a flame anywhere. “I don’t think it’s—“
“Claire I am going to make you pull over and let me drive,” Leon spouted off suddenly.
“<em>What</em>?” Claire asked in the background, incredulously.
“What do you mean, <em>what</em>? You’re—“
Grace tittered. “Leon,” she tried, “we don’t have any hot water. Em was trying to take a bath. If this isn’t a good time, I can get on Reddit or something and—“
“No, no,” Leon said, sounding halfway distracted. “No pilot light?”
“I don’t see one,” Grace said. “Is…is this knob supposed to say things other than ‘pilot’? It’s kind of worn down. I can’t really tell what <em>anything</em> says.”
“Facetime me,” Leon said. “Let me see this thing. I guess I also want to lay eyes on you one last time before Claire kills us both in a spectacular fireball.”
“Leon, I’ll make you walk,” Claire said in the background.
“Are you two gonna make it?” Grace asked, gazing into space, adjusting her glasses. “Is your marriage going to end over a trip to Tractor Supply?”
“This is a normal Sunday,” Leon said, with a sigh. “Facetime me. I’ll get your pilot relit in two minutes.”
Hi! Have you ever wanted to read a fic about dry humping to completion? Boy do I have news for you!
So in my headcanon Leon, Claire, and Sherry were together for a while in hiding after RE2. YES I KNOW technically that's not how it went but what the fuck man we insane writer types need a window in which to work. (How am I supposed to write angst and torment if they weren't together for a long while??) ANYWAY in my headcanon they did NOT hook up, Leon and Claire. They were too fucking traumatized and tired and raising Sherry and fighting over whether or not Claire was gonna hit the old and dusty to go find Chris.
BUT THEN when you're helplessly fangirling with the homies and the idea of a young, traumatized, scared shitless YET horny Leon and Claire dry humping each other comes into the conversation...
...you imagine a scene outside your own headcanon. An AU AU, if you will.
So enjoy! 21 year old Leon and 19 year old Claire, condomless, birth control-less, taking matters into their own hands in an awkward and kind of desperate way! Could they have just gotten out of their clothes and sucked on each other and put fingers places and alla that? Yeah! BUT THIS IS A FIC ABOUT DRY HUMPING. about helpless grinding. About being so desperate you blow your load in your pants like a 15 year old making out with someone for the first time.
Anyway. I'm gonna shut up. Long live dry humping, and awkwardly trying to figure out what in the fuck in the aftermath (this is 21 year old rookie Leon and 19 year old college student Claire. Don't expect complex conversations about emotions. Expect Claire fumbling over words and Leon frantically counting moments until he can find condoms).
He supposed he should be used to it by now, after several weeks.
He had a feeling nightmares were going to be a part of his life for a good long while.
Leon was sitting upright in bed, feeling the sweat in his hairline and down the back of his neck, rubbing at his face in a manner that was both fervent and tired. It was amazing to him to think that at one point in his life he had just gone to sleep; or his nightmares had been childish and normal. He’d dreamt of being late for school, of embarrassing himself, of doing things that got him in trouble with his family or his ex-girlfriend.
That seemed like a lifetime ago. It felt like years. It’d only been weeks.
He was sitting there trying to compose himself when the bedroom door creaked open in the darkness and he jumped mildly; in the back of his mind he <em>knew</em> it was Claire or Sherry, or maybe both of them together, coming to cram into the bed like they did sometimes. He peered over in the darkness and saw Claire in the gloom. Her face was unreadable in the lack of light.
“You okay?” she said in an undertone.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Fine.”
“You shouted.” She padded over to the bed, her bare feet sounding hollow on the floor. Leon was aware; his own loud, short noise had kind of served to wake him up fully as well. Claire reached the edge of the bed and looked at him sitting there.
“Sorry. Were you asleep?” he asked.
“No. Sherry is, though. But you know her. Once she’s out, she’s out. It may take her all night to get there, but that kid sleeps like the dead once she’s asleep.” Claire let out a breath and then climbed up onto the bed, coming to sit at his side, back against the wall. Leon sat there for another long moment, elbows on his knees under the blanket, and he stared into space. Eventually he allowed himself to scoot back some, next to Claire, his back against the wall as well.
“You need some water, or anything?” she asked, and Leon shook his head in the darkness.
“No,” he said. “Just need to make it through a night without dreaming about something ripping my jugular out.”
Claire sighed. “That’d be the name of the game, wouldn’t it?” she said, her tone rhetorical and wistful.
“What time is it?” Leon asked.
“I dunno,” Claire said. “2? 3? Middle of the night, I guess.”
“Perfect,” Leon said dryly. “My favorite time to be awake.”
“Yeah.” Claire looked over at him, her hair hanging around her face. “What was it about?”
“Not making it to the PD,” he said. “Being overrun, and short on ammo. Not like things were much better once I made it to the PD, but I guess I <em>did</em> make it there. I wasn’t ripped to shreds on the streets.”
Claire nodded. “I dream about the gas station, a lot. Like if you hadn’t been there.”
“Yeah.” Leon gazed into space for a moment. “End of the world. Enter two idiots, stage left.”
“I have always been told I have good timing,” Claire said. “Really fucking impeccable that night.”
“Couldn’t have been better,” Leon said. They sat there in silence for long moments, Leon feeling his heart rate return to normal, feeling the sweat cool on his body. Claire shifted and leaned her head against his shoulder, and he looked over at down at her, then back out into space in front of them.
“One day,” she said, “one day I have to believe it’ll be better.”
“Your timing or us?” he asked, looking down at her.
“Maybe both,” she replied. “Us, I hope. I don’t want to live like this forever. Unable to sleep.”
“Me either,” Leon said. “Kinda wanna be normal again. Back when I, like, dreamt about being late for school or work or something.” He let out a gust. “I think that might be gone.”
“Yeah.” Claire sat next to him, her head on his shoulder. During the day they seemed to maintain a careful two feet of space between each other at all times, but at night all bets were off. They’d hug, they’d tangle up in bed together, they’d seek solace in each other’s presence. Leon reached down and put his hand over hers, and she turned it over, clasping his lightly.
“What about you? Why can’t you sleep?” he asked.
“Can’t shut my brain off,” she said. “Sherry took a long time to fall asleep. She lays there and whispers forever when she can’t sleep. I don’t remember having that much to talk about when I was 12.”
A corner of Leon’s mouth pulled up. “She is a chatterbox when she wants to be.”
“<em>So</em> many questions,” Claire said. “I feel like her parents never talked to her. Or were too busy. She’s catching up, now.”
“I think I was a pretty annoying kid,” Leon said. “Ma used to ask me if I was writing a book.”
“Sherry’s writing an encyclopedia,” Claire said.
They sat there for more long moments, silently. Leon turned his head to look down at her. “You going back to Sherry or are you staying here?” he asked.
Claire shrugged a little. “Dunno. You want me to stay here?”
“What if Sherry wakes up?” he asked.
“She’ll come in here,” Claire said. “I feel like we all always find our way in here.”
“My room does seem to be sleepless party central,” Leon said, but he felt like the joke fell flat. “It’s up to you. You can stay, you can go.”
“I’ll stay.” Claire shifted some. “Sherry’s asleep. You’re awake. Maybe I’m needed more in one place than the other.”
Leon considered it. They did seem to need a lot out of Claire. He needed her to take care of his wound when it was fresh, he needed her to mind Sherry, he needed her to maintain the house and do all the things he’d always relied on a woman for, whether that was fair or not. Sherry needed someone to answer her endless questions, and be her stand-in mom. When they all ended up in the bed together, Claire was always in the middle, both Sherry and himself curling up to her.
And she wanted to leave. She wanted to go find her brother. Leon pushed the thought out of his mind and kept his mouth shut; to bring it up now would result in them trading barbs there in the darkness, pissing each other off. He did kind of need Claire. He wasn’t sure how it was going to work without her.
Claire lifted her head and looked over and up at him. “You okay?” she asked.
He looked down at her. “I think. Sweaty, but I’ll live.”
“Good,” Claire said. “We need you.” Evidently he wasn’t the only one considering roles and responsibilities in their fucked up little home. She blinked up at him, her eyes big, and she leaned up and kissed his cheek. Leon’s heart suddenly hammered loud in his chest, and his cheeks felt a little hot. She drew back and continued looking up at him there in the barest of lighting; he could barely make out the features of her face, but in the low light he could see the shining of her eyes. Her hand was still in his.
Leon leaned down and likewise kissed her cheek, and then for a moment they just kind of hovered there, their faces near each other, her hand in his, his heart trying to escape his ribcage. He wasn’t really sure what the fuck they were doing; evidently without the presence of a child in the bed with them their methods of comforting each other grew bolder. Briefly, he considered what he was doing, or what he was trying to do—had this been lurking in him for a while, or was he making a snap decision? Leon found he could not accurately answer that question. Claire turned her head minutely and her lips found his cheek again, and Leon angled his face and pressed his lips against hers, firm but somehow hesitant. Part of him expected her to haul off and snap at him, like she did when they had their arguments in the kitchen about her leaving, or when he tried to assume the reigns of control about their life and over her too much. Her hand tightened some in his, and she pillowed her lips and pressed back against his.
Leon felt vaguely like they were crossing some kind of threshold maybe neither of them had considered crossing. It felt somehow criminal, but somehow right. She hadn’t hauled off and slapped him. He wasn’t currently being flayed by the cutting insults she knew how to manage so well. He relaxed a little, all while being on keyed up edge.
They kissed each other gently, lips meeting each other repeatedly, until Claire drew back a hair’s breadth and opened her mouth slightly, and Leon followed her immediately, fitting his mouth over hers. Her tongue flicked against his teasingly, and she worked her hand out from his to place it on the side of his face.
They sat in the dark, shoulder to shoulder, making out like they were in the backseat at a drive-in movie. Leon was not 16 anymore; he knew how these things went, if they followed their natural progression. Sitting there in bed kissing in the darkness at their ages usually led to shedding of clothes, of being inside someone, of moaning and clutching at each other.
They’d survived a viral apocalypse. Leon hadn’t precisely ever thought to stock himself up on condoms, and if Claire had been on birth control, that had effectively stopped as soon as she went into hiding and lost access to a doctor and a pharmacy. Her tongue searched further into his mouth, sliding against his own, and Leon had reason to think of all of these things and rue his situation because he was currently getting hard in his sleep pants, and much like it had been when he was 16, his lizard brain was begging him to find something to stick it in.
Maybe Claire didn’t want any of that, anyway. He didn’t know what she wanted, but her hand was sliding to the back of his head, holding him to her, her mouth alive and adamant against his.
There was also a child sleeping in the bedroom next to them. Leon was halfway kicking himself; he probably should have just kept his hands to himself. She’d kissed his cheek. It’d been fairly innocent. He could have just laid down. He could have tried to go the fuck to sleep. He was the one who’d immediately taken the inch she’d given him and gone a mile, and in his infinite wisdom he had not considered what to do when he ran out of road, half hard in his pants and with his tongue in her mouth.
He’d considered himself a real mouth-breather at 16, and apparently at 21 things had not changed.
Claire was making out with him, but he was hesitant to touch her otherwise—somehow he still expected her sharp, acid tongue if he were to reach out and touch her in any other way, shape, or form, even though he was desperate to. His hands longed to wander; he wanted to feel the curve of her hip, he wanted to take her breasts into his hands. 16 forever—a girl started making out with him and he immediately wanted to cop a feel. He felt like several weeks ago his life had been altered forever in Raccoon City; he felt changed, he felt damaged, he felt different. He didn’t know if he was upset with himself or somewhat comforted that the dark recesses of his brain were much as they ever were, easily cranked up and helplessly following along once a girl got her hands on him.
Claire hummed against his mouth and she shifted, pulling her legs up, rising to her knees next to him. She did not break contact with his mouth once, determined to continue the makeout session that still had the power to render him brainless at this point in his life. Her hands went to his shoulders and she shifted again, getting a leg over him. She straddled him and settled into his lap, and Leon was done for. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew unprotected sex was off the table—life in hiding was difficult enough without adding teenaged pregnancy to the mix, but evidently Claire had designs, and he was probably fully subject to her whims at that point. She was going to do to him what she wanted to do to him, and he was eagerly going to let her.
Her legs flexed and she pressed the apex of her thighs down against him, grinding gently, and Leon could not help the groan that traveled from his mouth to hers. He was fully hard at that point and wholly unable to control his reactions at the feeling of her pressing down against him. Slowly, hesitantly, her hips set up a rhythm. Leon couldn’t help it; his hands found her hips, clutching desperately, his fingers tight into her flesh through the fabric of her sleep pants.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, she broke away from his mouth. She hovered close, her forehead against his, her hips working. “We can’t have sex,” she murmured.
“I know,” Leon replied. “Holy shit, Claire.”
Her breath fanned hot on his face, her fingers curling into his shoulders. He knew she could feel the cock she was grinding up against; she seemed to take a special point in pressing against it, her hips rolling. She was getting less hesitant. She moaned a little. “God I really wish we <em>could</em> have sex,” she said, her breath short.
His brain had vacated the premises a few minutes prior, but part of it roared back to life at the thought of being inside her, of what it would feel like, of hot, wet tightness on his aching cock. “Jesus, Claire,” he said, holding her hips, half trying to control her, half urging her. She loosed her hold on his shoulders and grabbed his face, her mouth hovering above his. He leaned up and kissed her and she responded in kind, their mouths desperate and animal against each other. He slid his hands from her hips to the pliant flesh of her ass, tightening his grip. Claire moaned against his mouth, her hips working fervently.
“You’re so hard,” she whispered.
“God I want to fuck you,” he whispered back. She gasped. “Jesus, Claire.”
Her breath was coming shorter, her lip in her teeth. She leaned forward, her breasts crushing against him through her shirt. Leon allowed one of his hands to let loose of her ass and moved it around to the front of her, inside her shirt, up to one of her breasts. It was firm and warm in his hand; not too big, not too small, and it felt perfect. He squeezed it, helplessly, and his fingers found her nipple, pinching it, stroking it. They fucked each other through clothes in the darkness, clutching at each other.
“Oh,” she breathed, her hips moving with a mind of their own. “Leon—“
He was sweating again; this time the reason was sheer excitement, feeling overheated, feeling like his heart was about to burst out of his chest. Claire was making soft noises, her breaths more of gasps at that point. Leon would have given anything in the world to be inside her. He wanted to be inside her so bad it was practically painful, his cock throbbing. He was so aroused he couldn’t think straight, helplessly following the movement of her hips, hanging on every one of her high-pitched gasps.
She was going to make him come. Like a horny kid, he was going to come in his pants. Part of him wanted to stop her and part of him ground against her hips, brain blank, craving release.
Her nails were digging into his neck, and she quickly slotted her mouth over his again, her tongue searching and pointed against his. They separated, panting against each other, mouths slack, bodies desperate.
“I’m gonna come, Claire,” he groaned. “Jesus you’re gonna make me come—“
“Me too,” she breathed. “Oh God,” she moaned.
“Shh,” he hushed her, feeling her ride him. “Sherry—“ His warning about the girl sleeping in the next room died in his throat, his cock running the show. He tried to imagine what it would feel like if he was inside her, buried to the hilt. She was riding him like he’d never been ridden before, the friction maddening. This was the kind of riding you saw in porn, the kind of riding you imagined and jerked off to. His clothes felt like an oppressive weight. He wanted to come inside Claire Redfield so badly he wanted to cry. He shuddered, clinging to her writhing form. “Fuck Claire—don’t stop—don’t stop—“
“Oh, I want it,” she gasped, and Leon had never wanted to give it to anyone so badly in all his life. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna come,” she whined. She was absolutely using him at that point, her clothed pussy rutting against his cock so hard it was nearly torture. She was so unbelievably, mind-searingly hot, her body riding his into submission, her breath out of control. She was gripping him so tight it felt like her nails were breaking his skin. He could have made this go differently—they couldn’t have sex but she could have put her hands on him, she could have put him in her mouth. He was desperate for her touch but too invested in what was happening, and would have lost his mind had she stopped. Leon did not know how he was supposed to be normal after this. He did not know how he was supposed to look at her in the morning like he still had a brain in his head as Sherry ran around and prattled on like the excited kid she was. He did not know how he was supposed to platonically share a bed with her and Sherry. He did not know how he was going to keep his hands off her. He vowed to buy condoms.
He wanted it. He wanted to know what being inside Claire Redfield felt like. He felt like his soul would not rest until he knew.
His face was in her neck, damp against her skin, and she strained against him, chasing release. He opened his mouth, tongue against her skin, biting at her gently, his hands guiding her, forcing her down onto him.
“Oh <em>fuck</em>,” she managed, her breath catching. She grabbed his face and angled it to hers, putting her mouth over his, loosing long, muffled moans into him. Her hips slowed down, less aroused panic and more fluid release, a shudder working its way through her. She was coming. Leon wanted to follow so badly he could feel his nerves burning. He took her ass back in his hands and urged her to take up her former pace, riding back up against her.
“Don’t stop,” he panted, against her lips. “Fuck, keep going—I’m gonna—I’m gonna come,” he managed. Forming coherent thought was hard; he was so close, and he imagined being inside her when she came, imagined what it would feel like on his cock. He imagined Claire beneath him on the bed, hair spilled out on the pillow behind her, moaning as he thrust into her, her breasts bouncing with every stroke. He imagined what her mouth would feel like on him, warm and wet, sucking him, her head bobbing up and down. He wanted to put his fingers inside her. He wanted to put his face between her legs. He wanted to know what her naked skin felt like against his.
Gasping, she resumed grinding against him firmly, her hands back on his shoulders, her body intentional. Leon clung to her like a drowning man, thrusting up against her, his brain half in the moment and half in a steady stream of imagined situations. He was 21 years old and there he was, dry humping like a 14 year old, desperate to blow his load. Claire leaned forward and put her mouth on his ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth. Leon groaned helplessly, and she sucked and nibbled at his ear, fucking him through clothes, and he lost it.
A long, low noise escaped him, and he was coming; he could feel it, hot and thick in his pants, his hands assuming control of her hips, forcing her to slow down. His breath was harsh, his heart a racing riot. Just like he had when he woke up from the nightmare, he felt the sweat on his scalp, along his skin. He slowly guided her hips to a stop as he finished and they hung there, somewhat frozen, breath short, faces hovering near each other.
Leon’s brain was blank. Jesus, what had they just done? Part of him felt something akin to embarrassment, and the other part of him was wondering how fast he could get out of the house once the sun was up to find somewhere to buy condoms. Maybe she didn’t want that, though. Maybe she was sitting there on top of him regretting every bit of what she’d just done. It did feel kind of like they’d temporarily lost their minds. Leon thought of benignly watching Claire brush out Sherry’s hair before bed, a mere hours earlier. How had he gone from neutrally treating her like the other adult in the house to mindlessly thrusting his cock against her?
“Did—did you—“ she began, haltingly.
“Yeah,” he said back, his voice low and wrecked. He felt like he was tingling.
“Okay,” Claire said, and it sounded kind of like she was unsure of what to say.
Leon was suddenly desperate for her to not feel like this had been a mistake, wanting her to not feel like he was something she needed to regret. He leaned up and kissed her abruptly, and she made a soft, surprised noise. She kissed him back, and Leon wrapped his arms around her.
“We should probably—we probably need to go to bed,” she murmured, her hand on his face. “Sherry’s gonna get up in the morning, and—“
“Yeah,” he said. “I need to, uh—I need to go try and clean up,” he said.
“Oh. Yeah,” she said, and she began to adjust, clambering off his lap, his arms releasing from around her. “Do you, um, want me to stay, or should I go back to—“
“You can stay,” he cut in, watching her draw back to his side in the darkness. “Let me just—I’m just gonna—“
“Sure,” Claire said, as he scooted towards the edge of the bed. “I’ll, um, be here.” She shifted and laid down, curling up onto her side.
Leon nodded in the darkness and headed for the bedroom door, into the darkness of the hallway, intent on the bathroom. He turned on the light, wincing, and stood there for a second with conflicting emotions inside of him. He supposed that was maybe only natural when you were standing there with a mess of come in your pants and you’d just dry-humped the only other adult in the house. Sighing, he grabbed a wad of toilet paper and pulled down his sleep pants, never feeling more like an out of control, horny teenager than he had at that moment. He cleaned up the mess the best he had motivation for at that unknown hour, and then tossed the toilet paper into the toilet, flushing it.
He turned out the light and left the bathroom, blindly heading back to the bedroom, back to Claire. He entered and she was still laying there on her side. He climbed back into bed and laid on his back, looking up at the ceiling, his heart still preternaturally accelerated in his chest.
“Are…are you okay?” she asked, her tone small.
“Yeah,” he replied, quickly. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You’re not…you don’t feel like we just made a big mistake?”
Leon turned his head towards her in the darkness. “I mean…no. Do you?”
“Um,” she began, and Leon’s heart was in his throat, “no, I guess not.” She let out a gust. “I guess I probably should have, like, <em>asked</em> or something before I went ahead and…” She trailed off.
“This may shock you,” he said, “but my answer probably would have been yes.”
Claire let out a soft laugh. “Sure. I guess I just went with it.”
They laid there for a second, quiet in the dark.
“You can come over here,” Leon said. “You don’t…you don’t have to be all the way over there.”
“Oh. Okay,” Claire said, scooting across the bed, closing the space between them. She settled in against him, her hand coming to his chest. “We are so fucking lucky Sherry didn’t wake up,” she said, after a moment.
“Yeah,” Leon gusted, “she probably doesn’t need any more trauma. Or to have any more questions. I’m not old enough to give the birds and bees talk.”
“You’re older than me,” Claire said. “Plus, you’re, like, the man of the house now. You’d have to do it.”
“What?” Leon asked lowly, but incredulously. “No way. She follows you around like a shadow. You’re a woman. <em>You’d</em> have to do it.”
Claire made a noise. “Let’s just… let’s just not have to do that,” she said. Her head burrowed against his shoulder.
“You want blankets?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m kind of cold.”
Leon sat up and regathered the discarded blanket and pulled it up over them, and laid back down. Claire regathered herself against him, and he tried to ignore the tightness in his shoulder. He also tried to just shut the fuck up and let things be what they were, but as ever, he felt like he didn’t know when to shut his big fucking mouth. Curiosity killed the cat, his father told him more often than he probably should have had to.
“Claire?” he asked. She hummed. “Do you—do you <em>want</em> me to get condoms? I mean, we can’t—we couldn’t, tonight, but do you…”
She seemed frozen for a second. “Um,” she began, “sure. Yeah. We can, um…”
“Okay,” he said, and forcibly considered the matter closed—he needed to stop thinking about it or he was going to get hard again. He’d buy condoms, and then he supposed they were going to have to figure out how to use them while sharing a house with a child that was preternaturally attached to them.
Silence reigned.
“I’m gonna try to go to sleep,” she murmured. “I’m going to be dead in the morning.”
“Yeah, me too,” Leon said. “Goodnight.”
She shifted next to him. “Goodnight.”
Leon laid there and tried to get his out of control brain to shut the hell up. It was hard. Thoughts of Claire over him, riding him like her life depended on it kept popping into his head. She wanted to leave. She wanted to leave them behind and find her brother. Leon had a hundred reasons she shouldn’t go, some of them very practical and adult, and now he had reason one hundred and one.
Life in hiding felt like it had just gotten infinitely more complicated, yet somehow more worthwhile.
Blurb popped into head. I wanted Chris being a protective older brother who probably thinks Leon's way too fucked up to be with his sister, but is willing to accept it because Claire's happy and Chris forever sees his sister as a pig-tailed little girl in overalls who is to be protected and she deserves the WORLD and Chris finds himself caving when Claire's pulls her "but Daddy, I love him!" with Chris about Leon.
(I did post a short blurb on here a few months ago about Claire TELLING Chris she was seeing Leon, on a sibling vacation to Hawaii. If need be I can post it again, because I feel kind of like it's the sister blurb to this blurb.)
Anyway. Here you go. Leon feels like a snob in a suit, Chris thinks Leon's probably a fucking mess in private, Leon thinks Chris eats illegal steroids for breakfast, Chris issues mild warnings, everyone agrees Claire's happiness is important, cigarettes are had.
Leon was walking down the hallway when he had to stop short because a door in front of him opened and immediately began to vomit people moving with purpose into the hallway. He stood there, file folder in his hand, waiting for the interruption to pass. He noted the various people coming out of the doorway; he spotted a BSAA patch on a sleeve.
Huh. Wonder what the DSO wanted with them.
One of the last people to be vomited out of the door looked down the hallway one way, and then turned and looked Leon’s direction, and froze. Leon likewise froze, finding himself staring into the broad and five-o-clock shadowed face of Chris Redfield. Chris looked like he’d rolled out of bed and just went with it, and he still looked like he ate Anadrol and pre-workout for breakfast, chased by either black coffee or straight whisky. Leon was not a small man, and yet when he looked at Chris he felt like Chris could probably pick him up and throw him across a room.
He thought of the fact that the sheer hulk of a man in front of him was related to small, lithe Claire. They didn’t look much alike. Chris had the faintest of freckles on his face, and maybe there was something to the slant of their eyes that looked similar. Claire had once told him her and Chris got mistaken for a couple all the time together in public (<em>gross</em>, she’d tacked on).
“Surprise surprise,” Chris said gruffly, and he sounded neither surprised nor much of anything good.
“You <em>are</em> in my home base,” Leon returned. “What’s the BSAA doing here?”
