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Claire had always hated hospitals, and this was probably her longest stay in one since the car accident. The nauseating chemical smell seemed to have now seeped into the back of her throat, and she was pretty confident it was going to remain there for the rest of her days. Like the red wine stain left on the sleeve of her favourite jacket.
Only this time, she wasn't sure if she'd be going home. Sherry had been painfully reluctant to share her files on Raccoon City Syndrome with her, yet nothing could stop Claire from getting what she wanted when her mind was set. Almost immediately, she'd regretted it.
Stage Three. Terminal.
Claire had started showing symptoms before Leon had even felt anything wrong. The first bruise had been on her knuckles, and she dismissed it as a gnarly reminder of her dropping a wrench on her hand the previous day. And then a few weeks later there was a new bruise on her knee, then her thigh, then her shoulder. Soon, she was on the verge of falling asleep in TerraSave corporate meetings, and no matter how many early nights she gave herself, her lethargy persisted.
The doctors had no idea, Leon and Sherry frantically contacted everyone they knew, Claire had test after test done, and nothing. Not until a month later, when Sherry turned up past headlines about Raccoon City survivors being found dead with the same marks as her. Leon had started showing about another week after that, yet their daughter was spared for another month.
And then her husband was whisked off back into the hell where it had all begun, with Claire left in a hospital bed. All she could think about was how they wouldn't be by her side when it happened. She didn't even know if Leon was alive or not. She didn't know if Sherry was sent in too, she didn't know anything - just that she would be alone as she died.
The thought terrified her.
It was the same cruel idea that had wormed its way into her brain as she sat sobbing under her brother's desk in the R.P.D, the vicious hissing of Lickers mocking her from just beyond the door. The ink on the note Leon had left her had still been wet.
It was so thin in her hands, now. Torn and thinned by her many handlings of it over the years, the words slightly blurred in the spots where her tears had dropped. It'd become a good luck charm, yet it seemed now that she'd exhausted its use.
She had become too weak to do much of anything. Even crying was too much effort. So she just lay there quietly, dreaming of the old motels, of the greasy pizza, the shivering under blankets. It was enough to drown out the steady beeping of all the monitors around her, and silence her fantasies of having the strength to jump out of the window. If only.
Claire's room felt damp. Condensation clawed at the windows, having slipped down into the hard plastic windowsill to evaporate back into the air that would quickly form droplets again on her skin. A single dim lamp shone on the other end of the square room by the door: her bed was too dark to read. Not like she could focus on words now, anyway. But it'd be nice to have the option.
The moon refused to make any appearance, instead contenting itself underneath its soft blanket of cloud. Her sole consistent companion had deserted her.
Anxiously, she fiddled with her wedding band, the slow, monotonous stroking being the only comforting action she could take anymore. A burst of coughing overtook her, and the burst of blood that accompanied it filled her mouth with a strangely sweet but ferrous taste. She and Leon had gone as vampires for Halloween, once.
There were sudden voices outside, loud, irritated ones. She tried to focus on the memories again. It was time for her to sleep, wasn't it? A nice, long sleep.
“Claire!” The door to her private room thudded open, the handle denting with the force at which it was flung.
Heaven. So sweet, warm, and loving.
This is it.
Clean hands ran across her forearm, up to her chin, tilting her head forward. Clean hands. If it was him then…
Yes, this is Heaven.
The bullet-slinging angel on the back of her and Chris’ jackets didn't seem so metaphorical, anymore.
“Hey, Claire! It’s me, it’s all okay. There’s a cure, sweetheart.” The voice was urgent, commanding, slightly scary, and familiar all the same. Oh yes, it was him. The gates were open.
Her head rolled, and she could barely open her eyes anymore. Just one last look. That was all she wanted, all she needed. There was a sudden sharp sting in her bicep, and a pounding in her head. The world went black, and Claire couldn't remember the name of the face she'd been looking at.
~~~
A sudden gasp came from her lips as Claire suddenly found herself awake again. She waited for the pain, for the racking coughs. Nothing came. Just a warm, peaceful sensation, like the first sight of sun after a long and cruel winter.
There was a man at the foot of her bed, eyes closed and brow furrowed. Clear skin and unharmed save for some cuts and bruises. She would let him rest for a little while more - it had always been one of her favourite past times to watch him sleep. To admire the way his chest moved with every soft breath, to trace his nose and each dip and ridge it had.
“Oh, Leon.” She murmured.
He jolted awake, eyes widening in shock, then elation as he took in the scene in front of him. Claire barely had time to blink before he scooped her up carefully in his arms, their strength and muscle apparent even through the slight shake of them from her weight and his exhaustion. The only time she had seen him happier was when she had stood in front of him at the end of the aisle.
She inhaled deeply, savouring his scent despite the fact that he definitely had not showered since he’d gotten back from the mission. It didn’t matter to her. It never had. Through all the mud, sweat and things she’d really rather not