“Some such shit or another,” Chris replied. “Running recon for you guys or something. Getting sent into the field to snoop around.”
“Ah,” Leon said. Silence fell. He bore no animosity towards Chris, but he had the distinct feeling Chris looked at him and considered him <em>off</em>, somehow. He felt like Chris had judged him and found him wanting, but with Claire between them Chris kept his feelings to himself.
“How’s my sister?” Chris asked.
“Fine,” Leon replied. “You haven’t talked to her?”
“Two days ago,” Chris said, plainly. “I wanted to hear your answer.”
“She’s fine,” Leon reiterated. “Busy as usual, hating New York.”
Chris made a noise that was kind of like a chuckle. “I <em>told</em> her not to buy a house there,” he said. “She wouldn’t listen. She was up my ass about refusing to live in an apartment. Up my ass about helping with a down payment. And now all she does is complain about Long Island, the city.”
Leon nodded, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “I guess I’m not the only one she vents to about it.”
“My sister will vent to anyone who will listen,” Chris said. “She’s got opinions, and you’re going to hear them.”
“That’s true,” Leon said, still smirking lopsidedly. “I guess I’m not special.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Chris said. “Walk with me. Guide me out of this fucking labyrinth. I thought the Pentagon was bad.”
Leon nodded. “You get used to it. I know every room in this place, by now.” He stepped forward and Chris turned, and they started off down the hallway. Chris looked over at him; Leon felt more like a suited dick than usual, faced with Chris’s military casual clothes.
“When’d you last see my sister?” Chris asked as they walked.
“Oh…about three weeks ago.” Leon pushed open a door in front of them. “My requests for time off are more oft than not shot down. It’s easier to get her down here, sometimes, but I prefer to go there.”
“Oh yeah?” Chris asked.
“My apartment leaves a lot to be desired,” Leon said. “Feel however she may about her house, it’s a house. It looks like a home and less like a staging area for getting shipped off to wherever the fuck to do whatever the fuck.”
Chris let out another short, dry chuckle. “I know the feeling. She told me my place looked like a barracks.”
“She told me mine looked like no one lived there,” Leon replied, in amusement. “She’s got opinions, and you’re going to hear them.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Chris said. “I’ve been hearing them since she was old enough to talk.”
“Thank you for your service,” Leon said dryly.
“Yeah.” Chris looked over at him. “She seems happy.”
“I hope so,” Leon said. “I’m no prize but I’m trying.”
“None of us are,” Chris said. He looked back over at Leon. “Spare her that shit. If you’re having trouble holding your guts in emotionally or mentally after an op…she doesn’t need to hear it.” Chris sighed. “She worries enough about people all over the world, her endless quest for equality and world peace. She doesn’t need damaged men like us on her plate too.”
“You’re her brother,” Leon noted, evenly. “I assume you guys talk.”
“Not about that shit,” Chris said. “As far as Claire’s concerned, I’m right as rain all of the time. I’ve never seen or done anything that made me think twice. She can come to me with her problems. I can keep mine to myself.”
“Well, it’s good to know I’ve been following a protocol I didn’t know was established,” Leon said, looking over at Chris. “She doesn’t need to know about my work.”
“Good,” Chris said. “Because <em>I</em> do know about it, and I feel like there’s a lot of ugly hiding under that suit. It’s not for Claire. She deals with enough.”
Leon contemplated the realities of Chris asking him to keep his mouth shut about the fact that he came home with blood on his hands; he contemplated the realities of Chris hiding his own secrets from Claire. It seemed like maybe none of the men in her life close to her were being honest with her, all in the name of keeping her somehow safe and insulated from the harsh realities of what a life with the government was like. “The government shrinks pass me with flying colors,” Leon said. “I don’t have anything to tell her.”
“Sure,” Chris said knowingly. “<em>Sure</em>. If you <em>do</em> ever feel inclined to share, go visit one of the government shrinks. We’re a special kind of fucked up. Claire doesn’t need that.”
Leon wondered what Chris thought Claire <em>did</em> need. Probably a normal guy with a 9 to 5 job, a marriage, and 2.5 kids. White picket fence, the American dream. Instead he had to deal with his sister in a long distance <em>whatever the fuck</em> with Leon, who hadn’t needed Chris to tell him to hide himself from Claire. Leon was already doing it, and feeling fucked up for doing it. Chris was Claire’s brother; he could probably unburden himself to her and she’d stay by his side. Leon shared Claire’s bed; if he unburdened himself to her it was likely her morals would tell her to look for someone else to share her bed.
“I get my head right before I go see her,” Leon said. “I get the ugly back under the suit before I come at her.”
“Sure,” Chris said. “I told her I didn’t think this was a good idea, and now I’ve told you. But she got all big doe-eyed on me and told me she was happy, and that she was gonna do what she was gonna do, and I let it be.” Chris looked over at him again as they walked. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“Trying not to,” Leon said, and from Chris’s grunt, Leon knew the other man had hoped for a more ringing endorsement but was probably not surprised to not get one. Leon couldn’t manage to tell <em>Claire</em> that he loved her; he was certainly not going to let it slip to her brother. “I’m glad she’s happy. I work at it as hard as I can, what with being several hundred miles away and off being shot at half the time.”
“Keep working at it,” Chris said. “Claire deserves to be happy. I suppose if that’s with you, then I’ve got to be alright with that.”
“Trust me,” Leon said, pushing open another door, “I kind of think she deserves some mild mannered desk jockey from Middle America or one of her coworkers as well, but that’s just not the way it worked out.”
“Sure,” Chris said. “I’m sure you fought hard to talk her out of it.” His tone was sarcastic, but accepting. “Regardless, she seems content so I guess that’s good enough for me.”
“Great,” Leon replied. Even if Chris had told him to fuck off and to get away from Claire, nothing about what Leon was doing would have changed. He loved Claire, he needed her—she made all the shit the government shrinks somehow kept rubber stamping away quieter, made life seem like a life and worthwhile. Without Claire it was drinking in the wee hours of the morning in his apartment, sleeping to pass the time, and going through life like he was cosmically missing the point and that he earned every bit of the misery he experienced. Claire was the balm on his wounded sense of self. He could not tell Chris he was practically clinging to his sister at this point because he was scared of facing the reality of his life without her.
They were crossing the lobby then, daylight visible outside the front doors. They crossed the tiled floor and went to the front door, Leon pushing it open, Chris stepping out behind him. Chris immediately began to reach into a pocket of his utility pants, producing a pack of Camel Wides.
“You smoke?” Chris asked.
“I used to,” Leon said. “Your sister told me she’d slap me if she saw me smoking.”
“She’s not here,” Chris said, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “She’s been threatening to haul off and pop me one for smoking since time immemorial but she hasn’t done it yet.”
“Fine,” Leon said. “Give me one of those things.”
“Sure,” Chris said with a smile, opening the pack and pulling out two cigarettes. He stuck his in his mouth and handed Leon’s to him, then produced a Zippo from one of his pockets. He lit his own cigarette and then handed the still lit lighter to Leon, who lit his and snapped the lighter closed, handing it back to Chris. Leon took a drag, blowing smoke out above Chris’s head.
“I smoked Reds, when I smoked,” Leon said. “Marlboros. It seemed to be what everyone else at STRATCOM was smoking.”
“I’ve downgraded,” Chris said. “I smoked unfiltered Camels for years. I heard it from everyone about cancer, about dying, all of it. I switched to filters. It seemed healthier.”
Leon chuckled some, spurting smoke into the air. “Sure. The filter’s doing a lot for you.”
“I’m all about my health,” Chris joked, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Something’ll get me one of these days, but I’m gonna be smoking when it does.”
Leon stood there, file folder in one hand, cigarette in the other, looking at Chris. He recalled Claire telling him when she’d found her Daddy dead in his chair, from a heart attack, the ashtray was overflowing next to him. Like father, like son, then. “Smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em,” Leon said.
“Exactly,” Chris said, blowing smoke. “Listen, I’ve gotta hit the bricks. Take care of yourself. You’re no good to my sister all shot full of holes.”
“The less full of holes I am, the better,” Leon said.
“Amen to that,” Chris said. “Take care. Be good,” he said, turning and starting to saunter off.
“Same to you,” Leon replied, watching Chris walk away. He looked at the cigarette between his thumb and his middle finger and brought it up to his mouth, taking a healthy drag.
What Claire didn’t know wouldn’t kill her. It was almost like a mantra, at this point, a way of life; a way of keeping her oblivious and happy. Leon didn’t know if he felt <em>better</em> about the fact that he was hiding shit from Claire because Chris was too, but he’d been given a directive. He’d already been on the directive on his own, but the fact that someone else was sanctioning it now made him feel a little less fucked up, in his own way that <em>was</em> fucked up.
So I was struck with an idea today, and it was more scenes that popped into my head--I don't even know if I consider it part of my own official more-canon-compliant headcanon or not, but I started writing it anyway. Summer, 2001, Leon and Claire visit 15 year old Sherry. Claire's been visiting Sherry all along, but Sherry wants them TOGETHER. They play nice for the day and then explode on each other spectacularly about past decisions, in a government Tahoe. I think in this iteration of their lives, Claire's still pissed off and bitter at Leon's decision to go with the government, and Leon's probably already caught feelings for Claire and just doesn't realize it yet. I think my Leon ALWAYS had feelings for Claire, he was just too dense and hand-to-mouth for a long while to realize it.
Anyway, I wanted to post an excerpt because I don't know if this is worth half a shit or if it'll just go to my hard drive to die. I really should have worked on the AU today (particularly because that persists in being the only thing I CAN actually post to AO3, and still no word from support), but instead I cranked out like 21 disjointed pages of this.
Anyway, here's a chunk of it. Remember, in my headcanon Leon, Claire, and Sherry were together for a WHILE post Raccoon. That helps some of their memories they talk about make sense.
Claire put her feet up on the dash of the Tahoe, and Leon looked over to notice she was leaving shoeprints on the dash.
“Claire, get your feet down,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “It’s not like it’s yours. It’s not like you have to clean it.”
“Still,” he said. “It’s government property. I have to take care of it.”
“How often you get to roll around in one of these bad boys that probably costs more than what I make in a year?” Claire asked, and her feet did not move.
“As little as possible,” Leon replied. “I don’t like them. They’re a nightmare to park and they make me feel like I’m about to roll up to someone’s house and ask them if they are now or have ever been a Communist.” He looked over at her. “Sherry said you finished college. Congratulations.”
“Yeah,” Claire said. “Chris forced me into it. Said Daddy’d turn in his grave unless I did it.”
“Are we gonna see Chris?” Sherry piped up from the backseat.
“Not today,” Claire said. “I tried. He told me he was too busy.”
“Oh,” Sherry said, sinking back in her seat.
“So what <em>are</em> you doing now, to where a government Tahoe’s out of your budget?” Leon asked of Claire.
“Aid work,” Claire said. “Organization that started up in the aftermath of Raccoon. They were going to take me without the degree, but Chris told me to finish or he’d kill me.”
Leon nodded. It was still weird to hear her reference the brother that had been absent for so long. Hell, Leon had <em>met</em> the brother that had been absent, in the past.
“What’re they called?” Leon asked. “You have to be in New York, for this?”
“Yeah,” Claire said with a sigh. “I fucking hate it there. Organization’s called TerraSave. I get shipped to exotic places to witness human suffering. Chris told me I should have been a school teacher. Oops.”
Sherry leaned forward again. “You’d be a good teacher, Claire. You taught me a lot when we lived together. Mr. Simmons said I wasn’t too far behind when I started school again.”
“Oh, Mr. Simmons said that, did he?” Claire asked, and it sounded like she was chewing on something bitter. “Guess I’ll take the roundabout compliment.”
“I’m taking calculus,” Sherry said.
“Calculus, huh?” Claire asked. “I didn’t manage that until my junior year. You’re ahead of me.”
“I didn’t make it that far,” Leon said, in amusement. “I had to retake geometry in summer school.”
Claire furrowed her brow. “You’re handy. You know how to like…build stuff. How’d you fail geometry?”
“I didn’t do any of the work,” Leon said. “I sat around in class and daydreamed and stuffed the homework into my backpack, never to be seen again.”
“You were a slack ass,” Claire said, knowingly.
“Not all of us are turbo geniuses like you and Sherry,” he replied.
“Not all of us are cruising around in 80,000 dollar vehicles,” Claire countered, arching her eyebrow at him.
“Does this car really cost 80,000 dollars?” Sherry asked.
“I don’t know how much it costs,” Leon said. “I just drive them sometimes.”
“I can hear taxpayers screaming in pain,” Claire said dryly, looking out the window.
Leon had forgotten that it was occasionally an assault to be with Claire and Sherry in the same space; Sherry and her never-ending questions, Claire’s snappy attitude. Leon sometimes felt like he was walking a tightrope, and being pulled on either side. “Taxpayers aside,” Leon said, evenly, “Sherry, what kind of food do you want? We’ve got to pick a destination, here, or I’ll be driving around in this taxpayer burden all day.”
“Choose well,” Claire said. “I’ve had the institutional food they give you at that place. This is your chance for something real.”
“Um…” Sherry trailed off in the backseat, and Leon looked at the rear view mirror, to see Sherry kind of stereotypically and comically lost in thought, hand on her chin. “What do <em>you</em> guys want?” she asked.
“I’m just in charge of driving,” Leon said. “I’m not in charge of picking food.”
“This is your day, Sherry,” Claire said. “You pick. Not us.”
“Ugh, I dunno!” Sherry burst out. “What is there?”
“This is DC,” Leon said. “Every ethnic group in the world has a restaurant here. You can get anything you want.”
Sherry was quiet, thinking. Claire turned around in the seat and looked at her. “Don’t stare at me!” Sherry said. “I can’t think with you staring at me.”
“I’m not <em>that</em> intimidating,” Claire said in amusement, turning back around in her seat. She pulled her tank top down some, it’d ridden up when she turned around.
“What about pizza?” Sherry asked. “I barely remember pizza.”
“You want pizza?” Leon asked. “I do know several places to get pizza.”
“That figures,” Claire said in amusement. “If it hadn’t been for my barely there cooking skills we all would have died.”
“I hate to break it to you but I still haven’t made any advancements on that front,” Leon said, pulling up to a stop light.
“Remember how much ham and beans we ate?” Sherry asked. “I <em>still</em> won’t eat beans.”
“Because you’re like, horrified by the functions of your own body,” Claire laughed, turning to look at Sherry. “Girls fart too, kid.”
Sherry rolled her eyes and looked put out in the rear view mirror. “I also just got tired of beans,” Sherry said, petulantly. “We ate them too much.”
“I mean, we did,” Claire acknowledged. “Come to think of it, I’ve been decidedly bean-avoidant since then, too.”
“I see beans in my dreams,” Sherry said dramatically.
“Oh you do not,” Claire said, twisting further in her seat. Her tank top rode up again, exposing her hips and midriff, and Leon alarmingly found he had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road. “I see badly fitting clothes,” she said. “I can’t tell you what a joy it is to have clothes that didn’t come from thrift because we had no other choice, clothes that <em>fit</em>.”
Leon wondered how well her clothing genuinely fit her with the amount of skin she was exposing. Sherry shrugged. “My clothes always fit me,” Sherry said.
“Because you were a kid and you were easy,” Claire said. “You didn’t have a butt. You didn’t have boobs. You didn’t have Leon’s long ass arms and legs.”
“Hey, I have to wear a bra now,” Sherry declared. “I have boobs <em>now</em>.”
“<em>Alright</em>,” Leon groused, good-naturedly. “This is not girls’ hour. I’m in the vehicle.”
“What, are you gonna burst into flames if you hear the word <em>boobs</em>?” Claire asked, looking over at him. “I figured your job was all-consuming, but not <em>that</em> all-consuming.”
“All-consuming or not,” Leon said, “I don’t need to hear you guys talking about your bras and boobs and whatever else.”
“Boy scout,” Claire accused, and turned back around in her seat, hiking her tank top down.
Leon was quietly thankful.
…………………………………………………………..
Sherry was on her fifth Coke at the restaurant, and they were not small glasses. Leon himself was generally a Coke fiend, but Sherry was outpacing him dramatically. The waitress appeared astounded every time she had to refill Sherry’s red plastic cup. Leon himself had only needed one refill.
Sherry was busily on her way to emptying another cup, sucking Coke through her straw like it was the essence of life itself. “Sherry,” Claire said, looking over, “take it easy. You’re not going to sleep for a week.”
“It’s so good,” Sherry said. “I don’t get soda at home—“ She caught Claire’s lowered brow. “—back at base. Just juice. I miss soda.”
Claire took a drink of her beer. Leon envied her; he had to drive a government vehicle and return it to the depot at the end of the day. He could not be drinking beer. “Fine,” Claire said. “Drink up. I <em>hope</em> you’re bouncing off the fucking walls. I hope Simmons doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“I have video games,” Sherry said. “I got a Playstation 2. I play them <em>all the time</em>.”
Claire did not look pacified. “Poor substitute for being outside, and having, y’know, friends and stuff.”
“They let me put it in my room,” Sherry said. “Sometimes I stay up way too late playing it.”
“After this much Coke you’re going to be awake for three days playing it,” Leon commented dryly.
“I like the role-playing games,” Sherry said. “Like Final Fantasy. I like the stories.”
“We raised a D&D nerd,” Claire said in off-handed amusement to Leon, hand on her beer. “I don’t know shit about video games.”
“Me either, really,” Leon said. “I was always too busy with other stuff to play them.”
“It just kind of wasn’t a thing, for me,” Claire said. “I guess you don’t have much else to do,” she said to Sherry.
“If I do well I get more video games,” Sherry said. “I have a <em>lot</em>.”
Claire looked minutely perturbed. “Cool,” she said, “if you like them.”
“I do,” Sherry said, sucking back more Coke. She looked at Claire. “What’s beer taste like?”
“Try it,” Claire said, pushing her pint glass towards Sherry.
“Jesus, Claire,” Leon said, tiredly. “Don’t give her beer.”
“I’m not buying her a whole beer,” Claire said, calmly. “She’s not going to die if she takes a sip.”
Sherry reached out and took the pint glass in both hands and took a swig, Leon looking on disapprovingly. Sherry’s face contorted and Claire laughed, and Sherry hurriedly set the pint down and pushed it away from herself. “That’s so gross,” Sherry said, her face still contorted. “The soldiers talk all week about going out on the weekend for beer. That’s gross.”
“I think you grow into it,” Claire said, taking her beer back. “I <em>like</em> beer.”
“Do <em>you</em> like beer?” Sherry asked of Leon.
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, sometimes we had beer around, back then,” he reminded Sherry. “I bought it every once in a while, for Claire and I to drink.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Sherry said. “I remember when you bought the other stuff and we all wrestled.”
Leon laughed some. “The Jim Beam night,” he said to Claire. Claire looked minutely perturbed again.
“That night was a lot of fun,” Claire said. “The next day…was not.”
“Yeah,” Leon acknowledged. “Being up in the frame of a house swinging a hammer hit differently the next day.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t fall out of it,” Claire said knowingly, taking a drink of her beer.
“Remember when I used to walk on your back?” Sherry asked Leon. He nodded.
“Yes. I think you’re too big, now. You’d crush me,” he said.
“How do you pop your back now?” Claire asked in amusement. “Who rubs your shoulders and pulls splinters out of your hands?”
“Nobody,” Leon said. “I just suffer alone, in my bare apartment. It’s very depressing.”
“You had it good,” Claire said. “You were taken care of, back then.”
“Yeah, and then someone left,” Leon said, and a split second later regretted it. God knew he and Claire had been round and round about her going to Europe; he’d been there briefly in the aftermath to try to help pick up the pieces. He didn’t want to fight with her, today of all days. He didn’t want to drag up the bad aspects of the past. Him and his stupid fucking mouth.
“Yeah,” Claire gusted, and her voice lacked ire. “And then someone left.” She didn’t rise to the occasion, finger in his face, accusing him right back. Leon supposed he was thankful. Claire’s temper was like a match flare; hot, sulfurous, and sudden. He’d found himself on the receiving end of it many a time. He’d been no angel back then, either. His own temper had gotten the best of him, at times.
It felt like so long ago. Life before Raccoon was two lifetimes ago. Life after Raccoon was a lifetime ago. Leon didn’t know what to make of his current life, but he couldn’t undo his decisions.
“And then the government came,” Sherry added, innocently.
“And then the government came,” Claire echoed, in that same distant tone.
<em>And I fucking signed Sherry and I’s lives away like a trusting moron,</em> Leon thought. He wouldn’t give voice to it, though. He couldn’t let it get that morose. “Alright, enough of that,” Leon said. “We’re all here, aren’t we?”
“At what cost?” Claire asked, looking over at him knowingly.
“Claire,” Leon said once, a toothless warning. She looked away from him and took a drink of her beer.
Sherry looked between them, her face wary. Leon was certain she could sense whatever was brewing between them. She’d always been able to. Leon felt fairly certain Sherry had been used to picking up on acrimony between a man and a woman in a house with her for many years before they’d met her. “How much longer do you think the pizza will be?” Sherry asked.
“Oh, I dunno,” Leon said, taking Sherry’s out. “I have a feeling you and I will probably battle each other in terms of how much we can eat.”
“I did always suspect you were halfway starving to death, back then,” Claire said.
“Yeah,” Leon acknowledged, “I kind of was. I’m capable of eating a whole pizza by myself.”
Sherry looked shocked. “How big is it? Should we have gotten two?”
“I’ll get us another one if we need it,” Leon said. “We’re not in a hurry. We can eat pizza all day if we want.”
“I better pace myself on the beer, then,” Claire said.
“You’re not driving,” Leon said, absently. “Get hammered. I don’t care. Everybody do whatever they want.”
Claire looked over at him. “Where is Leon and what have you done with him?”
“I don’t often get days without an agenda,” Leon said. “Short of committing crimes I don’t care what we do.”
Claire nodded. “Okay, that sounds a <em>little</em> more like you.”
“Let’s rob a bank,” Sherry giggled.
“Fuckin’ A,” Claire said, appreciatively. “I could use the money.”
“We’re not robbing a bank,” Leon said dismissively.
“You’re no fun,” Claire groused.
“I’d go to Hawaii,” Sherry said.
“<em>Hell</em> yeah,” Claire said. “You’ve got the right idea. I say we get the keys from Leon and go commit this heist.”
“Good luck getting the keys from me,” Leon said.
“I’m scrappy,” Claire said. “I bet I could do it.”
“Maybe three years ago,” Leon said. “I don’t think so, these days.”
“Leon’s all buff now,” Sherry announced.
“Are you?” Claire asked, sitting up some. “The suit is hiding it.” She reached out and grabbed Leon’s bicep and squeezed. “Holy shit you <em>are</em> buff now. What gives?”
“I can’t be sent into the field at 180 pounds soaking wet,” Leon replied, feeling self-conscious.
“Suited you just fine for being a cop,” Claire said.
“This is slightly more involved,” Leon replied. “They wanted me bigger. I got bigger.”
“I’m not trying to get broken in half,” Claire said, sinking back into the circular booth. “I know when to let sleeping dogs lie. You could probably twist my head off.”
“We should wrestle again,” Sherry piped up.
“No way,” Claire said, taking another drink of her beer. “Beef McLargeHuge here would cast us into the sun. I’m not trying to die.”
“I’m not <em>that</em> big,” Leon said, chagrined.
Sherry was giggling. “You guys should arm wrestle!”
“<em>You</em> guys should arm wrestle,” Claire said. “See how that goes for you.”
“I’m not arm wrestling <em>anyone</em>,” Leon said, hurriedly. “Jesus.”
………………………………………………………………
They had needed a second pizza. Sherry had been able to put away amazing amounts of it, in spite of Claire warning her she was going to eat so much she was going to be sick. Leon didn’t blame her; God only knew when the last time Sherry Birkin had been able to eat pizza was. He suspected it was pre-Raccoon. It was no way for a 15 year old to live life.
Claire was on her fifth beer. Her face was kind of pink, making her freckles pop. She’d apparently taken Leon’s <em>get hammered</em> comment to heart. He didn’t care. He felt surprisingly free, even in the suit with the monitored Tahoe; and he didn’t get many opportunities to feel free those days.
“Can we go get ice cream?” Sherry asked, eyes big.
“Jesus, Sher, you’re going to hurl,” Claire said. “How do you even have room for ice cream?”
“Clearly she has a multi-compartment stomach, like me,” Leon said.
“Like a cow,” Claire pointed out with a laugh.
“What, do they not give you ice cream, either?” Leon asked of Sherry.
“It’s always the same kind,” Sherry said. “The strawberry, vanilla, chocolate kind. It gets boring. I want, like…sprinkles, and stuff I used to get when I was a kid.”
Claire huffed some, looking at her beer. “Y’all are crazy. I don’t think I have room for ice cream. I think I’m drinking my dessert.”
“There’s always room for ice cream,” Leon maintained. “If you promise not to hurl in the Tahoe I will take you to get ice cream,” he said to Sherry.
“I’m not gonna hurl,” Sherry said. “I feel great. I feel full of energy.”
“That’s the 16 Cokes talking,” Claire said dryly.
“Can I take the leftovers?” Sherry asked, looking at the remnants of the second pizza.
“You sure they’re going to let you bring such contraband into your enclosure?” Claire asked, still dry.
“I dunno,” Sherry said. “I don’t have a fridge. It’ll be okay left out, right?”
“I once ate pizza that had been on a counter for three days,” Leon said. “I didn’t die.”
“Gross,” Claire said, arching her eyebrow at him. “I dunno, pizza isn’t like…real food. It could probably be left out a while and still be fine. <em>Not</em> three days.”
“I said I didn’t die,” Leon said.
“You’re here being unhinged, so clearly,” Claire replied.
“I need a box,” Sherry said.
“I think you can ask for one at the front,” Claire said, waving her hand towards the counter.
Sherry momentarily looked between the table and the front of the restaurant as if she was considering whether or not she was allowed to do such a thing on her own, then steeled herself and slid out of the booth, trotting off for the front counter.
“The government is fucking her up,” Claire said to Leon, when they were alone.
“The government fucks everyone up,” Leon said, looking over at her.
“Why’d you do it?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know what other fucking choice I had,” Leon said, tiredly. “It’s not like I could call you and ask for input. ‘Hey Claire, should I tell this government guy to go fuck himself’?”
“I wouldn’t have done it,” Claire said.
“It wasn’t that simple,” Leon said. “You know that.”
“What do I know?” Claire asked, gazing at him. “I know going to Fort fucking Knox to visit Sherry in her fucking rattrap enclosure.”
“Claire, this isn’t the time for this,” Leon said. “We’re hanging out with Sherry and you’re half-cocked.”
Claire said nothing in reply, just continued to gaze into his face. She was free, and she always had been. The most tied down she’d ever been was when she’d been with Leon and Sherry. Leon had done what he’d did to keep her that way, free. And Fort fucking Knox or no, Sherry was <em>safe</em>. She wasn’t being pursued like a thing on various black markets for what lived inside her.
His life was what it was. Job had suffered, too, his mother reminded him.
“How do I fold this thing?” Sherry asked suddenly from their side, cutting into their staring match. She had an unfolded pizza box in her hands, and was looking at it, puzzled.
“Here,” Claire said, reaching across the table for it. “Let me see it.” She began to fold and crease the cardboard, flipping the box around. Sherry slid back into the booth, watching Claire.
“There,” Claire said, handing the assembled box back to Sherry, who began to load pizza into it. “At least you don’t have anyone to share with, back at the base,” she said.
“Mr. Simmons eats with me, sometimes,” Sherry said, loading pizza.
“Sure,” Claire said, and for the fourth or fifth time that day the words seemed bitter in her mouth.
“That’s nice,” Leon said, and he felt his true feelings on the matter were probably closer to Claire’s, and Claire was just worse at hiding then. Simmons had never given him any <em>real</em> cause to hate him, but Leon found he chafed at Sherry being treated more as a specimen than a girl. Claire had pulled no punches when Leon had talked to her on the phone, before her trip. She’d called him a <em>fucking government crony</em> and a <em>snake oil salesman</em>, and she’d told Leon she was too smart to buy what he was selling.
Leon felt like telling Claire all government officials were vaguely like that. <em>Everything</em> felt slimy.
“C’mon,” Leon said, looking at them. “Let’s pay and get out of here. We have ice cream to eat.”
Sherry shut the pizza box and Claire picked up her beer and tilted her head back, draining it quickly.
So a new trailer came out today. Oh Leon maladjusted little honeybun I feel like they're really gonna put you through it. I guess at least you've got Sherry there to talk you through it.
ANYWAY IN STICKING MY HEAD IN THE SAND NEWS I had an idea for a SOLITARY very headcanony scene and so I wrote it so my head would shut the fuck up. Leon's 39. He's tired of being an asshole bachelor in DC. He asks Claire to move in with him.
After all, isn't it more fun to imagine 49 year old Leon going out on his insane, infected whatever the fuck return to Raccoon City mission with Claire at home waiting for him?
Again, this is super headcanony and mostly written for my own benefit to get my loud fucking ideas to shut up.
Leon was laying in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, Claire in the crook of his arm.
He’d spent many a night this way on Long Island; then had come the years of her absence, of their separation. Then had come Alcatraz and the aftermath; being honest, promising to change, trying not to fuck things up, and Claire was back in his life.
It’d been several months. It still felt surreal. He still felt like the luckiest fuck alive. He was still trying his hardest to be honest and decent and not to do anything that upset her, in any way. He felt like he was probably going to spend the rest of his life trying to make things up to her. He didn’t know what life he was on; he didn’t know how many he had left, so he was trying to make this one count. Every moment he was around her felt like some kind of blessing he was somehow allowed to have.
He was 39. And he’d been thinking.
“Claire,” he said into the darkness, and she stirred minutely and made a muffled little <em>mmph</em> noise. They’d turned out the light about 20 minutes ago; he supposed he was not surprised about her probably being less than enthusiastic about a conversation. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. “We should live together.”
She stirred some more, and her head popped up in the darkness. “What?” she asked, in groggy confusion.
“We should live together,” he repeated. “You should move in with me.”
Claire made a little noise. “In your shitbox apartment?” she asked in skeptical confusion.
“No. It’s a shitbox and I don’t know if even I wanted to ever live there,” Leon said. “In a house. I’ll buy a house.”
She made another noise that suggested she may have been somewhat baffled and unready for this conversation at this hour. Leon figured he sure knew when to let his thoughts out. “Leon—“ she began, lifting her head further. “--<em>where</em>? Here? There? I already own a house.”
“I know,” he said. “You could sell it. You could keep it and rent it out. I can’t be this far away. I have to be in the DC area. It’s required. I have to be able to be there if they need me.”
“I…don’t know that I want to live in DC,” Claire said. “I don’t even want to live <em>here</em>. I want to be in the woods somewhere.”
“There are rural areas outside DC,” Leon said. “I can drive. It’s fine. I don’t mind a commute. You’re working from home most of the time now anyway. See if TerraSave would let you go to Virginia, or Maryland.”
Claire was silent for a long moment in the darkness. “Did you hit your head tonight?” she finally asked, mystified. “Aloof, solitary Leon Scott Kennedy, government property, is telling me he wants to buy a house and move me in.”
“I’ve been less aloof and solitary in recent months,” he said. “I’m 39. You’re 37. We’re not getting any younger. Are we just going to fly back and forth forever?”
“Well, I mean…” Claire trailed off. “The flying is less than ideal. Are you sure you want to move a woman in with you? Maybe half my novelty is the brevity of time you spend with me.”
“I lived with a woman, in another life,” he said. “A million years ago. My first girlfriend, from ages 18 to 21, back in Detroit. Before Raccoon.” He shifted some, gazing at the ceiling. “The brevity is frustrating. It feels like we’re living two completely different lives. It feels like we’re too old for that. It was different, when we were in our twenties.”
Claire was again silent, contemplating this. “I can’t afford DC,” she said. “I can barely afford here. This mortgage is like a chloroformed rag over my face every month.”
“That’s not an issue,” Leon said. “I didn’t say you were buying a house. I said <em>I</em> was buying a house.”
“Leon—“ She moved around some, rolling over, and he heard her fumbling around next to the bed. A moment later the bedside lamp clicked on, and she looked at him squintingly, and he looked back at her relatively evenly. “I’m…not opposed. <em>If</em>,” she said, “<em>if</em> TerraSave lets me go. Long Island is one thing, packing up and moving to Virginia is another.” She looked at him, her face questioning. “I’m also not sure how I genuinely feel about you just <em>buying a house</em> and I just move in.”
“Forever I tried to pay this one off,” he said. “Forever I tried to pay off your vehicles and your student loans and everything else. You wouldn’t let me. I can buy a house.”
“I <em>know</em> you can,” she said. “I’m acutely aware of the disparity in our incomes. Part of me chafes at thinking of moving into a house I didn’t pay for and can’t afford.”
Leon knew in his heart of hearts this was going to be part of her answer. He knew she was just stubborn enough to refuse to have something handed to her. She’d always rejected his more grandiose offers of help; sure, she’d let him pay for dinner, but when it came to the big stuff, she was determined to do it her way, even if she was drowning. He was relatively determined for this to come to fruition. He wanted her to live with him. She was going to have to come around to the idea of him financing some shit. He was going to have to convince her.
“I love you,” he said plainly. “I want to live with you. I am tired of you living in New York.”
Her face softened some. “I love you, too. And believe me, I am tired of New York.” She let out a sigh. “Is DC really any better?”
“Outside DC,” Leon said. “I’ll drive two hours if I have to. I don’t give a shit. I’ll buy a fucking farm. You can be out there making moonshine and milking cows and baling hay or whatever you want to do outside a city.”
Claire let out a little laugh. “Careful. Don’t tell me you’ll buy a farm. You’ll be up to your ears in chickens and goats.”
“I don’t give a shit,” he reiterated. “I will <em>buy</em> you chickens and goats.”
“Driving two hours?” she asked skeptically, even if she was still smiling. “I was under the impression you hated your day to day enough, in DC. You really think tacking the commute from hell onto it is going to make you any more joyful?”
Leon did not know how to stress to her that he did not give a shit. He wanted her to live with him. He could endure things that made him a bitter asshole if she was happy. He was tired of being alone in his non-existence of a life in DC; as ever, things seemed brighter and more worthwhile when she was around. He’d been acutely aware of this, in the long absence of her in his life. Now that she was back, he was tired of fucking around. He was tired of long periods of misery interspersed with brief happiness in her presence. He was 39. He wanted to come home to her. He wanted her in his bed every night. The novelty was wearing off a long-distance relationship. He felt like he should legitimize things. He would endure most things if it meant her in his life with more frequency. A long commute was the least of his problems. He was a man owned by the government. He wanted to make his life into something halfway recognizable as a life.
“You really think me lurking around in my shitbox alone is making me any more joyful?” he asked her. “It’s not. I’m 39. I’ve been a maladjusted, solitary bachelor for too long. I <em>need</em> a woman to sign onto this detail, before I lose my mind. Before the government wins and I just turn into a well-conditioned robot.”
“I have a lot of shit,” Claire said.
“I like your shit,” Leon said.
“TerraSave may tell me no,” she went on.
“I sincerely hope they do not,” Leon said. “But if they do, that’s that, I guess. I’m not going to ask you to quit your job. I know you wouldn’t. I think you’d lose your mind as a stay-at-home anything. But you haven’t even asked. Remind them you’ll be close to DC. Remind them you can harass elected officials whenever they want.”
Claire groaned a little, but she was still smiling faintly. “I don’t know that I want to tell them that. I hate DC. I hate elected officials. I want to play with goats and chickens and milk cows.”
“You can’t do that on Long Island,” he said. “You can do that if you let me buy a house and you move in.”
“How…” she began, brow furrowed. “How would we even pull this <em>off</em>?” she asked. “Are you just gonna go buy a house?”
“No,” he said. “You have to look at the house too. Fuck, don’t leave it up to me. You saw what I picked as an apartment at 275,000 dollars a year.”
“You were 21,” Claire said in amusement. “You’d just been living in a shitbox with me and Sherry, and then Sherry. I think the shitbox was ingrained in you.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’m over the shitbox. You did a good job picking this place out. Find us something that doesn’t suck.”
“Wait,” Claire said, narrowing her eyes, “<em>me</em> find us something? I don’t know jack shit about the DC area. You’ve been living there for like 20 years. I’m not just going to throw a dart at a map. <em>You’re</em> the one that knows what’s within your range.”
“I generally favor Virginia over Maryland,” Leon said. “But if you want Maryland I’d go there.”
She laughed. “The fuck do I know about Maryland? I’ve never been there,” she said. “Is this the hair-brained shit you think up while I’m asleep, or falling asleep?”
“Yeah,” Leon replied. “I have most of my really deep thoughts at obscure times. You need to come to DC. We need to get a realtor. We need to find a house.”
“Okay, rocket skates,” Claire said in amusement, “I have to go to work tomorrow, and <em>ask</em> if I can move before we get a realtor and I come to DC and you start trying to turn me into a kept woman.”
“You’ll still be working,” Leon said. “You’re not kept.”
“How much do houses in Virginia cost?” Claire asked, tiredly amused.
“If I tell you you’re going to stay on Long Island forever,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. Look at it this way, it’d probably improve my mental health to be out of my shitbox apartment.”
Claire arched her eyebrow at him. “If so, you could have bought a house already. Why have you stayed in the shitbox so long?”
Leon shrugged. “Creature of habit. Too depressed to give a shit. Nobody to share said house with me.”
“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?” she asked.
“I would move in with you tomorrow,” he replied. “I’m not always in the field. I spend a surprising amount of time lurking around DC in a suit, being an asshole. I could come home to you and be less of an asshole.”
She chortled. “I sincerely hope for <em>no</em> asshole. I don’t want to live with an asshole.”
“I can turn it off and on,” he assured her. “I’m good at it at this point.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, her blue-grey eyes flicking back and forth over his face. “This is insane,” she said. “You are insane. And I am going to have to pack all of the shit in this house up and I’m going to show up with it all and you’re going to ask yourself what you have done.”
“I will not,” Leon said. “I love you. I love your shit. We are too old for this to keep going on this way. I’m surprised to hear this come out of my own mouth, but we should be adults.”
“I hate to break it to you but I don’t know that shacking up with you is going to make me any more adult,” Claire joked. “I have always been a piss poor excuse for an adult.”
“Probably me too,” Leon said. “At least not an adult anyone wants to grow up to be.” He ran his hand over the top of her head, and let it rest on the back of her neck, looking at her. “Talk to your job. See what they say. We’ll go from there.”
“Alright,” Claire said. “Can I turn the light back out or do you have any other life-altering ideas you’ve been stewing on you want to throw out there?”
“I think we should go to the Indian place tomorrow,” he replied. “For many years I have thought I probably need a different haircut but I’m too chickenshit to do it.”
“Okay, turning out the light,” Claire said in amusement, and she scooted over and reached for the lamp, clicking it off, plunging them back into darkness. She curled back against him, in the crook of his arm, and settled in.
Leon looked back up at the ceiling. That had been easier than he’d thought.
He was 39. He loved her. For a long time, he’d lost her. He still acutely felt that his life was relatively pointless and bare without her. He wanted to get this fucking show on the road.
My brain fired on all cylinders today, so I have fic. I woke up early to work on this, and fired off the rest after work. This is 18 pages in Word. Still can't post to AO3 so I'm gonna blast it here. No porn; I really WANTED to write smut but then I realized I enjoyed writing Leon and Claire just being normal and not tormented. Okay, well, Leon's a little tormented. Just the usual. Leon and Claire go to one of her coworker get togethers, music is played, Leon mourns the death of who he was, Claire smokes a joint, Leon has deep thoughts in a kitchen, Claire hates NYC, Leon admits to not buying junk food to maintain his physique, Claire reveals a secret she's been hiding. Then they go to bed. Nothing much happens in this piece, but I'm really happy with it. Tumblr's gonna eat my italics. That kind of annoys me.
“I got the smell of a local man
Who’s got the loneliest feeling
And either way you turn, I’ll be there
Open up your skull, I’ll be there
Climbing up the walls”
-Radiohead, “Climbing Up The Walls”
For as much as Claire professed to hate the city, she was at home in it. Leon had been to NYC on multiple occasions in his life, for work, for governmental conferences; he still didn’t know his way around worth half a shit. Claire guided them through Penn Station like she knew it like the back of her hand, was confident and had aim when they were spit out above ground, Madison Square Garden looming over them.
He followed her, letting her lead. He was not used to it.
On they walked, down to the subway; Claire didn’t need to look at maps, she knew which lines to take, which stops to get off on. Leon, being led, allowed himself to engage in what he was good at—observation. He watched the people walking past them on the platform, eavesdropped on one-sided phone conversations, watched the people on the subway engrossed in their phones, books, the newspaper.
“We’re almost there,” Claire said, standing on the platform next to him.
Leon watched a rat the size of a small cat scurry by. He indicated it. “Need a pet?” he asked.
Claire chuckled some. “I once watched a pack of rats fighting over what was left of a donut. It was a death match. They were determined.”
“New York, New York,” Leon said dryly.
One last subway ride; a group of young people was drunk, loud and boisterous in the center of the car. Leon watched them, and wondered what he was in for, tonight. He would have been more than content to sit around Claire’s house on Long Island, just the two of them, but he’d shown up and she’d informed him her coworkers were having a get together tonight, and she’d been invited, and they were going.
He hadn’t wanted to tell her no. He hadn’t wanted to tell her maybe she should reconsider dragging her large, silent, surly whatever he was to her to a get together of helpful, bright, free-wheeling NGO employees. Leon could be normal in public, he could be polite, he could be friendly; but the idea of being crammed into an apartment with a bunch of people who hadn’t lost their idealism, who still saw some good in the world set him on edge. He felt like he was going to be like a harbinger in the room, that everyone would look at him and wonder what the fuck was wrong with the guy Claire was letting stick his dick in her.
She hadn’t even seemed to give it a second thought, seemed happy and cheerful as they made their way through the city. Leon was reaching deep within himself for the friendly-guy-from-Michigan and blowing the dust off him; it was who he was, at his core, but sometimes he felt lightyears away from it, more of a scowling enigma in a suit that went bump in the night.
He really hoped no one asked him what he did for a living. All these years and he still hadn’t quite formulated how to put a positive spin on I kill for the government, among other things.
Claire was oblivious, blithe. They finished their last subway ride and trooped up above ground, Claire confidently leading them down the block. They walked for another fifteen minutes, and Claire turned abruptly, heading up the steps to an unassuming multistory brick building. Leon followed her, standing behind her as she rang the buzzer for apartment 5F. Maybe a million years ago names had been written next to the buzzers; the placards were faded and water-worn.
“Yellow,” came a casual voice through the speaker.
“It’s me,” Claire said. “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.”
A laugh issued through the speaker and the front door unlocked. Claire looked over her shoulder at him with a smile, and pulled open the door. The inside of the building was old, worn, slightly dingy; it felt very in line with what to expect out of an average NYC apartment building. They headed up the stairs. Leon thought moving into his apartment all those years ago had been a pain in his ass; he was only on the second floor. He considered being on the fifth, and all the stairs they were climbing, and the absolute fucking pain in the ass of getting a couch up and down all these narrow stairs.
They stopped in front of apartment 5F, and Claire knocked on the door. Leon steeled himself; time to act like he wasn’t a walking pile of doubts and misgivings with stubble. Time to be nice and normal, for Claire’s sake.
The door pulled open and a man older than Claire stood there, his face open and benign. He smiled under an impressive moustache. “Greetings,” he said, looking at her. “Salutations to you too, sir,” he added, looking back at Leon. Now that the door was open, the faint smell of pot smoke leaked out into the hallway.
“This is Calvin,” Claire said. “Calvin, this is Leon. This is Calvin’s place.”
“It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to,” Calvin said. “C’mon in.”
They crowded into the small entryway; the apartment appeared to be much as Leon expected a NYC apartment to be, a haphazardly laid out shoebox. Off to his right was a tiny kitchen, in front of him was a long, oddly angled hallway that spilled out into another room.
“Want a beer?” Calvin asked, as they shed their coats in the entryway. Some hooks were on the wall, already overflowing with coats. “Want a bong rip?”
“Let me situate myself before I start taking bong rips,” Claire said in amusement, trying to get her coat to stay on the wall atop a pile of other coats.
“I don’t smoke,” Leon said. “I would take a beer, though.”
Calvin appeared unperturbed. “Sure, pick your poison. Fridge is crammed with beer. Help yourself.”
Claire moved around Leon, her hands on his sides, and went into the tiny kitchen. She pulled open the fridge and grabbed two beers; Leon looked at the bottles in her hands. At least it was decent beer; by not being in her house, he was spared the watery experience of Busch Light. She handed him one, and went to twist her own open, frowning. Calvin was walking down the hallway. “Calvin, you got a bottle opener?” she called. Calvin turned to head back towards them.
Leon took her beer from her and brought it up to his mouth, fitting his canines on the cap. He bit down and popped the cap off, handing it back to Claire, who was looking at him with her eyebrows raised high.
“Did you just open that with your teeth?” Calvin asked.
“Yeah. A trick I’ve known since about sixteen,” Leon said calmly, then used his teeth to open his own beer, letting the cap fall into his hand.
“You’re gonna bust a tooth,” Claire said.
“Hasn’t happened yet,” Leon said. “I drank my milk, as a kid.”
“My teeth are half fillings at this point,” Calvin said. “If I tried that one of my teeth would just fall out.”
“Is that Claire in there?” a voice came from beyond the hallway.
“Yeah,” Claire called back. “In all my glory.”
“C’mon, everyone’s in here,” Calvin said, gesturing down the hallway. “So’s my bong.”
Leon followed Claire down the hallway, trying not to feel like a bad omen she’d dragged along with her.
…………………………………………………..
The apartment was not big enough for that many people. Leon was wedged in on a tired old couch, next to Claire, and from her other side to the other arm of the couch was full. One of her coworkers was in an old armchair, another one perched on the arm. Calvin sat on the floor near a set of shelving bursting with vinyls, another coworker was at the record player, putting something on.
Leon was trying to keep track of everyone’s names. He felt startlingly like he was a younger man, at a party back home in Michigan, before life went sideways. This felt somehow innocent, like a bunch of kids partying when someone’s parents weren’t home. Leon thought of his life in DC; how he hadn’t been to a gathering that didn’t require him to wear a suit or a tux in years. The needle caught on the vinyl; Leon recognized the sounds drifting out of the speakers at once. It was The Cure’s Disintegration. The album had been one of his sister’s favorites. He’d heard it a million times.
Leon had some kind of feeling in his chest he could not name.
“Ah, The Cure,” Calvin said appraisingly, looking up at Jemima, the coworker who’d put on the record. “Always a good choice.”
“I think I have heard this album about a thousand times in my life,” Leon said, moderately startling himself by speaking.
“Big Cure fan?” Calvin asked.
“No. My sister was.” Leon took a drink of his beer.
“Leon listens to music that caused the Satanic Panic,” Claire said from next to him on the couch. “Just a bunch of screaming.”
“I might have some stuff in here that interests you,” Calvin said, looking behind him at the vinyls. “I’ll listen to anything. Even screaming.”
“I just put this on,” Jemima said. “Don’t start vetoing my choice in favor of something else when we haven’t even heard the first song.”
“This is depressing, Jemima,” Andy, the man at the very end of the couch said. “And very 80s. I feel like I should be in a 80s movie montage right now.”
“It is not depressing,” Jemima snapped back. “What are you gonna put on?”
“Nas,” Andy said. “I’m just biding my time.”
Momentarily Leon found himself caught up in memories of standing in the doorway to his sister’s room, watching her pouring over schoolbooks while Robert Smith went on; memories of being in her shitty old car with her, ejecting a tape and sticking another one in. He hadn’t heard this album since probably 1995; he had not expected the sounds to make him so nostalgic, so empty, so something. He cleared his throat and took another drink of his beer, looking off at the wall, at the art on it as Andy and Jemima continued going back and forth about the merits or detractors of 90s East Coast rap.
“Roll a joint, Calvin,” Claire said from Leon’s side.
“Just take a bong rip,” he said.
“No,” Claire said. “I want to be high, not insensate on the floor.”
Calvin shrugged, and pushed himself up off the floor. “Wuss,” he countered, heading out of the small, packed living room. Leon looked over at Claire, and she looked back at him.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll still be able to get us back to Long Island. I know this place like the back of my hand.”
“Don’t let me rain on your parade,” Leon said evenly. He wondered if his face was betraying that sitting there on that couch, in his current situation, was causing him to experience some kind of life-long-dead existential crisis he could not put words to. He knew from the look Claire was giving him that his face was infallible, as usual; it was blank, masked, perfectly detached as always. He was unreadable, and drowning in something he knew Claire would have offered to help with, if she’d had any idea.
It was probably better she didn’t.
…………………………………………………..
Smoke hung thick in the living room. Leon hoped he didn’t get called in for a random piss test any time soon; he figured he was probably in the process of obtaining a contact high. He hadn’t fucked up, recently; the random piss tests seemed to be connected to fucking up out in the field, doing something stupid you shouldn’t have. It was like the government looked at your SNAFU in the field and said yeah, gotta be on drugs we didn’t supply, that’s it. Leon knew when he pissed in the cup, he popped positive for amphetamine—they all did; government go pills were a hallmark of being in the field. He wondered why the government looked at the legal speed in his system and brushed it off like it was nothing, but God forbid anything else show up in his piss. It was a one way street to being benched with pay for an extended period, government doctors and shrinks immediately trying to pry you open, figure out why you had a drug problem.
Claire skipped her turn in the rotation for the joint, waving her hand. “I’m good,” she said, leaning back in the couch. Calvin shrugged and stuck it between his lips, taking a puff.
At this point it had been so many years since Leon had smoked pot that he figured he would have just gone comatose and paranoid, and locked himself in the bathroom.
“Did you finish that report?” Claire said suddenly, looking over at Calvin, who scoffed some and laughed.
“What is this, you get high and wanna talk about work?” he asked, around the joint in his mouth. “Turn your brain off, already. It never stops.”
Claire made a noise, and folded her hands on her stomach. “Someone’s gotta do the job, around here,” she said.
“Not until Monday,” Jemima said.
“I thought I was married to my work,” Leon said, nudging her shoulder.
“That’s different,” Claire said, looking up at him.
“Yeah, man, what do you do?” Calvin said, taking the joint out of his mouth. “Claire said you work for the government. You FBI, ATF, what?”
Leon knew this was coming. He could not continue to be a relatively silent enigma drinking beer on the edge of the couch all night. Claire saw something worthwhile in him; her coworkers were going to be curious. He still hadn’t figured out how to answer. “Another alphabet soup agency,” Leon replied.
“Gotcha,” Calvin said. “What do you do?”
Leon paused. “Field work,” he said. “Whatever needs done.”
“You’re not going to get much out of him,” Claire said in dry amusement. “We civilians aren’t privy to it.”
“OPSEC,” Calvin said. “Identify critical information, analyze threats, analyze vulnerabilities…I’m sure you know the rest,” he said, looking at Leon.
“I do,” Leon replied.
“I was in the Army,” Calvin said. “Two trips to Afghanistan. OPSEC got boiled down to shut your fucking mouth and keep an eye out, because someone or something was always trying to blow you up.”
“That’s really all it is, OPSEC,” Leon said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Oh we were rife with that,” Calvin said.
“Loose lips sink ships,” Claire said. “I share a bed with him and I don’t even get to know.”
Leon traced Claire’s tone, hunting for a hint of frustration, of dissatisfaction. There in the back of his mind was always the fear one day she’d wake up and realize she was tired of sharing her bed with a mystery and kick his ass to the curb. He lived in absolute, perpetual fear of it. If she knew the tale of the tape, if he told her; she’d likely kick him to the curb anyway. Her morals were better than shady operations in sketchy places, bodies in his wake.
Across from them, Calvin laughed. “You’re like a walking OPSEC threat,” he said to Claire. “Constantly into shit, constantly finding things. Watch your stuff around her, man,” he said, turning to Leon. “She’ll walk off with it.”
Leon thought of how this had all started; how he came to be sitting on the couch next to Claire, how he came to share her bed. He thought of her, turning away from him, frustrated and disgusted that he was locking her out, that he was keeping secrets from her to keep her safe. He knew if he left absolutely anything sensitive at all around, she’d be into it in a heartbeat. It was just how she was. “I’m aware,” Leon said, forcing amusement into his tone.
“Hey, you get into stuff too,” Claire accused, looking at her coworker. “On multiple occasions you’ve been right behind me, jumping off the cliff with me.”
“You’re a bad influence,” Leon said knowingly. “You’re not happy unless you’re popping up in government intel once a month.”
“You’re the one who looks for me in the government intel,” Claire replied back, calmly.
Leon did not want to pursue this further. It felt like he was on the precipice of something; too much, too far, an elephant in the room he and Claire weren’t acknowledging while they shared a bed, past grievances they’d never really addressed before they jumped into this. Instead he put his beer to his mouth and tilted it back, draining it in a few open-throated swallows. “Need a beer?” he asked, looking down at her. “I do.”
“Oh…” Claire said, looking at her bottle. She held it up in front of her face, shaking it lightly. “Sure.”
Leon stood from the couch and made his way across the small, cramped living room and down the odd hallway to the kitchen. Once inside, he rubbed his hands over his face momentarily, then reached down to the fridge.
……………………………………………………
More people showed up. The apartment was now positively claustrophobic. Leon could not shake the feeling of hanging out in a packed kitchen during a keg party circa 1996. He was watching Claire, high and thoughtful, in front of the packed shelf of vinyls, evidently taking her decision as seriously as she could.
“Just pick something,” Lucy said from the corner, her husband next to her. Leon felt relief he should have been too secure to feel at no longer being the only non-TerraSave person there. Someone else had dragged their significant other, he wasn’t alone. “You’ve been looking for ten minutes.”
“Oh I have not,” Claire replied lazily, her fingers sorting over the albums in the shelf. “There’s so much to pick from.”
“I picked up something you might be interested in,” Calvin said. “Band called Cactus. Pretty stereotypical 70s rock. It’d be right up your alley.”
Leon watched her considering vinyls like she was making a decision to purchase a car. “She’s looking for country,” he said. “Just to spite me.”
“I am not,” Claire said, sticking her finger into the shelf of vinyls and pulling something out.
“What’s this? Something made sooner than 40 years ago?” Calvin asked, in shock.
Claire gave him an exasperated look and held the album in her hands; Radiohead’s OK Computer. Leon remembered when the album came out; remembered what he’d been doing when he heard it varying places, on the radio, in friend’s cars. It seemed there was no end to the amount of things that were going to make him oddly nostalgic tonight, make him feel like he was currently in the middle of his second life and his first one had died long ago.
“I’m late to the Radiohead party,” Claire said. “I like them.”
“Pretty late,” Leon said, watching her lift the lid on the record player. “That album came out in 1997.”
“Yeah, well,” Claire said, “there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to get exposed to anything but Skynard and Alan Jackson back home.” She dropped the vinyl on the turntable and set the needle. She turned to look at Leon, leaned up in a corner with his beer. “How do you remember, anyway? You don’t listen to this stuff.”
His mind was like a steel trap for the past; it was like the further he moved away from his old life, the sharper acuity he had in recalling it. “I remember this album,” he said to her, and she came over and stood next to him, winding her arm around him. “It was a big deal when it came out. You are very late to the Radiohead party.”
“Better late than never,” Claire said. “I’ll join the modern era one of these days, just you wait.”
“Your impressive Queen b-sides and bootleg collection begs to differ,” Leon said, looking down at her in amusement.
“That’s a staple of any music collection,” she defended. “Everyone needs Freddie Mercury in their lives.”
……………………………………………………..
In the living room, arguments about what kind of game to play were going on. He could hear Claire loudly defending her choice of team Risk.
He’d come into the kitchen for a beer about five minutes ago, and then he hadn’t left. It was quieter in here; there was nothing to make him experience odd feelings of awkwardness, nostalgia, feelings of wondering what the fuck someone like him was doing in Claire’s life. He leaned against the counter, eyes unfocusedly on the fridge in front of him. He blinked, his eyes refocused. His eyes settled on a photo of their host, rifle in his hands, desert fatigues on, standing next to other men in desert fatigues at what looked like a camp. Afghanistan, then. More honest and upright government service than Leon himself managed.
He rubbed at his jaw. It’s a fucking Friday night get together, Kennedy, and you’re hiding like a maladjusted loner spiraling out. He let his eyes unfocus again. He needed to pull his shit together.
“What are you doing in here?” Claire said suddenly from the entrance to the shoebox kitchen. Leon snapped his head over to look at her. The music selection had turned to something Leon couldn’t define as disco or funk; it was old, it had a bassline, it sounded circa 1978. Claire was standing there, her hips idly bopping back and forth, halfway dancing.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I was getting a beer.”
“Yeah, like ten minutes ago,” she said, coming into the kitchen, her hips still swaying back and forth as she approached him. She stood in front of him, her hands on his sides, hips still going. “Why are you hiding in the kitchen?” she asked knowingly, looking up at him.
“I’m not hiding,” he said. She arched her eyebrow at him. He let his hands drift to her moving hips. “It’s crowded out there,” he amended. “I needed a minute.”
“Okay, fair,” she said, lowering her eyebrow. “You okay? I’m sure this seems like a bunch of juvenile jerking off to you.”
“It’s more approachable than the shit I get invited to,” Leon said, “which involves valets and heads of state.”
“Not a bong or a record player in sight,” Claire said, dryly. “Lame.”
Leon didn’t know how to explain he didn’t feel in place at either gathering. “The government parties are decidedly more uptight,” Leon said. “I’m surprised our host hasn’t crawled under the coffee table to pass out. He’s smoked more pot than I think I’ve ever seen anyone smoke.”
Claire smiled some. “That’s Calvin, for you. Permanently high. He says it makes life tolerable.”
Leon thought of Claire’s occasional moroseness upon returning from trips overseas; sometimes TerraSave didn’t accomplish much, their relief efforts futile in the face of such indomitable suffering worldwide, rendering Claire caustic, sour, bottled up with emotion. She ached because she couldn’t bring more humanity to lived experiences worldwide; Leon ached because he lost humanity every time he went out. What made life tolerable, for her? He knew what did it for him; his hands were currently resting on her moving hips. “Is that what does it, makes life tolerable?” Leon asked, again forcedly amused. “Maybe that’s why the government doesn’t want us doing it. They want us permanently pissed off and ready to fight.”
“Driving in the city will do that,” Claire said. “Driving on Long Island will do that. They should let you come up here more often. Really stoke some rage in you.” She smiled some, ran her hands up to his chest from his sides. “Get your beer and quit hiding. You’re not nearly as broody as you think you are.”
“I’m not hiding,” Leon defended, even if he kind of was. Claire offered him another knowing little look at then turned from him, half-heartedly dancing out of the kitchen to the beat of the music from the living room. He looked out in front of him, sighed a little, and then reached down to pull open the fridge.
…………………………………………………………..
“It’s your turn,” Claire’s coworker Lucy was saying, looking at him with a smile. Leon looked back at her.
“For what?” he asked.
“To pick music,” she said. “Hurry up before someone steals your turn.”
Leon got up and off the arm of the armchair where Claire was sitting, animatedly in some kind of political discussion with Lucy’s husband. Leon tried to stay out of it. He’d definitely been raised to have beliefs of both a religious and political nature; these days, all that mattered was his service, it didn’t matter who was in power or what political party they were. His job was the same; legislation was argued and passed, parties in power came and went, scandals bubbled up and simmered down. Leon tried hard to hold no opinions about any of it. Claire was cursing up a storm, shit-talking elected officials Leon had possessed occasion to walk down a hallway past.
He headed for the shelving unit packed with vinyls, looking down at it. He began to thumb through the selections. The music selection was wide and varied; some of it Leon knew, some of it he’d never heard of.
“Want some metal recommendations?” Calvin said, watching him. “There’s some in there. I know where to find it.”
“Nah,” Leon said. “I’ll look. I don’t need to subject everyone to my angry shit.” He sorted through the vinyls, listening to the din of conversation, listening to the F word come out of Claire in inspired and impassioned ways. He pulled a vinyl out of the shelf, looking at it. He had not listened to this band since he was about 13 or 14. He was amazed to find it in the selection. JFA—Jodie Foster’s Army, an old punk band. The levels of nostalgia hit an all-time high. Leon’s chest felt tight.
“JFA?” Calvin asked, looking at the record in his hands. “Good choice.”
“I kind of forgot about these guys,” Leon said, turning the album over in his hands. “I haven’t listened to them since I was a teenager.”
“A classic,” Calvin said.
Leon looked up and over, and found Claire’s coworker looking at him for a moment with an expression Leon figured was unreadable as his, but his eyes seemed somehow recognizing, acknowledging, onto Leon in ways he figured he should not be on to. Claire had commented on the way there, on the subway, that Calvin was like their wise older brother, and they were all like his little siblings—he was only ten years older, but he was somehow their voice of reason. Leon did not like the look he was on the receiving end of. The look in Calvin’s eyes seemed to say yeah, I know you. I see you. Leon imagined the man next to him was no stranger to battlefield PTSD, to the odd things years of government service did to people, to what pointing a gun at people did to a person. Leon could hear Claire going on in the background and for one brief second he wished she would interrupt, wished she would notice, wished she’d break into Leon being figured out with something lighthearted and casual.
“Excuse me,” Leon said neutrally, moving around Calvin for the turntable.
“No problem,” Calvin replied casually.
……………………………………………………………
It was late; they were on their way back to Long Island, Claire holding onto his arm on a subway platform. He’d done it, he’d managed not to make it weird for her; he’d resisted the urge to sigh out loud in relief the moment they were walking out of Calvin’s door, people crowding around to say goodbye. Leon found he felt drained. The evening had him on a curious kind of high alert, constantly worried about how he was posturing himself. He was able to be more relaxed when it was just Claire, but even then, the posturing didn’t go away entirely. He couldn’t let the mask slip entirely. He didn’t think Claire would like what was behind it. He didn’t think she’d let him come back if she saw behind the mask.
With no sense of direction, Leon allowed Claire to lead him back through the city, her arms wrapped around his. The city hadn’t slowed down any; the residential block where the apartment was had been dark, hushed, but the closer they got to Penn Station, the more things came to life. Leon again observed people around them, led on by Claire.
She bought a can of beer at Penn Station. “You can drink on the train,” she said, looking at him cheerfully. “Want a beer?”
“Nah,” Leon said. “Someone has to be able to drive us back from the train station. I’m not sure it’s you.”
“Yeah, probably,” Claire said.
They waited for their train, surrounded by other Long Islanders who’d made the trek into the city to party. Leon felt like everyone was under the influence of something; people were either loud and boisterous or looked like they’d had too much, weaving on their feet. Claire clung to his arm, her tall boy in her other hand. Finally they boarded and took two seats. Leon felt worn ragged and thin in the florescent lighting of the train. Claire cracked her beer, took a sip, and leaned against his arm.
“I hate New York,” she said, with a sigh.
“You do it well,” he said, linking his hands together in his lap, legs spread. “You’re a natural. Got the subways memorized.”
“One day,” she said, wistfully. “One day I’ll be rid of this place.”
“West Virginia?” he asked, turning his head into her hair. “The holler?”
“Would you still come visit me if I disappeared into the woods?” she asked.
“I could probably be persuaded,” he said. “You’d have to get cable. How would I watch Red Wings games?”
“I don’t know if my remote shack could get cable,” she said. “We’re talking chopping wood for warmth, dead deer strung up in trees, moonshine makin’ shack.”
Leon smiled into her hair. “I’m handy with an axe. I suppose someone has to cut firewood for you.”
Claire took another swig of her beer. “Great. Sounds like a plan. I’ll hide you from the government when they come looking for you. Ruby Ridge part two. Let the Feds try to come onto my land.”
Leon laughed some. “I’ve got grievances, too. I’d be right there shooting back with you.”
“Uh oh,” Claire said, as the train began to move. “I sense subversive thoughts. My dreams of a militia are almost complete. The government doesn’t own you entirely.”
“Much to their great frustration,” Leon said, lifting his head and looking out the window of the train as it started to move.
…………………………………………………………….
The train ride felt like it took longer than usual that night; Leon figured part of it was wanting to be back in the familiar cocoon of Claire’s cluttered little bungalow-style house. Each stop to theirs, Ronkokoma, seemed to take forever. The train grew more and more sparsely populated, excitable people bounding off or tired people slouching away. Claire drank her beer and leaned against him. She wasn’t much for conversation; Leon figured at that point in the evening, between beers and marijuana, she probably had a decent mind-blanking buzz going.
Not for the first time, he envied her.
Finally the LIRR reached their stop and they got off, Claire crushing her empty can in her hand and tossing it into a trash can as they walked towards the parking lot and her SUV. Leon reached his hand out. “Keys,” he said, making grabbing motions at her. She dug them out of the pocket of her coat and dropped them into his waiting hand. The parking lot was largely empty at this hour; he was back in familiar territory at this point, knew the streets to take to get them back to her house. They got into her vehicle, Leon pushing the driver’s seat all the way back. He started the vehicle, the digital instrument cluster flaring to life in front of him. Compared to the analog dash of the Jeep and its dim lighting, it felt like an assault on his senses.
“Jesus,” he said. “The instrument cluster is blinding.”
“I have it turned all the way up,” Claire said, smiling at him. “For my eyes, and driving at night.”
He looked at her; she wasn’t wearing her glasses.
“You would have had to drive home anyway,” she said, “even if I wasn’t high and several beers deep. My night vision isn’t what it was and I’m not wearing my glasses.”
He thought of her at 19, taking the heads off virally infected humans with a single shot down long, impossibly dark corridors. The fact that she now needed glasses at night and in front of screens softened her, somehow.
Leon shifted into drive and pulled towards the exit of the parking lot.
…………………………………………………………
They were home; Leon watched Claire walk towards the living room, flipping the light on. It was pushing 1 AM; she shed her coat, hung her keys up by the door, and ambled for her small kitchen.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, shrugging out of his own coat.
“Getting a snack,” she said. “Getting a beer.”
“Watch yourself,” Leon said in amusement. “You’re going to wake up regretting that one last beer.”
“Eh, I’m fine,” Claire said from the kitchen.
He felt at ease in a way he had not since they had left earlier that evening to drive to the train station. It was just him and her, which was all he had wanted with his 48 hours of off time anyway; the gathering had been sprung on him and he would have been an absolute asshole to refuse to go. He sensed Claire would have gone without him, but she would have sulked. He walked over to her couch and dropped onto it, reaching down to unlace his boots. Her glasses looked up at him from the coffee table, and a corner of his mouth pulled up.
Claire emerged from the kitchen, Busch in one hand, bag of potato chips in the other. She sat down on the couch next to him as he shed his shoes. “You want a beer?” she asked.
“Nah,” Leon said. “At this point I think it’d just make me tired. The time to catch a buzz has come and gone.”
Claire took a drink of her can of beer then set it down on the coffee table, reaching into the bag of chips. She stuck some in her mouth, chewing crunchily.
“I will eat some chips, though,” he said, leaning his head back on the couch, turning it to look at her. She handed him the bag and he took it, putting some in his mouth. “I don’t let myself keep this kind of stuff around the apartment.”
Claire chortled some. “You sound like a housewife on a diet.”
“I’ll just eat it all,” he said. “I was notorious for eating a whole bag of chips in one sitting, back in the day. That’s got to be like twenty thousand calories. I can’t afford it. I mean I guess I could, if I was willing to murder myself even more in the gym. Doesn’t seem worth it.”
“I keep waiting for my horrible eating habits to catch up with me,” Claire said. “Y’know, get fat. It hasn’t happened yet. Daddy ate like shit and he was always thin as a rail. I think it’s genetics. One of these days it’s bound to happen, though. I’ll get a beer gut.”
Leon put some more chips in his mouth. “You could stand to gain some weight.”
Claire looked at him, scandalized. “What, you want me to get a beer gut?”
“No,” Leon said, chewing. “You’ve just always been…thin. You look like you’d blow away in a sudden wind. You look fragile.”
“I’m not,” Claire said matter-of-factly, taking the bag of chips from him.
“I know you’re not,” Leon said, soothingly. “But you could stand to have a few places on you where you could pinch an inch.”
“You manage to find plenty to pinch,” she said in an amused, knowing tone.
“I’m resourceful,” Leon replied, watching her eat chips.
“You were freaked out tonight,” she went on, still knowing, still amused.
Caught. “I was not,” Leon said.
“You were uncomfortable,” she said. “I could tell. My coworkers are nice people, for the most part. Or at least everyone Calvin invited over was. I think they were curious about you.”
“I’m not very exciting,” Leon said.
“You didn’t open your mouth too much to let people find out,” Claire said, looking over at him.
“I’ve always been shy,” Leon said. Claire chortled some, hand in the bag of chips.
“Of the many ways I would describe you, shy is not one of them,” she said.
Leon sighed some, leaning back into the couch, folding his hands on his stomach. “I am. Fundamentally, at my core, I am. I’d rather sit and observe. Tonight just continues the long line of parties I’ve been to in my life where I stood around and didn’t say much.”
Claire leaned forward and took a drink of her beer. “I think you like being unknowable,” she said.
Leon frowned some. “I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t know how else to be.” He let out a sigh. “I try to be knowable to you. I wasn’t aware I also had to flex the skill on a room full of people I don’t know.”
Claire set the bag of chips down and turned towards him, legs up on the couch, elbow resting on the back of it. “Don’t be upset,” she said mildly. “I think you did fine. I also think you would have rathered we didn’t go.”
Leon looked over at her. Caught. “I come to Long Island to see you,” he said. “I’m not usually prepared for any other social engagements. But I knew you wanted to go.”
“Yes and no,” Claire said. “I hate dragging myself back into the city. Usually once I’m in, I’m in, even though I don’t really like it here either.”
“I like your house,” Leon said. “It feels like someone actually lives here.”
“It was what I could tolerate,” Claire said. “It was what I could afford, just barely, with Chris’s help,” she added, with a laugh. “Sometimes it feels like a ball and chain on my ankle. Forever slaving away to my mortgage.”
Leon looked at her. “I’ve told you I would help with that.”
She looked at him, amused and patient. “I know you have. You keep trying to turn me into a kept woman, and I’m not going to let you. I’m having the average American experience,” she said. “In debt up to my eyeballs and overextended.”
He could pay her house off. He could wipe out her student debt. The government paid him well for his services and lack of questions regarding orders, and like a monk, like an ascetic, Leon just watched it hit his bank account every month and kept on in his same shitty sparse apartment, his only real expense his traveling to see her, flying her to see him. The last minute tickets were beyond her reach, but easily within his. He sat on his pile of money procured by dubious means, unsure of what to do with it. He bought presents that were too expensive for his family back home for Christmas and birthdays, knowing it was a poor substitute for him. Claire dodged his attempts to ease her burden. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said.
“Yeah it does,” she replied. “It’s my life. My own. I got myself into this mess, I’ll get myself out of it.” She leaned further into her elbow on the back of the couch, bringing her hand up to her face. “You buy the plane tickets. That’s enough.”
He looked at her looking back at him, her face gentle yet firm; she wasn’t going to agree to his attempts to take care of her, no matter how he offered. The words were right there like a hot coal on his tongue; he longed to open his mouth and spit them out, stop the burning, but he couldn’t. He could pay her mortgage. He could pay her student debt. He could fix her car and her garbage disposal and shovel her driveway and go to get togethers with her when he really didn’t want to, but he could not let spill the three words that always seemed to bite at him in moments like this. He tried to make it obvious, but in all honesty, there was very little about him that was obvious anymore. He tried to show her all while he tried to keep some kind of upper hand, perpetually scared shitless that she would hurt him in a way so deep he’d never recover. Leon didn’t know what there was, anymore, without Claire. Long hours of solitude, of feeling inhuman, of drinking to forget.
“You having really deep thoughts?” she asked, looking back at him evenly.
“Barely,” he replied. “Not much goes on up there.”
“More than I think you let on,” she challenged, gently.
“Man,” he said evenly, gazing into her face. “I’ve really got you fooled, then.” In more ways than one. He always felt like he was lying to her, and he was, in way; lying to keep himself safe from her.
For a split second she looked tired, but then she rearranged her face and leaned forward and kissed him, her mouth gentle against his, tongue so teasing it was barely there. She leaned back and continued to look at him. “Well,” she said, with a breath, “is it all you dreamed of, and more?”
“Yes,” he said. “Always. I’m going to sleep well tonight with the afterimage of your instrument cluster burned into the back of my eyelids.”
A corner of her full lips pulled up at him, and she let out a solitary, short chuckle. “Thanks for going with me tonight,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to say no,” he said. “This is your place. You call the shots. I’m on your time.”
She gazed at him for a long moment and then leaned forward, grabbing her beer, gulping from it. “My time says we need to go to bed,” she said, taking another gulp. “I’m not 21 anymore and you’re going to be awake at the crack, anyway.” She tilted the can up, polishing off the last of the beer, then set it back down on the coffee table. “C’mon. You look worn out, anyway.”
He was, but not in a way he could express to her. It felt too alien, too other. “Yes ma’am,” he said, sitting forward and watching her push herself up off the couch.
“You choose the oddest times to follow orders and not give them,” Claire said absently, looking at him.
“Sometimes I too need to shut the fuck up and let someone tell me what to do,” he said, looking up at her.
Claire laughed a little. “I guess,” she said, sounding amused. He stood from the couch and reached out, smoothing his hand over the top of her head, then headed for her bathroom. She headed for the kitchen, for her predictable nightly bedside glass of water. Sometimes they collected at the bedside; Claire insisted the water tasted stale the next day.
She found him a few moments later, brushing his teeth; she crowded into the small bathroom with him and grabbed her own toothbrush. Moments like this lulled Leon into a sense of ease he found he couldn’t let himself give into with everything he was; there was nothing so domestic as standing next to a woman, both of you brushing your teeth, occupying the same space. It felt comforting, but somehow dangerous. It felt like a level of domesticity he didn’t deserve.
He finished before her and headed for the bedroom and her as per usual unmade bed. He turned on the lamp next to the bed and pulled off his shirt, chucking it over onto the floor on the side of the bed he was always on. That too felt dangerous; he had a side of the bed. They’d never once traded positions. Leon pulled at his belt, eyes staring out at the wall, mind spinning with thoughts that vacillated between being grateful for this situation and constantly worried it was going to end at any moment. He stepped out of his jeans and likewise tossed them over the bed to the other side, and then laid down, moving over to his side. Claire entered a moment later, picking up her water to take a drink. She wriggled out of her bra under her shirt and tossed it away, then unfastened her jeans and shimmied out of them, climbing into bed in the t-shirt she’d been wearing and a pair of boy-short panties that showed just enough of her ass to make you want to see more of it.
Leon felt like he’d run a marathon. He didn’t feel up to his usual demanding self, didn’t feel like grabbing onto her and issuing orders; sometimes when he came to visit, sex was not always the first thing on their minds. It hadn’t been that way in the beginning, but now this far along, sometimes they just slept. She curled up along his side, in the crook of his arm, slinging one of her legs over his. His hand came to rest on her hip.
“Will I ever convince you to go to a social event again?” she asked.
“Sure,” Leon said. “As long as you’re willing to let me handle it my way, I’ll go to all of them you want.” He looked down at her. “We gotta get you down to one of mine. They’re considerably lamer. No Radiohead, no opening beers with teeth.”
“I don’t own clothing nice enough to go to any of yours,” she said. “I don’t have enough class. I’d have to bust out the accent for that.”
“Accent?” Leon asked, still looking down at her.
“Yeah,” she said. “The Alabama accent. The one I mostly trained myself out of by age 13 or so because I hated that I sounded like such a hick.” She looked up at him, smiling faintly. “I was so desperately aware that I didn’t sound like people in movies, or newscasters. I hated it. Every ain’t that came out of my mouth wounded me.”
Leon blinked at her. He’d always wondered where her accent was, for all of her talk of growing up in the sticks. “Are you still hiding it?” he asked.
“I don’t know any other way to be,” she said. “Now talking in the accent feels like it takes effort. I still hate it.”
Leon felt minutely stunned by this news. He had never considered she had a mask too; she seemed so open and unashamed to be everything she was.
“You had an accent, when I met you,” she said, laying her head back down. “An Upper Great Lakes region accent. It went away too.”
“It faded,” Leon said, looking out at the wall, his hand smoothing over her hip. “Say something.”
She lifted her head and looked at him, once again smiling faintly. He looked back at her, prompting. “You don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground,” she said, and it was more like a lazy drawl. “You don’t know shit from shinola.”
“Both accurate statements,” he said back to her, looking into her face. “Huh. I learned something tonight.”
“Nothing would get done in meeting rooms with the UN with that accent,” she said, and once again she sounded neutral, accentless, like she’d come from Nebraska or somewhere.
“It takes people years to be able to learn to do something like that,” Leon said, blunted wonder in his voice. “Agents fall over themselves to hide speech patterns, to pick up accents, to learn other languages. How’d you do it?”
“Watching movies,” she said, like it was nothing at all.
“You don’t have to hide it, around me,” Leon said, once again looking at the wall. “I don’t care. You can sound as Alabaman as you want.”
“I don’t want to,” she said. “I hide it for me.”
Leon pondered this for a moment; he hid things from her for him too. It was the only way he felt he could keep himself whole, and intact. It seemed a lot bigger than hiding an accent. It seemed unfair. In this moment, however, he realized the woman next to him was somewhat unknowable herself. He turned his head and kissed her forehead, somehow feeling like he’d just been taught something, but he didn’t know what. Claire made a little noise and then sat up some, reaching for blankets, drawing them up. Leon often felt like he was going to spontaneously combust under the blankets, but he endured it because she liked them. She looked down at him.
“I’m gonna turn out the light,” she said.
“No time like the present,” he replied, and she turned to turn off the lamp, taking a last drink of her water. She laid back down next to him, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest.
FROM THE ARCHIVES FIC DUMP TIME (since my brain is too blank to manage any current writing today)
So years ago I was in some LJ communities (and some of you on here were in them with me so you may even remember this fic!!). We were all atwitter when Degeneration came out. It prompted me to write like fucking crazy and momentarily invent a headcanon arc where Leon and Claire courted each other after Degeneration and ended up together. This fic was born of that. Assume Leon and Claire have been in frequent contact via phone and text after Degeneration. There's a second part to this where they actually meet up. That was posted in the LJ community too.
Anyway, enjoy PHONE SEX. Also now no longer canon-compliant note: for YEARS Capcom gave Leon reddish tinted hair, until RE4 came out and then all of a sudden he was blonde. Nowadays Capcom is fairly committed to the blonde bit for all iterations of Leon, but for years headcanon wise both Leon AND Claire were redheads. The only reason I bring this up is because it's brought up in the fic. (You cannot look at original RE2 Leon in all his pixelated glory and tell me that hair's not kind of ginger. I guess Capcom decided having him be a ginger kid wasn't cool and made him blonde instead. Boo.) Let's see, other headcanon notes...Claire has a tattoo on top of her foot. Leon's tall, Claire's short. I'm just being nitpicky now, I mean, there's phone sex after the cut.
ANYWAY LIKE I SAID ENJOY PHONE SEX. let me know if you want me to post the second part. For some mutuals this may be nostalgia, for some of you, you may wonder exactly how many years I have been writing about these dorks. The answer is FOREVER, MAN.
“I bet you knocked ‘em dead.”
“I bet not! God, I get so nervous whenever I’m with all of those codgy old UN guys. Half of my proposal was probably stuttering and laughing. I laugh like an idiot when I get nervous. You know that—you’ve seen it in action.”
“You’re just worrying. I know you did fine. You always do fine.”
Claire stopped and sighed, smiling, closing her eyes. “Thanks, Leon. You’re like the personal cheerleader I never had.”
“I do what I can,” he said, the smile heard in his voice through the phone’s earpiece. “I can’t do much else while I’m a couple thousand miles away.”
“Anything you do is always much appreciated,” she said, resuming movement and heaping her dirty clothes on the foot of her expansive, unmade hotel bed. She turned and walked back across the room to the sliding glass window that led to the balcony overlooking the river. “Germany’s a nice country, dude. You ever been here?”
“Only about a million times,” Leon said with a laugh, from his hotel room in Australia. This week he was part of a traveling security detail for the President and the Secretary of State. It was light fare compared to his usual business, but Claire knew for as much as he joked about being bored, he probably welcomed the monotony and the slower pace. “I always seem to get stuck in Berlin.”
“Frankfurt’s nice,” she said, opening the sliding glass door and going out onto the balcony. She gazed out at the buildings of the financial district, the impressive glowing glass and iron structures that gleamed in the sundown. “Really nice. I feel kind of bad—I haven’t had any time to really check anything out aside from my hotel.”
“Like I ever do?” he asked, with a chortle. “I don’t even usually have a hotel.”
“I’m not a government agent,” she replied with a smirk, tilting her head. “I’m an NGO employee. I get a little time, usually, to check out my surroundings. Buy souvenirs. That kind of cheesy crap.”
“Well, good for you, sweetheart,” he said. “And thank God for your not being a government agent.”
Claire laughed, flushing a little not only at his usual effusive fondness but at his new habit of calling her sweetheart. For weeks they’d been in contact through e-mail and phone, their cheerful flirtation growing into something that almost felt…<em>real</em>. Claire felt remiss if she couldn’t call him regularly, at this point; felt like she owed him an update on where she’d been and what she’d been up to, wanted to know the same about him. Plus, to hear him talk, a girl could think she was the smartest, prettiest, best girl in the whole world—it made Claire feel good, really, because she was often on her own, out on assignment, saddled with people she often felt inferior to.
“Oh, what?” she asked, petulantly. “You don’t think I’d make a good agent? I think I’d be the shit. I mean, I’d need more physical training, but I’m already pretty good at half the shit the job requires.”
She could hear him sigh through the phone, knew it was already the next morning in Australia. It was ridiculously early, but he was existing in Thursday while she was still in Wednesday. It made her feel strange, and even further away from him than she usually did. “I don’t doubt you’d be good at it. But it’s no life for you. It is no fun, Claire.”
“Is that why you’re always such a joy?”
“I’m always pretty pleasant with you.”
“Because you try really, really hard to be. I can tell.” She smiled, picked at one of her nails while she cradled her phone against her shoulder. “Not that you’re insincere or anything. I just know you’re not like this about 95 percent of the time.”
He chuckled a little. “If you met half the guys I worked with, you wouldn’t wonder at my bad mood.” She could hear his grin rather than see it, thousands of miles away. “And you’d understand why I’m so nice to you. You’re a very nice girl. Someone ought to be nice to you.”
She resisted the urge to giggle a little, smiling bashfully down into nothing. “Y’know, you’re a sweet-talker. I haven’t figured out if it’s because I’m such a novelty—being a girl and not some nasty old military bastard you work with—or if it’s because you actually like me that much. I’m really not so much of a treat in day to day life. I’m pretty weird.”
His tone was jaunty when he spoke again. “If you haven’t figured that one out yet, then I’m really not doing a very good job.”
Groaning, Claire pushed herself up off the railing and walked back inside, stretching some. “I need to start considering dinner options here, soon. I’m starving. It’s probably time for breakfast for you, huh?”
“Not quite,” Leon sighed. “Still just a hair early for that.” He laughed. “I ought to be sleeping.”
Claire furrowed her brow. “Isn’t it like six am, there? Or did I not figure right?”
“It’s about three thirty am,” he chuckled. “So yes, a little early for breakfast.”
“Leon.” Her voice was chiding, even if her mouth twisted into a tiny smile. “You ought to be asleep, dumbass. You’ll feel like hell in the morning. At the very least you should’ve waited until about six am to call me.”
“I was worried you’d be asleep,” he said. “Or out and about, or otherwise detained. Y’know. Cavorting around with some cute German guy.”
Letting herself drop into the armchair near the modern, neat table provided in her room, she brought her bare feet up onto the chair, her skirt sliding down her legs. “I don’t speak German, Leon. There’s no cavorting going on here. Not to mention most Germans smell funny.”
“Not for lack of foreigners trying, I’m sure. I speak German. They’re typical Europeans—they like to talk about pretty girls they see, especially when they know they don’t speak the language.”
Claire leaned her head back against the chair, looking out at the room. “I think you think my life is much more exciting than it really is. It’s not. I mean, it’s exciting with the work stuff, y’know, but in a <em>normal</em> way? It’s not. Have you seen that movie <em>Lost In Translation</em>?”
“I have, actually,” he replied.
“My life is mostly like that. A lot of being in strange places, alone, in hotel rooms or base camps or...wherever. Pretty boring. Pretty lonely.”
There was a prolonged silence, and Claire could glean nothing from it. “It makes me sad to hear that. Like I said—you’re a nice girl.”
“And you’re a nice guy,” Claire pointed out. “Deep inside, anyway, you are. Even if you’re forced not to be most of the time. Where has being nice gotten us in our lives?”
He laughed outright at this, cutting into her melancholy mood. “It got me a whole lot of nowhere fast—it’s why I decided to stop being nice.”
“But you’re nice to me!” Claire shrugged, grinning. “You must think it’s going to get you somewhere!”
“Like I said, someone ought to be nice to you. You deserve it.” His voice was amused, warm. “I never said I thought it would get me anywhere.”
Claire laughed a little, picking at the hem of her skirt. She missed Leon’s easy smile, his constant compliments, the sense of camaraderie she felt whenever she was near him. A million miles away, alone in a hotel room in Frankfurt, it was easy to feel as if she’d only ever imagined it all. “Nice guys are supposed to finish last. Right. So tell me something not nice.”
Leon chuckled. “Not nice? Like unpleasant? I’m sore pressed to find anything unpleasant to say to you.”
Stretching her legs out in front of her, regarding her toes, and the tattoo on her foot, Claire scrunched her face up in thought. She realized her request sounded very bizarre. “I mean…something real. Something that may not be nice. You always try really hard never to tell me anything about your day, your life, you know…” She let out a sigh. “You’re not nice all the time.”
“You’re right, I’m not.” He was silent for a moment. “I don’t want to discuss unpleasant shit with you. We’ve both got enough of that in our real lives. Talking to you is a break from all of that. There’s still one good person left in this world—I’m talking to her.”
Rolling her eyes, Claire nevertheless flushed pink. “The way you talk about me, you’d think I was some perfect little princess. I’m human too, Leon. You of all people should know that. I know you’re human too—and no bullshit about how you’re not good. I know maybe you don’t feel so good about things you’ve done in your career, but you’re still good. You’re a good person. Good people sometimes aren’t nice all the time. It doesn’t make them any less good.”
“You’re pretty good.”
“God, you’re—you’re like a dog with a bone. You’re so stubborn.” She got up from the chair and walked over to the bed, flopping on it. “You’ve talked to me in the morning—I’m not a morning person, at all. I’m pretty not nice in the morning.”
“You’re a little cranky. I’ll give you that. But you’re still much nicer than most people I have to deal with on a daily basis.”
Claire rolled over onto her back, looking up at the pristine white ceiling. “Leon. Tell me something not nice. I don’t know—tell me about something that annoyed you today.”
He took in a deep breath, digitized via phone. “Claire. You really don’t want to hear about my day. A lot of standing around, a lot of bullshitting, a lot of doing nothing. I hate the guys I get stuck with on these things—they’re all pricks, and they do a lot of standing around talking about how amazing they are.”
“There. That was something. You sounded not nice for almost a second.” She laughed a little, threading her hand through her hair. “How come you always get to hear about my day, but you never want to tell me about yours?”
“Because mine’s not really that important. And it’s not really discussion worthy most of the time. Most of the time, I can’t even talk about it.”
“Tell me something else not nice. Even a nice girl likes to hear not nice things sometimes.” She smiled at the ceiling, yawning a little. “Maybe you’re a little <em>too</em> nice to me. The kid gloves have to come off at some point, y’know. I’m an adult—I can handle an unpleasant truth.”
He laughed, loudly, and Claire was—as she had been before—struck by just how silly of a laugh he had, a deep, booming, guffawing thing. It made her grin to hear it through the phone; she was glad she’d at least gotten a good solid laugh out of him. “Most of the time the truth isn’t really unpleasant, per se,” he said, his voice sobering some but not much. “Most of the time it’s just kind of…shocking, I guess.”
Crawling up the bed, she grabbed a pillow and stuck it under her some, reaching over for the alarm clock, fiddling with it to make sure she got up on time the next morning. “So shock me with something. A startling truth—is Kennedy your real name?”
He laughed again. “Startling, huh? What did you have in mind? Lots of things I can think of off the top of my head that would startle you. Ever seen pictures of a bed pillow close up after you’ve slept on it a while? <em>That’s</em> startling. It looks like an alien planet.”
Snickering, Claire set her alarm clock back down, once again contemplated her dinner options. “Believe it or not, I knew that one already. Not very startling. So…try again. Something not nice. Something true. Something…<em>real</em>.”
“Real, huh?” Leon asked in her ear, sounding intensely bemused. “Uh…well, let’s see. How about this? It’s probably not <em>too</em> startling to you, at this point.”
“Okay, lay it on me,” Claire enthused, sitting up and grinning. “I’ll be the judge of how startled I am.”
Leon chuckled, letting out a sigh. “I thought about fucking you no fewer than twenty times yesterday. They’re not keeping me very busy on this detail. Normally I don’t have time to think about stuff like that—but this week, just standing around, I have a lot of time to think about it.”
Claire was silent, her mouth open in an incredulous <em>o</em>, still retaining traces of a smile. She let out an admittedly startled half laugh and blinked. “Excuse me?” she asked, her tone cheerfully blank.
“It was real, wasn’t it? Not nice? Kind of impolite? Fairly startling, at least?” he asked, and Claire could definitely hear the grin in his voice. “I said I thought about fucking you no fewer than twenty times yesterday. The more time I have on my hands, the more I tend to think about it. With greater vividness, I should add.”
A world and a whole day away, in a hotel room in Frankfurt, Claire Redfield found herself really and truly with nothing to say. After all, she’d gathered that Leon <em>liked</em> her in a way that was more than simple friendship. She felt the same about him. She’d asked for real and startling, and she’d gotten it. His frank admission hadn’t irritated her or offended her, just caught her off guard somewhat pleasantly.
“Oh,” she managed, mildly. “Well. That’s something, I guess. I had no idea you thought about it so much.”
He laughed. “You sound pretty shocked. Wouldn’t you? I mean, I guess that’s kind of rhetorical—you’re a girl, and you can’t appreciate how pretty you are as a girl. Sorry if I offended you, or made you think that’s <em>all</em> I think about you. Did you ever stop to think that maybe that’s part of why I’m so nice to you?”
Claire blinked, shaking her head some, not following his logic. “So I’ll let you have sex with me?”
“No,” he chided. “Because I feel kind of <em>bad</em> for thinking about having sex with you so often. I mean, I can’t really help it, though.”
“I thought you were nice to me because I was a good person.”
“I am. You are. It makes me feel even worse about thinking about you like that. It doesn’t really stop it, though.”
Claire sat back a little bit, leaning against her pillows. “Well. If it makes you feel any better, I thought…think about…that kind of stuff, too.” She bit her bottom lip and looked up at the ceiling again, trying to stifle a smile and mostly failing. “So maybe I’m not as nice as you thought I was. Aren’t nice girls not supposed to think about that kind of thing?”
“I still think you’re plenty nice,” Leon said. “Hell, you’re nice enough to not say the word fuck, so there’s that.” He laughed again, somewhere in the pre-dawn in Australia. Claire wondered where he was, or what he was doing while he was talking to her. “Had enough startling truth?”
Claire bit her lip again, looking back down at her toes. “I suppose as long as we’re being honest with one another, there’s no reason to stop now.”
“Okay,” Leon said, his voice low but oddly cheerful. “I want to start off by kissing you, of course. I think about that a lot, too. I actually love kissing. I think I could kiss you for a good long while and be happy with that.”
Finding she could do little suddenly but focus on the phone at her ear, Claire waited breathlessly for him to continue, but he did not. The city grew dim around her, the sunset flaring off the reflection of Frankfurt’s highrises. “I’d like for you to kiss me. You’re a lot taller than I am, though.”
“I know. I’ve thought about it. There are ways around it, though. I’d stoop over like a git to kiss you. I’d look like an ass to kiss you. I’d beat myself in the face to kiss you.” He sighed with mirth. “Of course, you know, I’m not thirteen. I’d eventually want to do more than kiss you.”
“Uh-huh?” Claire prompted, blankly.
“Not to say that you don’t have nice, pretty lips. We can come back to those. Your little ears, your neck—I want to put my mouth on those, too. I’ve always wondered what you’d sound like. You’ve got such a sweet voice—I always wondered if you talked or if you were quiet.”
“Normally, I’m quiet,” she replied, but only after a second. Her face felt hot, her heart beating steadily in her chest. She looked back down at her feet, which were unconsciously rubbing against each other. She’d never had any reason to be anything other than quiet. Claire’s dating career was both short and somewhat disappointing, either due to her bad luck or her own peculiarities.
“Oh. Well, that’s too bad. I’d really like to hear you. I like that kind of thing. Anyways, after your neck, I’d be moving downwards. You’ve got a nice collarbone. You’ve got beautiful skin, actually, just in general. I’ll bet it’s very soft.”
Nodding, Claire remembered he couldn’t see that. “It’s…alright,” she murmured. “I use a lot of lotion.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful. Excuse me for being crude, sweetheart, but a lot of times just thinking about how soft you’d be under my hands is enough to get me fucking hard.”
Dinner was forgotten. Claire would stay in her room all night long, riveted to her bed, if he stayed on the phone with her. The undiscovered beauty of Frankfurt was forgotten. She swallowed, her mouth falling open. “It’s not crude.”
“You’re really just a package deal. All of you is pretty amazing. Just thought I’d tell you that. Where was I? Oh, yes, moving downwards. I think you probably know where I’m going next.”
Claire’s own free hand was caught on the neck of her shirt, anticipating his next words. “I…I don’t know,” she said, still in disbelief this was even happening.
He chuckled. “Well, how about this. How about you tell me where you’d like me to go? I know where I always go whenever I think about it. What do I do when you think about it?”
Closing her eyes, Claire pressed her lips together for a second. Her hand traveled the path she wished he could before her mouth gave voice to the thought. “My breasts,” she murmured, her hand stilled on one.
“Good call. That’s usually where I go, but every once in a while I switch it up some. Why wouldn’t I go there? You’ve got a great pair of tits, in fact. I bet they’re…hmm, let’s see. Probably a few freckles, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re pretty fair, so I bet your nipples are that really pretty pink colour, huh?”
“Right again.”
“Mmm.” He hummed, lowly. “Just like I always thought. Every time I see you—and them—you’ve always got them pretty well and good hidden away. Oh, sweetheart. The things I’d do to those tits. Do you like it when a man plays with them? Rather, I guess I should ask you if you’d like it if <em>I</em> did it.”
“Yes,” she sighed. Her hand traced the curve of her own breast, found the soft but insistent point of her nipple through the fabric of her clothing. “I’d like it.”
“You should give one a good touch right now, for me. Since I can’t do it, and all.”
“I already am,” she admitted with a weak chuckle, breathy.
“For a nice girl, you’re surprisingly ahead of the game here,” he teased, throatily. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still a very nice girl. I’m not nice, and so sometimes I think about taking a nice girl—you, actually—and fucking her so hard to where I really get her tits bouncing. I’d love to watch your tits while I fucked you—put my mouth on them, put my hands on them. If I had time, if I got around to it, I’d probably want to fuck ‘em, too. I mean, if you’d let me.”
“Oh,” Claire gasped, her fingers worrying her fabric-covered nipple insistently.
“Would you let me do it?”
“Yes,” she gasped again, her mind aswim with imagery.
“Back up to that pretty mouth of yours—those nice, big lips, great smile, tiny bit of an overbite. I told you we’d come back here, right?”
“Uh-huh. Kissing?”
“Sure, of course. Like I said—I’d like to kiss you. I always especially want to do it whenever I see you bite your lip. You do that a lot, especially when you’re trying not to smile <em>too</em> big at something that nice girls aren’t supposed to laugh at. But sometimes I look at those lips and imagine them around my cock. Not your fault, sweetheart—you’ve just got the kind of mouth that a man would want on his cock. Like I said, not your fault. It’s just your genetics, I guess.”
Claire was breathing heavily, but trying to hide it. Her body was warm, her limbs tingling, her core aching. She wished he wasn’t a million miles away in Thursday, saying these things to her. She was kind of embarrassed at the adamancy of her own reactions, but hey—he’d started it. It was one hell of a way for them to get over all of the flirting and the goofing around and just get down to brass tacks. Those brass tacks being, of course, their present discussion of how Claire’s mouth may or may not have enticed most men to hope she’d put it on their cocks.
“I’ve got great genes,” she managed to joke, although it sounded a little weak. “I had no idea my mouth was so fascinating.”
“It is, really. But…y’know what, nevermind. I changed my mind. We can get back to you sucking my cock later. See, I’ve thought about it so much that if we ever get around to it, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll want to come in your mouth, and I don’t want to do that the first time around. There’ll be time for that later.”
“We’ll pencil it in,” Claire joked breathily, somewhat amazed that she could still manage wit at a time like this. This was Leon Kennedy on the other line, describing to her in detail a sexual encounter between the two of them. She was surprised her brain hadn’t melted out of her ears yet.
“So,” he went on, genially, “I bet you’ve got the best pussy in the world.”
Claire couldn’t help but laugh a little, incredulously. “That just makes it sound like—that’s like a standard no woman could live up to—“
“I’ve thought about it enough,” Leon returned, cheerfully. “It’s going to be the best pussy in the world.”
“<em>Going</em> to be?” Claire queried with breathless sass, even though her fingers were straying lower, across her belly. “You sound pretty confident, buddy.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to make it sound like a foregone conclusion,” he explained. “I just figured at this point we were in the same boat.”
“Same boat, huh?” she asked, her fingers inching her skirt higher up her thighs, exposing the pale flesh. “What boat is that?”
Snickering, Leon paused for a moment. He took a deep breath. “I dunno, you tell me. I guess maybe I thought we were in the same boat.”
“We are,” she said.
“So explain.” She could almost feel, see, hear his grin. She knew he was doing it; Leon was one of those rare people whose grin was apparent through their voice.
“You just want me to talk,” she said.
“I just want to hear your side of the story,” he said, although his voice held a note of reservation.
Claire chortled, nervously. It was her first time with such a thing, such an open and honest discussion of a sexual act. Maybe that was why it excited her so much, because before sex had been all secret and then suddenly happening, with a lack of fanfare. Maybe foreplay wasn’t a lost art; maybe there was a little left to speak to the art of romance. Because for all of his slightly crass words to her tonight, Leon had been nothing but a consummate gentleman to her otherwise. She still felt like the prettiest, nicest, smartest girl in the world. To boot, she now felt like the most fuckable, as well.
“I,” she began, momentously, taking a deep breath. She let the breath out, not really knowing what to say. Years of never saying anything prompted her into silence, left her with little vocabulary as to what to say back. She was a big fan of the word fuck, but saying it to him seemed somewhat scandalous and inappropriate, even though he’d said it to her. For her, she wasn’t used to saying it to a man—and certainly not in the most intimate sense of the word. Any other use, she was certainly accustomed to.
“You,” he led, half teasing.
“I,” she began again more grandly, “have probably been thinking about it longer than you. Since like the first night. Since your stupid awful Raccoon City PD uniform. Since you had red hair. Since you seemed to be about twenty times more self-righteous and fifty pounds lighter.”
“<em>Ouch</em>,” Leon laughed outright. “Is it possible to be flattered and insulted at the same time?” he asked, but his tone was fond.
“The S.S. Let’s Have Redhead Sex,” Claire snorted out on a laugh, even if her fingers were ghosting over her fabric-covered pussy, eliciting a small gasp out of her.
Laughing, Leon took a moment to speak. “The <em>what</em>?”
“The S.S. Let’s Have Redhead Sex,” Claire reiterated. “That’s the name of the boat. What happened to your red hair, anyway?”
“I don’t know. It went away as I got older. It just kind of started to…fade. I call it the prelude to going prematurely grey. It’s just getting lighter and lighter as I get older. I don’t get it. It didn’t happen with anyone else in my family.” There was a pause. “It’s still pretty red down there, though.”
Claire burst into laughter, her hand flopping away from where it’d been previously. “Oh, God, this is dumb. We’re either going to do this properly or we’re going to be stupid about it. You started it. You need to keep it going, here.”
“Okay, Jesus. Yes <em>ma’am</em>,” he cracked. “Sorry the colour of my pubic hair isn’t exciting enough for you. You’re right, I did start this. You distracted me with your nervous twittering. It’s just <em>me</em>, sweetheart. You don’t have to be nervous. I mean, c’mon--” Here he laughed heartily. “—after all, you did know me when I was redheaded, self-righteous, and about fifty pounds lighter. Chasing the wrong woman, to boot.”
“Well, I don’t usually <em>map</em> my sex out with people I’ve never had it with before,” Claire said with bemused exasperation. “It’s kind of new territory. It’s a little unnerving.”
“Well, we’ve obviously both been thinking about it a lot,” he pointed out, nonplussed. “I see no reason to be embarrassed about it. I really, honestly, kind of desperately want to fuck you. Like exclusively. I don’t want anyone <em>else</em> fucking you, that’s for sure.”
“Nobody is,” she said. “I was kind of…waiting for you.”
“See,” Leon began, his voice taking up that strange, lulling timber it’d had previously, “that’s smart of you. Because nobody else is going to do it right, sweetheart. Nobody will fuck you like I will, like I want to. Nobody is going to appreciate you as a nice girl. Where was I, anyway? Oh, yeah. Your pussy. Before I fuck it, I want to eat it.”
Claire couldn’t help herself. It was so blunt and blatant of a statement that it was automatically incredibly arousing. “Oh God,” she murmured, her hand moving back down to the spot in question. She was soaked, almost ridiculously so—there would definitely need to be a shower in order, after all of this.
“I want to eat that pussy until you’re screaming,” he said. “Put my tongue on your clit and eat you for all you’re worth until you can’t think straight. What would you do, sweetheart?”
Claire swallowed, her fingers sliding under her panties, finding the clit he wanted to tongue so much. She gasped. “I’d…I’d put my hands in your hair…”
“Yeah?”
“I…I like something to hold on to, sometimes…” She pictured his head between her legs, her face and neck flushing. “I’d say your name…”
“I think about you saying my name a lot,” he informed her. “Why not say it now? I’ll tell you what, sweetheart—I’m not getting off this phone until I fuck you. And I’m definitely not getting off this phone until I can hear you come. I’m kind of far away, though—you’re going to have to do some of the work for me.”
“Leon…” she gasped, her fingers working faster.
He hummed in appreciation. “Mm. There you go. I’m pretty hard, at this point. Kissing you would be enough to get me hard—now I’m <em>really</em> hard.”
“Oh…”
“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m gonna stop licking your pussy now. I want my cock inside of you, like <em>now</em>.”
“Me too…” she murmured, her voice tremulous. She was getting close, and they hadn’t even gotten to the main point yet. “Leon, me too…”
“How do you want it, Claire? I’m up for suggestions. You want to get on top and ride this cock until you come? You want me to fuck you from behind? You want me to hold you against the wall and get so far inside you it makes you scream? What do <em>you</em> want, sweetheart?”
The imagery associated with all of his suggestions pushed her closer to orgasm, her breath loud and shuddery. “I want you on top of me…” she moaned, her eyes drifting shut. “I want to hold onto you…I want to put my legs around you…”
He laughed a little. “Shit, honey, that sounds just fine to me. I’m gonna start slow…slide my cock in you, let you feel all of it, filling you up…”
“Oh my God…”
“Start slow…deep…hard…I wanna watch your tits bounce…I bet they’re fucking gorgeous. I want you to say my name, Claire—I’m gonna fuck your tight little pussy and I want you to say my name while I do it.”
“Leon,” she obliged, wildly. Christ, she was getting close. “Oh fuck, Leon…”
“There you go. You’re getting close…I’m gonna fuck you faster, now, harder—grab your pretty face, kiss you…I wanna hear you, Claire. I don’t hear you.”
“Oh God yes,” she panted, her voice rising, her fingers sliding over her own clit furiously, helplessly. “Oh yes, Leon—I’m gonna come—I’m gonna—“
“I’m gonna pound you, Claire…fuck you harder than you’ve ever been fucked…you’re gonna love my cock inside you…I’m gonna give it to you hard and fast, sweetheart, because you’re a nice girl…”
She was singing out incoherently, teetering on the frantic edge of orgasm.
“You want it like this, honey?” he asked, his tone somehow both very sweet and very, very dirty at the same time. “I don’t want to hurt you…but I wanna fuck you so bad it makes me crazy…”
“I want it like this,” she breathed out, her voice thready. “I want you…as hard as you can…”
“Because you’re a nice girl,” he said, and she could almost <em>hear</em> the grin in his voice, could picture it in her mind. “<em>Someone</em> ought to fuck you good and hard, like you deserve. <em>I’ll</em> fuck you like that—and you’ll fucking love it, Claire.”
She let out a short, startled screech—she was coming, unabashedly, unashamedly, keening his name into the phone, her legs wobbling, her fingers slowing. Her breath caught in her throat and she was almost momentarily choked, riding the waves of euphoria until they subsided and she was a limp, gasping mess on her unmade bed, the situation sinking in.
“So, dinner time, huh?” he asked cheerfully, after she finished projecting her orgasm into the phone. “What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Oh my God,” she mumbled, beginning to chortle self-consciously. “I kind of forgot about dinner, you asshole—“
“I haven’t,” Leon went on brightly. “It’s important for you to eat. I worry about your well-being.”
Pressing a shaking, somewhat wet hand to her forehead, Claire shook her head in disbelief. “Yeah, I’ll think about dinner in a minute. After my legs start working again and I go clean up.”
Leon sighed, happily. “Sounds like a good time. Have I ever told you about my expansive fantasies involving you, me, and a bathtub? Or a shower, a shower’s okay too—“
“Stop,” she cut him off, laughing. “Please! I’ll never leave the hotel room. I think you proved your point enough for one night.”
“Yeah, via <em>phone</em>,” he replied with a huff. “It leaves a lot to be desired. Which brings me to my next point—but hey, don’t forget about your dinner. What’re you doing on Sunday?”
Claire flopped her head back on the pillow, trying to gather her addled thoughts. “Leaving here,” she said, dazedly. “Flying back to the States. Why?”
“How about you stay put?” he suggested mildly. “I’m done here then—why don’t I come to you? After all, you’re in Frankfurt—I always get stuck in Berlin when I go to Germany.”
“Uh,” Claire began with a chortle, “yeah, <em>that’d</em> be nice. I can’t afford this place on my own. I’m only here because TerraSave’s putting me—“
Leon tutted. “I can take care of that,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you call your people back in the States, make up some convenient bullshit, and I’ll waste some time with you in Germany?”
“You’re serious,” Claire said, in bemused deadpan.
“What about this phone call suggested I wasn’t serious?” he asked, likewise bemusedly stoic.
“I’ll have to call back home, make sure I can swing that,” she began, slowly, “but…okay. Sure. Why not? Can I call you tomorrow and let you know what I find out?”
“Please do. I may not answer. Just leave me a voicemail and leave the rest up to me.” He sighed, fondly. “I have the feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful, really bizarre relationship.”
“One round of phone sex and you’re ready to commit, huh?” she asked him dryly.
“Oh, Claire,” he sighed, as if he knew something she didn’t. “There’s a lot more to it than that. You are, after all, an exceptionally nice girl.”
“I guess so,” she countered, still a little amazed. “I had no idea being a nice girl was such a hot commodity. <em>Or</em> so infinitely desirable.”
The dry spell is broken (it lasted like 72 hours but since my brain NEVER stops it was alarming to me, alright?)! I wrote! Scenes came to my mind and I wrote! There's serious shit AND there's smut!
This references my headcanon of Claire being feral and murderous in Europe while looking for Chris, and my headcanon of Leon, Claire, and Sherry living in hiding together for some time before the government stuck their big nose into shit.
I dunno. I'm happy with this. I love writing them just talking, and working things out, and being absolutely in love with each other but unable to say it. Leon's trying to keep himself safe, and Claire's afraid it'll make him run for the hills.
So they have serious conversations in bars and fuck like animals instead.
This is formatted for AO3, IF I'm ever able to post new work there again. So sorry about the HTML tags denoting italics. I simply cannot live without italics.
Anyway here you go!
“I don’t want one
I want a mutually assured destructive life
Seizing separate culture
To take me over
Moving silent like radar
Take me over, and blow my mind now
Full disclosure, coming sponsored by no one
Take me over, and blow my mind now”
Fugazi, “Full Disclosure”
“Whoa.”
Claire stopped short at the front door of the restaurant, looking at the sheer blizzard of snow falling from the sky outside. Leon drew up behind her and likewise looked out, over her head.
“That came out of nowhere,” he said.
“I didn’t even know it was supposed to snow tonight,” Claire said, her hand on the bar to push open the door. “Great. Wonder how much we’ll get.”
“You still want to go to the bar?” Leon asked.
“Of course,” Claire replied. “I just got paid. I’ve got all of three fifty burning a hole in my pocket,” she joked. She hadn’t paid for dinner, and they both knew damn well she would not pay at the bar. Leon wouldn’t let her. It was the way it was when they were together, and Claire could accept the little things; every so often he would push to pay for more. He’d tell her he would pay her house off, pay her car off, make her student debt a thing of the past. Claire rejected him every time.
“C’mon, we’re standing right in the doorway,” Leon said, reaching above her to push the door open. A gust of cold air hit them in the face, along with the assault of huge, fat snowflakes.
“Ugh,” Claire said, pulling her hood up, hurrying over to her vehicle. Leon was behind her, and they made their way to their respective sides of the SUV, getting in. Claire stuck her key in the ignition and started the vehicle, pulling her hood down off her head. She took her glasses off the top of her head and put them on her face, and scowled out her covered windshield. She turned on the windshield wiper blades to dispel the flakes of snow from sticking to her windshield, and shifted into reverse.
“This kind of weather reminds me of home,” Leon said, as she went to pull out of the parking lot.
“Yeah, because you’re from a frozen hellhole,” Claire said. “Like this place.”
“You don’t find anything about Long Island agreeable, do you?” Leon asked, in amusement.
“Not really,” Claire replied calmly. “There’s like a month from spring into summer where I like it alright.”
“Picky,” Leon accused, but it was good natured. They drove along in silence for a few minutes; Claire was not doing her usual of flying at 60 in a 30 and Leon looked over at her.
“Claire,” he said.
“Yeah,” she replied, distractedly.
“You can’t see a goddamned thing, can you?” he asked, mildly.
Claire huffed some. She was hunched over the steering wheel slightly, windshield wipers on high, squinting out of her glasses. “No,” she admitted. “Not really. This weather coupled with my eyesight isn’t doing me any favors. Glasses be damned.”
“Pull over,” he said. “Let me drive. Visibility’s shit but at least I’m working with 20/20, or better than it, from my last government sponsored eye exam.”
Uncharacteristically of her, Claire did not fight. Normally Leon’s commentary on her driving drove her up a wall; this seemed less him snapping at her and more him trying to help her. Leon more oft than not took issue with her driving; saying she was changing lanes erratically, she was going too fast, she was cutting people off, she was going to fucking kill them. Claire pulled over to the side of the road and put her hazards on, then climbed out the driver’s side door into the wind and snow. She and Leon passed each other in front of the vehicle and then they were getting back in, snow blowing thickly into the car as they shut their doors. Leon pushed the seat all the way back and turned the hazards off.
“Just tell me where to go,” Leon said, and Claire still had to lean forward to squint out the windshield to make out landmarks, but they eventually made it to where they were going in one piece. They got out, Leon handing Claire’s keys back to her, and they made their way to the front door of the building in blowing snow.
Leon pulled open the door and Claire hurried in, and he came in behind her. Behind the bar, the bartender stood up off the cooler he’d been leaning on, looking surprised. They were the only people in there.
“Someone actually braved the weather,” the bartender said, sounding impressed.
“We were already out,” Claire said, walking up to the bar, brushing the snow off her coat. “Might as well. I’m the local genius who had no idea this was going to happen and hadn’t checked the weather.” Leon was drawing up behind her, pulling out a chair. Claire was engrossed in brushing snow off her bangs, her sleeves, and looked over to realize Leon was indicating the chair to her. She sat down, smiling at him, and he sat down next to her, leaning forward and folding his hands on the bar.
“Well, I guess we can all be snowed in together,” the bartender said genially. “I’ll even let you pick the music.”
“Is that a promise?” Leon asked.
“You don’t want to hear his music,” Claire interjected.
“Sure. You can connect to the Bluetooth,” the bartender said with a shrug. “I don’t care. What can I get you?” he asked. Both Leon and Claire were silent for a moment, contemplating.
“Do you know how to make a Lunchbox?” Claire asked.
“Yeah. What kind of beer you want?” the bartender said.
“Busch,” Claire replied, and Leon looked over at her.
“Number one, what the hell is a Lunchbox,” he began, “and number two, <em>Busch</em>? You drink that at home. You don’t want something fancier?”
“They have Busch <em>on tap</em> here,” Claire said, wiggling her eyebrows. “And a Lunchbox <em>is</em> fancy. And tasty.”
“What is it?” Leon asked again. “I’m automatically doubtful of anything that includes Busch as an ingredient.”
“You know what,” Claire called to the bartender, “make him one too. Two Lunchboxes.”
“Sure,” the bartender called back. Leon <em>looked</em> at Claire, and she just smiled back.
“Live a little,” she said.
“I live plenty,” Leon countered. “I live so much it’s actively killing me. All to end up drinking a <em>Lunchbox</em>.”
Claire was shrugging out of her coat, putting it on the back of her barstool. She reached up and pulled her hair out of its ponytail, only to regather it and pull it back up, twisting her hands, pulling it into a sloppy knot. The bartender came back down the bar and set the two drinks in front of them. Leon regarded his suspiciously.
“This looks like juice,” he said.
“Just try it,” Claire said, picking hers up and taking a drink. “Mmm. Yeah. Just like I remembered.”
Leon picked up the pint glass and took a swallow, then looked at it. “I still can’t figure out what the fuck this is. It tastes like sugar and vaguely of Busch and I feel like I could slam it easily, which is probably somehow dangerous.”
“It’s amaretto, orange juice, and beer,” Claire said, smiling at him. “High class. The classiest Busch has ever been.”
“I don’t know why I’m surprised by you knowing ways to <em>class up</em> Busch,” Leon said. “I shouldn’t be.”
“I went to brunch with some coworkers once,” Claire said. “Some fancy place in Manhattan. I felt underdressed and out of place. Everyone else drank Mimosas. I drank these. Except with Bud Light. A place that fancy didn’t have Busch.”
“Tragedy,” Leon said in amusement. “I feel like if you drank enough of these you’d regret it.”
“Probably not as much as drinking a ton of Mimosas,” Claire countered. “Champagne’s evil. Tastes good going down and bites you in the ass the next day.”
Leon picked up his pint glass and took another drink. “This is like Mickey’s with orange juice,” Leon said. “A less classy man’s Brass Monkey. Ever drink that?”
Claire looked at him skeptically. “Like the malt liquor? Like Mickey’s, like Olde English? I don’t think so.”
“We did, in high school,” Leon said. “Inspired by the Beastie Boys.”
“I didn’t even <em>hear</em> a Beastie Boys song until I went to college,” Claire said, and Leon looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “That’s not rural Alabama music.”
“You were <em>sheltered</em>,” Leon said in amusement. “And now look at you. Worldly. Wise. Cultured. Drinking fancy Busch drinks outside the big city.”
“I guess,” Claire said skeptically, taking a drink. “I’m just a redneck north of the Mason-Dixon.”
“Look out, world,” Leon said. “Claire Babbie Redfield’s on the loose.”
…………………………………………………………….
The snow was still coming down. Claire was on her fourth Lunchbox. The bartender had in fact given Leon control of the music and after much haranguing from Claire, he kept it fairly mild with Fugazi, a band that was less insane than most of what he listened to, and that they’d discovered Claire actually kind of liked. She did have kind of a soft spot for angry, raging punk music, no matter the decade. Leon told her it was because she was secretly an anarchist at heart. Claire just liked people who railed against The Man. Not for the first time, she considered the irony of her suiting up to go to protests, of learning and educating people about systems of mutual aid, all while sharing her bed with a man owned by the government, a man dedicated to the status quo. The bar was still empty, the bartender sitting in a stool down at the far end of the bar, engrossed in his phone.
“What do you want out of life?” she asked Leon unceremoniously, hand on her drink, looking over at him appraisingly.
He looked back at her evenly. “Not to die,” he said.
She frowned at him slightly. “I mean, we’re all going to, someday,” she said.
“Yeah, someday. Not next week. Not a few days from now. I have to spend a lot of time occupied with it.” He had humored her with the first drink and accepted the Lunchbox, but after that he’d moved on to drafts of something else—an IPA, beer Claire typically didn’t touch with a ten foot pole.
“There’s got to be more to it than that,” Claire said. “We could leave here tonight and someone could slam into us and kill us both. I don’t want to die either but there’s more to life than that.”
“I don’t think about it,” Leon said. “I do very little thinking about the path of my life. I don’t control it and it’s easier not to think about it.”
Claire looked over at him, shifting in her seat. He often stymied her attempts at trying to gain more insight into him by claiming this was just a path he was on and he didn’t reflect on it. “Alright, then, what did you want out of life at 21? Before the government.”
Leon sighed some, looking out at the bar in front of them. “Normal things. To be a good cop, to be a good son, to settle down. I didn’t have any lofty aspirations then, either. My brain doesn’t work like yours.”
“I know thoughts occur up there, sometimes,” Claire said, still looking at him. “You just don’t like to let on that they do.”
“There’s not much of a point,” Leon said, looking away from the bar and back over at her. “My thoughts are just about the only thing about me that I still <em>own</em> at this point. They’re not always exciting. They’re not always fit to be discussed. They’re <em>mine</em>, and half the time they’re not worth talking about.”
“Do you resent me for leaving you behind to get picked up by the government?” she asked.
Leon gazed at her, blinking measuredly. “I didn’t want you to go. You knew that. I still look back and wish you hadn’t. I don’t feel like you did yourself any favors by going to Europe to chase Chris. But…” He trailed off, looking above her head. “You being there or not being there wasn’t going to stop the government from finding me and Sherry. You being in Europe just meant they didn’t find you, too. If you’d have been there, you probably would have been handed the same shitty ultimatum I was.”
Claire nodded. “The government ate everyone up but me. I always wondered why not me. Why was I left to be a civilian? Why was I excluded from the good fight?”
Leon looked at her. “I know why.”
Claire took a drink. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
“The shit you did in Europe,” Leon said. “I think they knew they couldn’t control you. You weren’t going to follow orders. You’d already tasted being in control of what you wanted to do. I was just there, still malleable, still ready to take an order. They’d send you out to do something and you’d just do whatever you wanted. You do what you want. You do what you think is a good idea, whether or not it actually is.”
Claire hummed. She tried not to think of her time in Europe after Raccoon, after life on the run much these days; she’d been through years of therapy once she’d finally accepted she needed it to handle what she’d done. Every once in a while she’d be doing something mundane; peeling potatoes, washing her hair, making photocopies—and she’d stare off into space, and the thought would cross her mind unbidden--<em>you’ve murdered people. You’ve tortured people</em>. And then she would take the thought and stuff it down into the recesses of her brain, forcing herself to think of literally anything else. She had blood on her hands, and yet there she was, sitting at a bar in Long Island, like life was normal. She didn’t bring it up much. She’d discussed it once or twice with Leon. She’d discussed it once or twice with her coworker Calvin, who’d also killed people in Afghanistan. She’d discussed it with Chris. It was an odd thing, to kill people, and then years later be standing in aisle 8 of the grocery store, looking out at the canned tomatoes in front of you, suddenly remembering what it felt like when a fingernail gripped in pliers came loose from a hand.
She wondered how Leon felt, given his line of work. He made comments about having the government shrinks fooled. Sometimes he seemed like he drank a little too much, determinedly having whisky after whisky, until he was drunk. His thoughts were his own, and half the time they weren’t worth discussing. She wondered if that was his subtle way of telling her to quit fucking prying.
“They thought I was insane,” Claire said matter-of-factly.
“Trust me, the government likes you ruthless,” Leon said, his tone somewhat correcting. “But they need to be able to know you’re going to <em>listen</em>, too. I think they knew you wouldn’t.”
“And you do?” Claire asked.
“For better or worse, I’ve always been good at following directions,” Leon said. “Maybe I’m not good at thinking for myself, and that’s the real core issue.” He looked off into space. “My brain doesn’t work like yours,” he repeated. “It’s why you made it out of Raccoon with barely a scratch on you, with a survivor in tow. It’s why I didn’t fare so well.”
“There were other issues at play,” Claire said in an undertone. “You were better at life <em>after</em> Raccoon. I was a child. I didn’t know how real life worked.”
“We were <em>both</em> children,” Leon said. “Just because I knew how to get utilities turned on and how to get a money order didn’t mean I was an adult. I was an <em>older</em> child than you, but I was still a child.”
“I still feel like a child, sometimes,” Claire said.
“Good,” Leon said, and Claire looked over at him, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Don’t stop. Feel like a child forever. Someone has to. The alternative is not great. The world probably needs more people who can experience childlike wonder, even if they feel like fucking idiots for doing so.”
Claire looked over at him; his solemn face, his perpetual stubble, the shadows under his eyes that never seemed to go away no matter how much sleep he got. He’d told her once the government was aging him before his time; ten years from now she was still going to look like she belonged on a college campus and he was going to look like her father. “Let’s run away,” she said, abruptly.
“Sure,” Leon said benignly with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “And go where?”
“I dunno,” Claire said. “I’m sure you could have us assume other identities before you split from the government. I’m sure you could set it up on the side in your spare time. I’m sure you could orchestrate us an entirely new life. Just disappear, one day. Go somewhere that doesn’t honor extradition to the US. Vietnam. Nepal. Montenegro. Live off grid.”
Leon looked over at her. “You think they wouldn’t find me?”
“We’re resourceful,” she said. “We’re crafty. We lived on the run before. We could do it again. What’s so great about this life, anyway? I hate Long Island and you’re property. I’m sure we could do it better on our own.”
“I don’t think you understand the things I’ve seen, sweetheart,” he said, and his use of the not-oft used pet name made her heart twinge. It seemed like he reserved it for when he was trying to be gentle with her but tell her something she didn’t want to hear. “They don’t let it just walk away. They’d find me. They’d find you. Sure, we could probably hack it for a while. Several months. But they’d find us. And they’d haul me right back. I’m not sure what they’d do to you, but they probably wouldn’t be happy with me.”
Claire looked at the pint glass her hand was wrapped around. “Life is not fair,” she said, and she was aware she sounded every bit the child she felt like when she said it. “It almost seemed <em>easier</em> after Raccoon, playing house with Sherry.”
“Yeah. There for a minute, it was a happy little family kind of fucked up,” Leon said. “It wasn’t bad, all things considered. I don’t know how long we could have done it, but at the time, we made it work.”
Claire thought of herself at 19, running the domestic side of their life in hiding; entertaining and consoling Sherry, trying to cobble together meals, washing clothes in a bathtub. She thought of Leon leaving every day to go work shitty under the table manual labor jobs, coming home sore and with splinters in his hands. “You deserve a life,” Claire said, plainly.
“I have a life.” He picked up his beer, took a drink. “It’s just not what I thought it would be. But it’s a life, and it’s mine, for better or worse.”
“A <em>real</em> life,” Claire tried again.
“We rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character, and character, hope.” He looked over at her. “Romans.”
It took her a second to realize he was quoting the Bible to her. She frowned. “I don’t believe in that and neither do you, anymore,” Claire said.
“My brain still turns to it,” Leon said. “Catholicism dies hard. The Bible’s got a notable quotable for just about anything shitty happening to you. My mother reminds me of this endlessly.”
“How full of perseverance, character, and hope are you?” Claire asked, knowingly.
“Probably plenty of perseverance. It’s a work in progress,” Leon replied. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Sure,” Claire said, gazing out into space. “A work in progress.”
“I work very hard at it,” Leon said, picking up his beer. “I have no choice.”
…………………………………………………..
It was still snowing heavily when they left; accumulating in piles and drifts. Claire’s car was covered, and Leon told her to get in while he cleaned off the windshield and hood with her snow brush from the backseat. She watched him cleaning the SUV off, hands in her lap, heater not yet warm. He got in a few minutes later, and looked over at her.
“You ready to guide me home?” he asked. “Can you see well enough to do that?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I know the way by heart from here. I come here often. After all, there is Busch on tap.” Leon shifted into reverse and backed out, then began to creep through the barren parking lot, snow obscuring the view out the windshield.
Suddenly he cranked the wheel over hard and stepped on the gas and Claire sat up straight, her eyes wide, and the SUV whipped around in a donut in the frozen parking lot. She looked over at him, eyes wide, and he looked back at her with a smile.
“Is it really an empty snowy parking lot if you didn’t whip a shitty?” he asked her.
Claire looked over at him, then laughed some. “Didn’t <em>what</em>?” she asked, smiling back at him.
“You’ve never heard that?” he asked. “Whippin’ shitties? Doing donuts in a parking lot?” He let off the brake and went forward again, this time facing the opposite direction, and performed the action again; cranking the wheel, gassing it, and the SUV whipped around on the snow. Claire laughed, holding onto the door handle.
“You of all people,” Claire said. “Mr. Slow-The-Fuck-Down-Claire-You’re-Going-To-Kill-Us is doing donuts in a parking lot.”
“When I was a teenager my girlfriend used to scream at me and tell me I was going to kill us,” he said in amusement, finally heading for the exit of the parking lot. “She couldn’t handle a little fun.”
“I’m sure you were a nightmare,” Claire said, smiling faintly.
“I was not,” Leon said, turning out onto the street. “I tried <em>so</em> hard. I was very concerned with keeping her happy. But I was just a kid. I wanted to have fun.”
“What’s <em>fun</em>?” Claire asked dryly, looking over at him.
“I dunno,” Leon replied. “I don’t know if I remember. I suspect it’s related to whippin’ shitties in a parking lot, though.”
……………………………………………………..
They returned to her house, and given that it was about 10:30, they began to make motions of getting ready for bed. They sat down on the couch and pulled off their shoes, and then Leon headed for the bathroom and Claire headed for the kitchen, getting her nightly glass of water. She went into the bedroom and set it down on the bedside table, then began shedding her clothes to put her pajamas on. If it wasn’t still snowing in the morning, Leon was going to have his work cut out for him shoveling snow. Claire sure wasn’t going to get out there and do it, and Leon seemed bound and determined to do it for her, working in her front yard while she gazed out the window at him and wondered why he seemed to take so much solace in shoveling snow until he sweat with the exertion of it in the cold.
Claire was standing there with her pajama pants on, shirt inside out in her hands in front of her. She worked on turning the shirt right side out to put it on, and she heard Leon come into the room behind her. A moment later she felt his hands on her waist, sliding around to the front of her. His hands were still slightly chilled from being outside in the cold; hers were too. She froze with the shirt in front of her, feeling him come up behind her, hands on her stomach.
He leaned down and kissed her, and she leaned back and sighed a little into his mouth. One of his hands left her stomach to come to the shirt in her hands, removing it, dropping it down onto the floor. His hand returned to her, both of them then sliding up her torso to her breasts, taking them in his hands and kneading them, palming them. Claire leaned back further, moaning a little, one of her hands coming up to alight on the back of his head as he kissed her, mouth deep over hers.
His fingers tweaked gently at her nipples, raising them into taut buds. In her mind, Claire wondered what she was in for. Was he going to tease her, make her beg for it? Was he going to issue orders? Would it be one of those occasional times where he didn’t say a word to her, just handled her body like only he knew how to? Leon pulled away from her mouth and moved to her jaw, her neck; Claire’s eyes drifted shut and she leaned her head to the side, to give him more access. One of his hands left her breast and traveled back down her stomach, into her sleep pants, down to her pussy. He insinuated his fingers into her folds, looking for wetness and finding it. His fingers spread the lubrication around, and then he slipped a finger inside her, drawing a gasp out of her. He took her breast in his other hand and squeezed, his finger pumping in and out of her.
He hadn’t said a word. Maybe it was going to be one of the silent nights. His finger slid out of her and up to her clit, and again she gasped as he massaged it, the sensation threatening to make her legs wobbly.
His hand not occupied in her pants slid down to the waistband of said pants, fingers hooking in it to pull them down, along with her underwear. Claire shimmied a little and they fell down to the floor around her ankles. The hand that wasn’t currently pointedly teasing her clit moved back up her body, to her throat, and closed around it firmly. Claire moaned a little, her head lolling against him.
“You wanna come?” he asked in her ear, lowly.
“Yes,” she breathed back. He kissed her again, a hand on her throat, a hand between her legs, making her knees quiver. His mouth broke away from hers and for a moment he just hovered there, his lips close to her lips, her breath catching at his fingers at her clit.
“Lay down,” he murmured to her, his hands releasing, moving away from her. Claire stepped out of the puddle of clothes at her feet and climbed up onto the bed, lying down. Leon rounded the bed and approached from the foot, lowering himself between her legs, placing them over his shoulders.
Claire’s breath was short, watching him. Was he going to let her come or was he going to keep her on edge until time had no meaning, and she was desperate for release? One of his hands slid on top of her, atop where her pubic bone was, and he opened his mouth over her pussy, his tongue licking her from bottom to top with aplomb repeatedly. He slid his tongue down inside her, in, out, in, out; the hand not occupied in holding her down to him moved back to her clit, fingers pinching, rubbing.
Claire moaned gratefully, her hips swerving gently even in spite of the pressure of his hand holding her down. She reached one hand up behind her to fist in the pillow behind her head, and the other she put on the back of his head between her legs, holding him to her. He was <em>so</em> fucking good at this; and he could do it for what felt like hours, until Claire was hysterical, until there was a sopping wet spot on the bed, until tears were coming out of her eyes.
His tongue and his hand switched; he moved his tongue up to her clit to flick over it rapidly, his fingers moving to her opening, sliding inside. Claire was gasping, her body undulating, her lip caught in her teeth. He crooked his fingers inside her, his tongue fast over her flesh, and she looked down at him to find him looking up at her.
“Say my name, Claire,” he uttered, momentarily stopping his attention to her pussy, but then he was right back at it, sucking at her clit, his fingers searching inside her.
“Leon,” she keened, her legs tightening up on him. “Oh, <em>Leon</em>.”
He hummed, going back to lapping at her with the flat of his tongue, fingers sliding into her all the while. Claire let her head rock back, her fingers splayed across the back of his head. It felt so good, and she was reasonably worried he would stop, that he would toy with her. He loved doing it. He loved getting her all wound up with nowhere to go.
“Leon,” she moaned. “Please don’t stop,” she gusted. “Please, I’m gonna come.”
He hummed against her again, his lips closing around her clit and sucking, and her body moved against his mouth. “Then come,” he said, his breath hot on her pussy. “Say my name. Let me hear you.” His tongue went right back to driving her into insanity, pushing her closer to orgasm.
Her back arched, her hips rocking. “Oh fuck, Leon,” she panted haltingly, her eyes squeezing shut. “Oh yes—please—“
His hand and his mouth traded places again, fucking her with his tongue, his thumb rubbing tight circles over her clit. She held onto the pillow and his head for dear life, her breath and voice rising, her body undulating helplessly on the bed. He switched his attention to her pussy again, and her voice rose on a long, trembling note.
“Oh God,” she sang, her orgasm seizing her. “Fuck, Leon--<em>oh</em>--“ She was vocalizing incoherently then, his tongue at her in big, broad licks, her legs shaking. He slid a finger back into her, her walls clenching and unclenching around the digit. He kept at her until she began to jerk, until it felt like too much—sometimes he did this too. Sometimes he kept going while she whined and writhed, her body overly sensitive, pushing her limits; holding her down; pushing her until she was coming again, tears leaking from her eyes. Finally he stopped, and Claire laid there limply on the bed, trying to catch her breath.
To what end, she didn’t know, because Leon pushed himself off the bed, from between her legs. He stood and began to take his clothes off, watching her the whole time. She gazed back at him, wondering why she was bothering trying to control her breathing, because she knew what was coming next. He shed his clothes and got back up on the bed, once again coming between her legs. One hand was on her knee, and the other was idly jerking his cock, looking her over.
“You want this cock?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she murmured back.
“Good girl,” he said, sliding his hand down her thigh. “I’m gonna give it to you.” He shifted between her legs, rubbing his cock between her folds, sliding it back and forth in the wetness. It rubbed against her still sensitive clit, and she moaned, her hand coming up to hold onto his forearm bracing him above her. He took his cock back in his hand and slapped it lightly against her pussy, and she moaned again.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he said. “You want it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you gonna ask nice?” he said, switching back to rubbing his cock between her lips.
“Yes,” she said. “Please. I want it.”
“That’s a good girl,” he said, and he eased into her, just the head at first, and she gasped desperately. He slid all the way in, his hips against hers, and she let out a whimper, fingers tight into the muscles of his forearms. This was new, this was different—he was making demands of her, but he was less forceful about it, and he was giving her everything she wanted without teasing, without making her beg for it for minutes. Every time Claire thought she knew what to expect, he switched it up on her.
Slowly, deeply, he began to fuck her. Claire moved her hips against him, and for a moment he moved one of his arms down, scooping under her ass, encouraging her against him as he thrust into her powerfully. He leaned down and kissed her, an unhurried, easy kind of kiss. His arm came back out from under her and moved up her body, to her throat. He squeezed, and moved his mouth from hers.
“You better say my name, Claire,” he said near her ear, then drew back.
“Leon,” she murmured, gazing up at him. His hand tightened minutely around her neck.
“Louder,” he said.
“Leon,” she whimpered loudly, and he ground against her. She could feel him against her cervix and she moaned. He pulled out and thrust back into her, making her body quake. “You feel so good,” she said in an undertone, her hands going up to his shoulders, gripping. Leon hung his head, looking down at their union, at his cock moving in and out of her.
“I’m gonna fuck you all night,” he said. “Until you can’t take it. Until you can’t come anymore.”
Claire’s head swam; he was probably not kidding. He’d said similar to her before and he’d roused himself over and over again to fuck her until close to 4 in the morning, until she’d finally more or less collapsed with exhaustion, a shaking, sweaty lump on the bed. He’d do it, and she’d let him. A soft, rapturous sound was escaping her every time one of his powerful thrusts hit home, her breasts bounding.
“You’re gonna like it,” Leon said, looking away from his cock moving into her and back to her face. “You’re gonna beg me for it. You’re gonna let this cock ruin you.”
Claire nodded, gazing into his face. She was already ruined; it’d already happened. She didn’t know if it was going to be possible to share her bed with anyone else ever again. She’d been ruined since the first time he touched her.
“Do it,” she whispered. “I’m yours.”
“You <em>are</em> mine,” he said, releasing her throat, getting closer to her by lowering himself to her. Claire mewled and wrapped her legs around him, his slow, deep thrusts robbing her of breath. “Good girl. You’re so fucking tight…your cunt’s so fucking tight on my cock…” Her arms slid around his back, their faces close. “I fucking hear you coming in my head. I can’t stop it. I hear you begging me for this cock,” he went on.
“Leon,” she moaned, fingers tight in his skin. “Please…give it to me…”
“I love filling you with my come,” he said. “I love coming on your tits. I love coming down your throat, and you swallow it all like a good girl,” he said, and the pace at which he thrust into her was increasing slightly.
“Leon,” she said softly, gripping onto his shoulders.
“You’re such a good girl,” he said, pushing himself back up. His hand came to her chin, his thumb on her lips. She parted them and took the digit into her mouth, sucking. “You let me make you fucking filthy,” he murmured. “I jerk my cock thinking of all the ways I can make you dirty.”
Claire moaned, gazing up at him, and he took his thumb out of her mouth and brought it down between them, to her clit. His thumb began to rub insistent circles around it, and his eyes bored into hers.
“Give me another one, Claire,” he said. “I wanna see it. You’re so fucking pretty when you come. Lemme see it.”
Claire’s clit was still sensitive, and she whined at the dual sensations of his fingers on her and his thick cock thrusting into her deeply. Her mouth fell open and she gazed up at him, her eyes locked on his.
“That’s it baby,” he growled. “Just like that. Like you can’t think of anything but this.”
“Leon,” she said, her voice high.
“Come on this cock, like a good girl,” he said. “Let me hear you. I need to fucking hear it, Claire.”
She was gazing into his face, her eyes unfocusing; they really wanted to roll back in her head, her eyes squeezing shut, but he was giving her orders, and as per usual, she was complying. “Oh Jesus, Leon,” she gasped, feeling release building in her again. He thrust into her, staying all the way in, pushing up against her while he fondled her clit. “<em>Fuck</em>,” she whined, feeling him pushing so deeply inside her.
“Come on,” he urged, pulling back out of her and thrusting in pointedly. “Give it to me, Claire.”
For long moments she writhed, vocalizing mindlessly, his cock inside her and his fingers at her pushing her up to the precipice. Her hand came back to his forearm, gripping it, feeling the tense flex of his muscles under his skin. She panted, voice rising, staring dazedly at him the whole time. He gazed back at her, intent.
“Oh—“ She seized up and came, the tensing sensation giving way to the fluid feel of her orgasm taking hold of her, her body working against his. Her voice rose to a point, her moans and whines high and wild, her breath short, and still he gazed into her face relentlessly, watching her fall apart underneath him, her pussy gripping him in spasms. “Jesus, Leon,” she managed, and his hand came up, fingers wet with her, and his thumb brushed across her cheek.
“That’s my good girl,” he said, and he thrust into her so hard it served to rob her of sound, and then he did it again, and again, setting up a pace that was rapid and rough, her body bouncing with every impact into her. She held onto him with everything she was, her legs tight around him, her uneven fingernails digging into the skin of his forearms. She looked at him, at his head once again hanging to watch his cock moving in and out of her.
“Fuck me,” she said, haltingly. “Give it to me—fuck me—“ Words other than this bit at her tongue, but she could not say them, so instead she just asked him to give her everything he had, to pound her into the mattress, to leave her an insensate, mindless mess on the bed. She felt like this <em>was</em> them saying <em>I love you</em>, his cock so deep inside her and so forcefully so it almost hurt. Claire had long ago stopped trying to rationalize whether or not this was normal, or healthy. It just was. She didn’t challenge it; and his thoughts were his own. They were the last thing he owned, in this world. She wasn’t going to question it, so she loved him on his terms, less with words and declarations and more with her body.
“You like it like this,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m gonna give it to you—I’m gonna shoot my load in this tight little cunt—I’m gonna fuck you so hard you can’t breathe—“
“Give it to me,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “I want it.”
Leon’s hand came up and caught in her hair, and pulled; she let her head follow the motion, her body at his whim. He thrust into her one last time, pushing in as far as he could go, and he groaned. Claire could feel him releasing in her, the pulsing and twitching of his cock that let her know he was making good on his promise to come inside her, to fill her up. She clung to him, his hand still tight in her hair, her throat dry.
“You okay?” he asked after a moment, his usual post-coital check in. She had long ago come to realize that he did this every single time, even if he wasn’t tying her up, even if he wasn’t slapping her ass with a belt or his hand, even if he wasn’t using his teeth and hands to leave bruises on her. His hand loosened in her hair, and Claire was free to move her head again, to angle it back downward, to look at him.
“Yeah,” she replied. He lowered himself to her and worked his arms underneath her, then rolled. She was on top of him then, him laying back on the bed, his cock still inside her. Claire let herself lay there limply, her hand coming up to stroke at his hair. They were quiet for long moments, laying there together. “You’re going to have a lot of snow to shovel in the morning,” she said after a while, quietly.
“I’ve already thought about it,” he replied. “You need a snowblower.”
“Maybe,” Claire replied, her fingers tracing along his collarbone.
“For my sake, anyway,” he said. “You probably don’t care if you own one. I need to get one for the house.”
“How much are they?” Claire asked.
“That’s not your concern,” Leon said. “I expect you won’t even use it. This is a purchase to make <em>my</em> life easier.”
“You could just leave it alone,” Claire said. “Nobody said you had to do this when you came here.”
“Nobody did,” Leon said. “But I can’t leave it be.”
“A work in progress,” Claire said, echoing his words from earlier in the evening.
“One must imagine Sisyphus enjoying the boulder,” Leon said dryly.
“<em>Does</em> Sisyphus enjoy the boulder?” Claire asked.
“No, but he’s rolling it for all of fucking eternity, so may as well get with the program,” Leon said, still dry. His hand became insistent on her head, and she lifted it; he kissed her long and fervently. He was still inside her; Claire fully suspected he was biding his time until he could get hard again, and then he was going to make good on his promise to fuck her until she couldn’t take it anymore. In some ways he kept her guessing, and in others he was predictable in that he did what he said. His other hand moved down to her ass, gripping, palming.
She drew back from his mouth, looking at him with lightly lidded eyes. “If we fuck all night, I don’t know how enthusiastic you’re going to be at shoveling snow,” she said in an undertone.
He gazed back at her evenly. “Perseverance,” he said. “I can do anything I put my mind to. Including fuck. Including shovel snow. If I stop moving, I’ll go crazy.” His hand squeezed her ass again, and then slapped it lightly. “I’m a man of my word.”
“I think Sisyphus must enjoy the boulder,” she said. “At least a little.” She leaned forward and kissed him again, and he made a noise into her mouth, hand tight into her flesh.
“Maybe,” he replied, when their kiss broke. “If rolling the boulder includes you coming, I enjoy it.”
Claire quirked a corner of her lips at him, and rolled her eyes a little. “I think it takes slightly less effort, but sure,” she said in amusement. “It <em>does</em> require effort.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Leon said, wrapping his arm around her, squeezing. Claire shifted some and his arm tightened around her, holding her to him. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Claire smiled. “Get your mind off wintertime, you ain’t goin’ nowhere. Whoo-ee, ride me high,” she said. Leon looked at her in semi-aroused confusion. “Bob Dylan,” she added.
“Fitting,” he said. “I don’t mind you riding me high.”
Claire continued smiling at him, and laid her head back down, feeling his hands roam over her body, gripping here, massaging there, as he tried to rouse himself again.
Perseverance, then. A work in progress. Ways of telling him she loved him without saying it. Claire let it all happen. She pictured it as helping Sisyphus roll the boulder.
Earlier I was listening to some of my rage music that you would not expect to inspire tender, gentle, emotional scenes out of me. Surprise, this kind of music inspires me to write all kinds of shit!! I was listening to the band Crippling Alcoholism's song "Beloved" and I was particularly struck by the lyrics: "Put down the knife/I'll carry you back to our room/Where there are miles and miles of bedsheets/I'll softly tuck you in/I'd dig a hundred graves for you/And melt endless limbs"
anyway this inspired me to write a little blurb! Claire has a nightmare, Leon tries to make it all better, and Claire contemplates the duality of her nature.
Claire rocketed up in the bed, a strangled sound dying in her throat. Her heart raced, her eyes were unfocused, and her hands were shaky.
Every time she thought she was fine; every time she thought they were gone for good. In the past it’d been every night, every other night. Now, in the present, she could go months and months between nightmares. It lulled her into a false sense of security; the hope that they’d never come back.
And then she’d find herself jerking awake in a puddle of sweat, visions of mutations, visions of blood, visions of violence in her head. Her brain spooled frantically, trying to process the situation around her, trying to dispel the hell of her sleeping thoughts. Her brain switched it up on her; she had infinite nightmare fuel contained within. Sometimes it was Raccoon, sometimes it was Rockfort, sometimes it was her own murderous deeds in Europe; her 20 year old self’s teeth grit, watching blood spill.
“Hey. Hey,” Leon’s voice came from next to her. This night she wasn’t alone like she usually was when her brain treated her to awful memory theatre; her brain was still spooling too fast to consider his presence. She stared into the darkness, haunted. His hand came to her face, grabbing her chin in a way that was forceful but tender, and he pressed his face against hers, his grip on her chin forcing her slack mouth open some. “You’re alright,” he said. “Breathe.” He kissed her cheek once, twice. “Look here.” His hand on her chin was firm, trying to turn her to him, but she kept her neck locked, staring out into space, fighting against his hand, every iota of her being all jagged edges.
Her breathing echoed harsh in the otherwise quiet room. Rational thought began to win the battle; it was years later, she was in bed on Long Island, she’d let on to the man next to her that occasionally she was not as collected as she pretended to be.
“Fuck,” she muttered, half in recoil at the content of her nightmares, half in shame she wasn’t more in control of herself at this point in her life.
“You’re alright,” Leon assured her, pulling her against him. “C’mere.”
Claire allowed herself to be cradled, her eyes still wide and wild into the darkness of the room over his arm. The back of her shirt was covered in sweat; she could feel it in her hairline. She wondered what time it was.
“Jesus,” she gusted after long moments, blinking. “It’s just the rest of my fucking life.”
“Hmm?” Leon hummed, holding her.
“The dreams,” she said. “I’m going to be 80 years old and waking up in a sweat.”
“The past doesn’t let you go easy,” Leon said. His hand moved, rubbing down over the crown of her head, down over her back, up and down the knots of her spine. “You’re soaked.”
“Yeah,” Claire said, without much thought.
She could feel him patting the bed behind her, where she’d been laying; she figured it was probably damp too. “Here,” he said, reaching down to the bottom of her shirt, pulling upward on it. “Up. Off.” She lifted her arms and let him pull the wet shirt off her, and he tossed it out into the room. “Come over on this side,” he said, and he pulled at her, urging her across his legs over onto the other side of him, onto the side of the bed that was usually his. Limply she complied, and allowed him to position her, to hold onto her. It was dry over here, and warm from where he’d been laying asleep until she’d woken him up.
“You wanna tell me what it was about?” he asked.
Claire stewed. “The usual. Scared shitless, low on ammo, things trying to rip me limb from limb, sometimes succeeding.” She sighed. “Sometimes I die, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes it’s not about that. Sometimes it’s about other things. Sometimes I’m the monster.”
“I know the feeling,” he said. He rolled her to him, hugging her; her breasts crushed against his chest and in this instance it was more about closeness and comfort than it was about arousal, which was what it usually was. “You’re alright.”
Half-naked she shuddered in the chill of the room, and Leon reached down, tugging blankets from under her. His movements were an odd combination of forceful and caring; he moved with an assurance like he was rendering battlefield first aid to someone bleeding out, like there were steps to doing this. He pulled the blankets out from under her and then up and over her, taking her back into his arms, into the warmth of his body. Leon ran like a furnace; his skin felt superheated against her goosefleshed own.
“When do they stop?” Claire asked after a long moment of silence, Leon’s hand drifting up and down her arm.
“They don’t, I don’t think,” Leon said. “At least you wake up. I don’t, anymore. My body just keeps letting it happen to me.”
Claire remembered the days after Raccoon, a younger Leon jolting awake in bed, tense and terse. She contemplated his brain just letting him go through it, one long nightmare that didn’t end until morningtime. She was glad she still had a safety release; glad her brain eventually drove enough adrenaline to the rest of her body to jolt her awake. She remembered being cut back loose into the world after all was said and done; Raccoon, time on the run, Europe, everything after. She remembered resignedly shaking pills into her hand every night before bed, pills to make her sleep, pills to keep the monsters at bay. Eventually she hadn’t needed the pills anymore, but every once in a while, she wished she still had some.
“I want a normal life,” Claire said, lowly and abruptly.
“We all do,” Leon said. “The past doesn’t let you go easy,” he repeated.
“I hate it,” she said, and she was acutely aware that sometimes she just let her emotions, big and raw and blunt, flood out when she was around him. It made her feel like a child; no filter, emotionally immature, something to be coddled. Leon did coddle her, in his own way. Maybe it was what she wanted. Maybe deep at her core she just wanted him to tell her it would all be okay and the bad times were over. Maybe her giving up control when it came to him extended to things outside of sex.
“I know,” he said. “I wish I knew a way to fix it. For you, for me, for all of us.”
“I want to be normal,” she said.
“You are normal. Your brain is reacting to abnormal things.” He cradled her, kissed her damp hairline. “You’re normal. You’re very human. You’re also safe, and nothing is going to happen to you.” He sounded so assured, as if he were telling her the sky was blue or the earth went around the sun.
“Maybe,” she murmured, staring into his chest in the darkness.
“You’re alright,” he said. “You’re here, I’m here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Part of her accepted being coddled; it was, after all, what she wanted deep inside. He told her exactly what she wanted to hear. Another part of her knew he could not always be there, and whatever would happen in her life would happen. Laying there in his arms, it was easy to believe she was just safe forever and nothing bad would ever come for her again, either in nightmares or in her life. Claire couldn’t give into the illusion entirely, no matter how badly she wanted to there in his arms. She remembered the three of them, herself, Sherry, and Leon all in a tangle in the bed in the days after Raccoon, all so scared shitless they ended up in a knot in the bed, clinging to each other. She remembered Sherry crying into her neck, remembered Leon sitting bolt upright in bed fumbling so hard for a gun next to the bed that he knocked it on the floor.
Now Sherry was an adult, Leon was off serving the government’s purposes, and Claire still had nightmares. She felt frozen in time; she felt like life had marched past her and left her in the dust, cradling her damaged memories.
“You need to go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Leon said to her, into her hair. She sighed.
“Yeah. Eventually,” she said.
His hand drifted up and down her bare back, soothingly. For a man who could probably wring the life out of someone effortlessly, he was surprisingly delicate with her at times. Claire found some small, secret part of her wanted that; the man who could efficiently punish with his hands treating her like she was some kind of china doll. Claire didn’t fully know what she wanted; her thoughts confused her at times. Some quintessentially feminine part of her she buried deep inside just wanted Leon to take away all her problems, wanted him to baby her. Externally, Claire could not let him do it. She was too realistic to be someone’s pampered little thing. She pushed, sometimes; she put on her tough bitch exterior and told him he was being silly when he tried to do too much for her. Sometimes, though, she just let herself be small, let him be in control.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “Relax.” His hand was still drifting on her back.
“It’s going to take me a while,” she said, but she did close her eyes.
“I won’t go back to sleep until you do,” he said.
“If you want to go to sleep, go to sleep,” she replied.
“No.” He pulled her against him. “You first. I’m good at being awake.”
Claire let out a gust, lying there, allowing him to soothe her with his hands, his presence. She thought of infected hands on her, fighting against them in a hallway, the muzzle of her handgun coming up underneath a jaw barely hanging on from rot and firing, deafening in her ears. She thought of a man turned into a monster, slowly swallowing a train car while she stood there dumbfounded, shotgun in her hands, Sherry in the car behind her with Leon wounded and half-drunk with blood loss. She thought of creeping up behind a guard outside a chateau in Germany, putting her gun to the back of his head, and firing. She thought of bouncing along in a van, tied up, beaten, and hooded after she’d been captured in France. She thought of watching what had been an earnest and admittedly annoying young man mutate into something monstrous and come after her, thought of what Wesker’s hands felt like pulling her hair and slapping her face.
“It never stops,” she said tiredly. “How do you make it stop?”
“I don’t think you do,” Leon said. “You learn to live with it. It hits you in the gut less.”
Claire knew he was right, but the lack of other available answers frustrated her. She wanted a solution that didn’t exist; she wanted time travel, she wanted to go back to when she was young and wild and undamaged. She laid there, eyes closed, heart pounding. She shuddered; she didn’t know if it was residual horror or cold or just a sensation that seized her.
Leon’s hand was firm on the back of her head. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
Claire warred with herself; she remembered Daddy kissing it and making it better, remembered being five years old and crawling into bed with Chris. Maybe her whole life she’d wanted to be coddled, and tried to hide it. Maybe she’d been weak and less than capable this whole time, and just not able to admit it to herself. She thought of comforting and reassuring Sherry; she thought of being in dangerous situations at work and taking the lead, rallying her coworkers behind her. She thought of holding her own in physical fights, in firefights.
All her life she’d simultaneously been so hard it scared lesser people, while so weak she just wanted to crawl into someone’s arms and collapse.
Tomorrow she’d have to be capable again; calm, assured, and directed at work. Her coworkers expected no less of her. She didn’t crack; she found ways out of tough situations. She blazed trails, she stood up for the little guy, she stuck her nose where it didn’t belong in the name of justice.
Tonight, she was a scared little girl, who just wanted someone capable to hold her and keep the monsters at bay. She gave in.
“Don’t let me go,” she murmured, and Leon adjusted his arms around her.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, baby.”
Claire let herself be weak. It felt like an indulgence of being alive, of breathing, of having survived her past.
So last night @ohgeesoap and I were talking about how huge Leon has gotten in RE9; he's been out there punching boulders like Chris. We agreed perhaps one of his motivations in getting so huge was to better manhandle Claire. The concept of manhandling spurred me to write fic.
In time I've been working on this more canon-compliant headcanon timeline in my head; Claire and Leon hook up after Infinite Darkness, they're together for a while, they're apart for a while, they come back together after Death Island. For several years they pretend like each other don't exist, heartbroken and living their lives, and then they get their shit back together and make it work.
In that headcanon, with advancements in the modern age and Leon trying to be less of a maladjusted, controlling, enigmatic fuck, he eventually decides to play house with Claire. He moves her down to Virginia; TerraSave lets her join the modern era with mostly remote work and harassing elected officials in DC, occasional travel.
This fic is set in that scenario, Leon and Claire playing house in the suburbs of Virginia. I just want them to be middle aged and domestic together SO BADLY. They still fuck like animals, though. They're fairly committed to that activity.
So, enjoy! Contains Claire trying to do the right thing and make dinner, Leon realizing a backflip at 45 would probably injure him, Claire being filthy, face-sitting, plenty of perverted reflection on Leon's part, straining thighs, headcanon!Leon's woodworking skills, and the arrival of the Porsche.
I think it's worthwhile, anyway. I hope there's enough manhandling within.
Leon pushed open the front door, looking around the entry way, listening for sounds from inside the house. It was quiet; there were lights on in the living room, but he didn’t hear any music, didn’t hear any clanking around, didn’t hear any signs of life. He parked in the driveway, and Claire parked in the half of the garage not occupied with all of his manly garage shit—he hadn’t come in through the garage, he didn’t know if her truck was there or not. He supposed she might not even be home. He came into the house fully, closing the door behind him. He stopped for a moment to shed his shoes and socks in the usual spot they left their shoes, and headed through the entry way and living room for the kitchen.
Once he got there, he was confronted with the sight of Claire bent over the counter, laptop in front of her, headphones on her ears. Her back was turned to him, and he wagered she had no idea he’d even come in. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts and a tank top, and one of her feet came up to rub absently at her calf. Leon walked over and hung his keys up with the others on the rack near the laundry room, near the door to the garage. He set his gym bag down on the kitchen table, and turned back to Claire. He watched her for another long moment, then made his way into her peripheral vision in the kitchen, trying not to scare the shit out of her.
She was intent on her laptop, and she looked over minutely for a second then started mildly and looked over at him fully, sliding the large headphones down around her neck. What sounded like surf rock drifted out of the abandoned earpieces. A corner of her mouth pulled up at him.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re finally home. I didn’t want to start dinner yet because I didn’t know what you were doing.”
Leon tilted his head at her a little, and gave her a look. “You know sometimes I’m not home until late. Sometimes I don’t get to come home. You should have just cooked, if you were hungry.”
“Not desperately,” Claire said. “I would have done it eventually.”
It took him an hour to make it from the offices in DC to the house, and that night he’d been around later than usual, punishing himself in the gym facilities. He’d lifted until absolute failure; until he felt like he was going to drop the bar on himself and couldn’t manage another rep. He’d pay for it tomorrow, he knew, but that was par for the course. Leon was used to being achy in some way or another—at least this ache was self-inflicted and came out of something worthwhile, and not old injuries or advancing middle age. He looked over at the pack of chicken on the counter, the pile of uncut vegetables, and then looked back over at Claire, still bent over in front of her laptop.
“Are you still working?” he asked, turning for the fridge. He grabbed a beer and cracked it open, taking a drink. He supposed he was going about this all back-asswards; a punishing workout routine in the gym for close to two hours and then coming home and immediately starting in on the beer. He had to have <em>some</em> kind of vices, he figured.
Claire stood up some. “A little,” she said. “There was an email chain going back and forth I was involved in, keeping an eye on. I was also killing time looking at recipes.”
Leon took another drink of his beer. “Well, knock that shit off,” he said. “Working, I mean. It’s almost 8 o’clock.”
“You just got home too,” she pointed out in amusement. “You could stand to knock it off, yourself.”
“I finished work at a normal time,” Leon said. “The world managed to keep its hands and nose out of shit, so I got to leave at a normal time.”
Her brow knit together. “So why are you home at 8?”
“I was at the gym,” he said, shedding his suit coat and tossing it onto the expanse of kitchen counter not currently being occupied by anything.
Claire leaned against the counter. “For like three hours?” she asked.
“Two,” he corrected.
She looked at him in mild bemusement. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but in the last several months you have gotten <em>huge</em>. Are you trying to give my brother a run for his money?”
Chris was a hulk of a human; Leon had often joked over the years that Chris had Anadrol and cigarettes for breakfast. Leon didn’t think he had the physical or genetic capabilities to get as big as Chris, no matter how he pushed himself. As a younger man he’d been long, lanky; he could gain muscle mass, but it took concerted, pointed effort. “Your brother’s neck is as big as my thigh,” Leon said. “No one is catching up to Chris. I’d have to go to Mexico for illegal steroids to catch up to him.”
Claire chuckled some, the surf rock drifting out of her headphones quietly. “I remember him when he was skinny,” she said. “I remember <em>you</em> when you were skinny. Why get so big all of a sudden?”
Leon shrugged. Internally, he knew the reason. At 45, he was finding himself slower in the field than he’d been at 25. His response time was lessened, it was harder to twist and turn like he used to, he was pretty sure he could still pull off a backflip but he didn’t know at what cost. In his mind, the logical response to losing agility and speed was to replace it with brute power. He may not have been as fast as he once was, but he was rapidly in pursuit of being able to rip someone’s head off with his bare hands. He’d made the same observation Claire had about his growing size a few months ago when he’d been more or less required to replace all his old suits. He was too big for them; they were too tight. “Just felt like it,” Leon replied, taking a drink of his beer and then setting it on the counter. “To see if I could do it. To better manhandle you.”
Claire offered another chuckle, and pushed up off the counter, taking her headphones from around her neck and putting them on the counter after turning them off. “I think I get manhandled enough,” Claire said. “You manhandled me when you were 30 pounds lighter.” She turned around and looked at the pile of dinner supplies on the counter.
Leon took a few steps and came up to her, putting his hands on his sides and turning her around. She looked up at him questioningly, and he tightened his grip on her sides and lifted, picking her up and depositing her on the counter. It was true he’d been able to manhandle her when he was 30 pounds lighter; Claire had always been willowy, devastating curves and a slip of a waist. Leon didn’t know her exact weight and he never had, but whatever her weight was had never been an issue for him. She felt like nothing in his arms. She looked at him in amused reproach from her new place on the counter, and he stood between her legs, his fingers trailing along the bare skin of her thighs.
“Yeah, but it’s more <em>fun</em> to manhandle you now that I’m bigger,” he said, his fingers tracing back and forth.
She leaned back on her hands and looked at him, smiling gently. “If you get any bigger you’re going to be able to crush me.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked. “Someone’s got to be able to open jars for you around here.” His fingers traced high up her thighs to the frayed edge of her shorts; Claire’s shorts were shorter than the average shorts, even at 43. Leon hoped she never stopped wearing them; being able to see the hint of the curve of her ass invariably drew his attention every single time. “You like being manhandled,” he added lowly, and leaned forward to kiss her, his hands sliding around to her ass on the counter, gripping.
She broke away from his mouth and looked at him with that same reproachful amusement, leaning back on her hands. “I have to make dinner,” she said.
He leaned forward some, urging her towards him on the counter. “I’m not going to waste away,” he said, burying his face in her neck. He placed a few open-mouthed, sucking kisses on her skin. “I think you should let me manhandle you a little first.”
Her hands came up to his shoulders, her head tilting at his mouth on her neck. “Is this a suggestion or are you intent on doing it?” she asked, softly.
Leon was halfway hard in his slacks; it was an intention at this point. The lobe of her ear was in his mouth, his fingers tight on her ass. “I think you should go to the bedroom and we’ll find out,” he said lowly in her ear. He drew back some and Claire looked at him; her cheeks were slightly pink and her eyes were a little lidded. He moved from between her legs and she slid down off the counter, wordlessly heading out of the kitchen. He turned and followed her, gazing at the curve of her ass under her shorts, the long pale expanse of her legs as she walked in front of him. They went through the living room, and down the hallway, to the darkened master bedroom. Leon left the door open; the light spilling in from the hallway provided dim illumination.
He grabbed her and turned her around, lowering his mouth to hers. She leaned against him and wrapped her arms around him, her tongue sliding against his, her mouth yielding under his. Leon kissed her until he felt the familiar tightening in his gut, and then he reached down and grabbed the hem of her tank top, pulling upward. She let him pull it off her, and he dropped it down near their feet. His hand slid up to the clasp of her bra and unfastened it, likewise dropping it down at their feet after he’d slid it down her arms. One of his hands came up to grasp a breast, kneading it in his hand, and the other slid down to the button and zipper of her shorts, working at them. Claire reached up and began to undo the buttons of his dress shirt, her face determined in the half-light.
Leon pushed her shorts down her hips and ran his hand over the curve of her ass, over her lacy boyshort panties. They were sexy, and seeing her in them got him going, but he wanted her out of them. He insinuated his hand under them and grabbed her ass, then began to push them down, leaving her to shimmy out of them as she finished unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his slacks. She leaned up and kissed him again, her hands going to his belt as he peeled off his shirt. She made quick work of it and his slacks, and then he was stepping out of his clothes like she had. He reached down and took his cock in his hand, at that point fully hard, and he moved his mouth from hers.
“Kneel,” he said, and she complied immediately—she was old hat at this, she knew what was coming, he wagered.
He stepped closer to her, cock in his hand, and brought it up to her lips, rubbing it against them. Claire looked up at him and opened her mouth, tongue out; Leon groaned and tapped his cock against her tongue a few times, gazing at her. She knew just how to be dirty for him, to provide him the visuals he wanted to see; he thought of her looking up at him through her lashes as she sucked his cock eagerly, thought of taking her chin in his hand and watching his come drip from her open mouth. She knew him like the back of her hand at this point; Leon didn’t suppose it was a bad thing, he still wanted her just as much as he ever had. He fed his cock into her waiting mouth and she closed her lips around him, beginning to bob her head back and forth, her hands on his thighs. She was so good at this, and she always had been—every time it was a fight to not want to just come in her mouth, to not let her just have her way with him until he came.
One of her hands left his thigh and came up to his length, tightening around the base, and stroking towards her mouth. She’d tried over the years, but she’d never seemed to be able to get over her gag reflex. Leon didn’t mind; she was so good at this he didn’t need to be able to go all the way down her throat, and some base part of him that rarely saw the light of day <em>liked</em> her gagging on his cock, liked watching her struggle with its size. He didn’t want to hurt her; he never wanted to hurt her, even when he was biting her, pinching her, slapping her. Still he couldn’t help the excitement he felt when she pushed her head forward and choked on his cock.
Claire was laving her tongue around the head of his cock, her hand stroking him firmly. She moved her other hand from his thigh and grasped his balls in her hand, cradling them, squeezing them gently.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, his hand catching in her hair. “Keep going.”
She resumed moving her head back and forth, then drew back entirely and arched her neck, spitting on his cock. Leon groaned; she knew <em>just</em> what he wanted to see. Her hand spread the wetness around, his length now lubricated with her spit, and she put her mouth back on him, sucking in determination.
“Good girl,” he murmured, watching her in the half light. Her hands were occupied with him. “Touch yourself,” he said. “Get good and wet for me, Claire.”
Her hand left his balls and went down between her legs, her fingers working over her pussy. She moaned a little around his cock and looked up at him, then pushed her head forward and took as much of his cock into her mouth as she could, then gagged a little and drew back, resuming moving her head back and forth, gazing up at him the whole time.
She was fucking pornographic like this, her mouth and hand working over his cock, her fingers between her legs, her face flushed. After so many years, Leon kept waiting for the day when this would be commonplace to him, when he would be less excited by it—it hadn’t happened, and he wasn’t sure it ever would. He still wanted her as much as he had in his 20s; she still drove him into aroused insanity. He let her go on for more long moments, sucking his cock, writhing on her fingers, and then he tightened his hand in her hair.
“That’s enough,” he said. “Get up.”
She released his cock from her mouth with a wet pop, and stood, gazing at him in anticipation. He left her standing there and went and laid on the bed, and she turned and looked at him, her face minutely questioning.
“C’mere,” he said, beckoning her. “Bring me that pussy. I wanna taste it.”
Years ago she’d demurred at this, saying she was going to smother him; that he wasn’t going to be able to breathe. Leon had told her then that he’d happily smother between her thighs, and he still felt the same. She came over to the bed and climbed onto it, then parted her legs over him and inched up to his face. She still always settled in carefully, like he was going to struggle with her on his face. He looped his arms around her thighs, holding her to him, and opened his mouth over her, sliding his tongue inside her. Claire always started hesitant and careful when she sat on his face, but it always ended the same—her gasping, riding his mouth like she didn’t care if he smothered or not.
He let his mouth and tongue work over her, and she reached up and grabbed onto the headboard, her hips starting to swerve against him—just like always, she was getting less concerned with being polite, less concerned with him other than what he was doing to her with his mouth. He sucked at her clit and gazed up at her body over him, the curve of her breasts, the way she reached up and put her palms on the wall above the headboard, looking for leverage to work herself over his mouth. His face was wet with her; he kept at her clit, relentlessly. He wanted to hear her come, wanted to hear her desperate moaning and her high pitched gasps.
“Jesus, Leon,” she panted, and he tightened his grip on her thighs, redoubled his efforts on her pussy. “Oh <em>fuck</em>.”
She was getting close; like she always had, she started with the entreaties to religious figures she didn’t believe in and the swearing when she was about to come. It was a tell Leon enjoyed. He hummed against her, his mouth opening and closing over her, his tongue working all the while.
“Oh Jesus,” she keened, and her head leaned back, her palms against the wall, and she pressed down against his mouth, her hips rolling. She vocalized wildly, her voice excited and incoherent, riding his face as she came. The sounds she was making made his cock throb; Leon maintained listening to Claire come was more than enough to make any man want to blow his load in his pants. She wasn’t quiet, and Leon enjoyed it. He could listen to her coming, over and over again, and sometimes he did, pushing her until she was hysterical. She rutted against his mouth until she was finished, a frisson of a shudder working through her body. Leon unhooked his arms from her thighs and reached up to her hips, her waist, and she started to shift backwards, a little haltingly. He pushed himself up onto his elbows as she adjusted herself over him, and he slid and pushed himself up to a sitting position, against the headboard. Leon took his cock back into his hand and stroked it, looking at her.
“Get over here, baby,” he said. “Ride this cock.”
Claire shuffled back up his body, her hips spread over his, and her hands came to his shoulders. Leon guided himself into her and she rocked down onto him with a gasp. She began working her hips over him, much like she’d worked them over his mouth, her body undulating.
“Just like that,” he said, palming her ass. “You’re so fucking good at this. You love riding my cock.”
“Yes,” she breathed, her hands tight on his shoulders.
“Tell me,” he said.
“I love it,” she murmured. “I love riding your cock.” Her body moved over his, his cock pushing in deep, and she leaned forward and kissed him, sitting up straighter, her hands in his hair. His face was still wet with her, her taste all over his mouth, her tongue delving into him repeatedly.
“You make me fucking crazy,” he said against her lips, his hands on her thighs. “You ride this cock so good…”
“I love you,” she gusted, pressing down and grinding on him. “Oh fuck Leon it feels so good.”
“I love you too,” he said, and gave her ass a little slap. “C’mon, baby. Faster.”
She complied, her movements increasing in speed, the swerve of her hips over him more urgent. He leaned back and looked at her. She gazed back at him, her mouth open, her eyes dazed. He loved the look on her face when he was fucking her; she looked like she existed just for this moment, like she didn’t know what to do with herself, like she didn’t know what to do without him inside her. He reached up and took her breasts into his hands, squeezed them, pushed them together, worried her nipples with his fingers. Her back arched, her lip caught in her teeth. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Claire rode him, one hand on his shoulder, the other behind her on his thigh, the sounds coming out of her mouth soft and awed. He let her go on for long moments, watching her, his hands on her hips. He thought better of it and leaned forward, wrapping an arm under her ass, and one around her back, and then he began to shift. Claire clung to him, and he got up onto his knees, his feet under him, and she adjusted herself, wrapping her legs around him, clinging to his shoulders.
“See?” he asked. “Manhandling.”
She let out a breathy noise that was half a laugh, half a gasp. He began to urge her up and down on his cock, and she used her arms and legs as leverage to rear up against him, following the encouragement of his arm under her ass. Her hands gripped at the back of his neck, using the handhold to pull herself up against him, and his mouth found her neck, kissing and biting there. Sometimes he left marks; she never minded it in the moment, but after the fact she’d grouse at him and tell him she looked like a sixteen year old, to which he replied she worked from home now and no one was going to see them unless she wanted them to. Fuck it; he wanted to leave a mark, he was going to. He bit down and sucked, and her movements against him grew slightly frantic, her body straining against him. She pressed against him and he groaned against her neck, releasing her skin, wrapping his arms around her tighter.
She angled her face down towards his as she pulled herself against him, her breath short. “Jesus I’m going to come again,” she panted, her legs tightening around him. “Oh <em>God</em>--“
He leaned up towards her ear. “Give it to me,” he said, his lips against the shell of her ear. Claire’s voice was rising, helplessly. “Oh you’re so close,” he said lowly, his tone a tease. “You want it bad, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she managed. “Oh fuck—oh please—“
He reached up and tangled his hand in her ponytail, gripping and pulling, exposing her neck. She gasped loudly. “You better come, Claire,” he said, his mouth on her neck; he could feel her pulse racing. “You better come for me like a good girl.” He bit down on her skin and she pulled herself against him, a long, throaty noise escaping her. He could feel her pussy clenching and releasing around him, her breathing out of control. He let go of her hair and she looked down at him, her face hanging over his, her brow knit together, her mouth open and slack.
Leon gripped onto her and spread his legs some, thighs tense, and he thrust up into her. She let out a loud noise and her nails bit into his neck; at some point in the last few years Claire had decided to grow her nails longer, and occasionally she gripped at him and clawed at him so hard it left marks. He didn’t mind; he liked looking at his forearms and seeing the little crescent moon marks, liked feeling the sting of scratches on his back. He thrust up into her again, and again, and she hung onto him, addled, letting him fuck her.
“You like being manhandled,” he said up into her face, gazing at her. “You like it rough.” He pistoned his hips up into her, fingers tight in her flesh.
“Harder,” she gasped, bouncing.
Leon complied, giving her everything he had, her sounds loud and echoing in the gloom of the room. This was what he loved the most, pounding into her so hard it wiped all thought from his brain, his teeth clenched, his balls tightening, listening to the obscene slap of skin against skin as he fucked her senseless. She wanted it like this; she wanted him grabbing onto her body and losing control, using her like a fucktoy, until he buried himself inside her and came.
“Fuck, Claire,” he growled. “You make me fucking <em>crazy</em>--I’m gonna fucking come so deep inside you—“
“Yeah,” she moaned, her body bouncing, her nails digging into his neck. “Come—come—“
He thrust up into her, thighs straining, his hips stuttering. “You’re fucking filthy, Claire—here it comes, baby—“ Leon thrust into her one last time, pushing himself inside as far as he could, his cock twitching as he shot his load inside her, groaning. He held onto her so tightly he knew that would probably leave marks too, aside from the ones he’d left on her neck. She leaned down and quickly fitted her mouth over his, her kiss reckless and sloppy, swallowing his moan.
In steps he came down, and he began to loosen his grip on her some, listening to her shortened breath. He shifted again, holding onto her, helping her ease herself off him. He laid back on the bed, feeling the sweat in his hairline, and Claire laid down next to him, hooking a leg over his, her hand on his chest.
“You alright?” he asked, and she nodded in the darkness. Silence reigned for a few minutes while they collected themselves.
“We still have to eat dinner,” Claire said after a bit, sighing.
“I don’t give a shit,” Leon said. “You don’t have to cook if you don’t want. I’m sure I can find something to put into my stomach that would pass as dinner.”
“I’m not letting being manhandled derail me from dinner,” Claire said, quietly amused. “We can’t just eat cereal and call it good. You probably burned ten thousand calories at the gym. You’ll wake up ready to eat your own arm if I don’t feed you.”
She was right; Leon probably needed to put something of substance into himself, but he also wanted to give her an out from cooking if she just wanted to lay there and be naked and not concerned with feeding his domestically challenged ass. “I’m just saying. I don’t expect you to fuck me and jump up and make dinner. This isn’t 1955.”
Claire laughed some. “That’s what I’m here for,” she said drolly. “Who else is gonna fuck you and cook for you?”
“I don’t know and I’m not willing to find out,” Leon replied.
“I mean <em>I</em> have to eat, too,” she said. “I’m also motivated by feeding myself so I don’t wake up at 3 AM and raid the fridge for cold leftovers.”
“There is that,” Leon said with a gust. “I also left behind a perfectly good beer in the kitchen.”
“Aren’t you supposed to like have shakes or supplements after you beat yourself up in the gym?” she asked, bemusedly. “You come home and crack a beer?”
“I am not a smart man,” Leon said. “I also like beer.”
“Who doesn’t?” Claire asked knowingly.
“Mormons,” Leon replied. “They’re missing out.”
She snickered. “Dinner won’t take long. I’m making stir fry. It’ll probably take me longer to chop and slice everything and make the rice than it will for me to cook the main meal.”
“I will eat whatever you put in front of me,” he said.
“As ever,” she said, and leaned in to kiss his stubbled cheek. She pushed herself up and over to the edge of the bed then stood, rounding the foot of the bed and heading for the bathroom. She emerged a minute later wrapping her robe around her; it was silk, she’d bought it in Japan, and she constantly insisted to him that his dry and calloused hands were going to ruin it. He looked over at her.
“I’m not getting dressed again,” she said. “Too much effort.”
“I’m probably going out to the garage, so I guess I should probably put <em>something</em> on my body,” Leon said.
Claire looked at him, putting her hands on her hips. “Don’t get too involved in shit out there and then refuse to come inside,” she admonished. “Dinner isn’t going to take long, I’m telling you.”
He smiled some; she often expressed frustration that he got sucked into his projects in the garage, sucked into the skill he’d known since his teen years as he worked with wood and built furniture they admittedly had no use for. He made it, and Claire marveled over it, and then since they had no use for it, she’d list it for sale online. The rocking chairs were especially popular; Claire joined expectant mothers’ groups and apparently pregnant women fell over themselves for a handmade rocking chair. It was something to do with his time, something he’d been prevented from doing in the years in an apartment; he’d recently toyed with the idea of a project car as well, but Leon didn’t know where he’d put it. The garage was filled with Claire’s truck and his woodworking shit; one side of the driveway had to stay clear for Claire to back out, and the other side was occupied with his old Jeep and the Porsche. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the Jeep, in spite of Claire telling him he should just let it go. She’d also been the one who’d encouraged him to buy himself something that wasn’t rusting and covered in peeling clear coat. She’d been a bit flabbergasted when he finally took her advice to heart and came home with a Porsche; she’d said he’d taken her inch and went a mile. It didn’t matter—he could afford it, and it <em>was</em> kind of fun to drive. Claire refused to touch it, and with her driving, it was probably better she didn’t. She said it had too many bells and whistles. She preferred the relative simplicity of her truck.
“I’ll keep it to a dull roar,” he said. “Although at this rate it’ll be next year before I finish that chair.”
“The pregnant women of Middleburg, Virginia are despairing,” Claire said with a smile. “What will they do if you don’t finish your tenth rocking chair?”
“Who am I to upset a pregnant woman?” Leon asked, sitting up. “I’ll come in when you ask me to. I promise.”
Claire was still smiling, and she turned and headed for the door, moving out into the hallway. Leon sat there for a moment in the semi-darkness, then rubbed his hands over his face. He could already feel the ache in his thighs from both his exertion at the gym and the added exertion he’d gotten up to in the bed. Tomorrow he’d regret it, but tonight it’d been worth it for some manhandling. He moved to the edge of the bed and sat, pushing himself up to look for clothes to make him decent to be in the garage. The rocking chair wasn’t going to make itself.
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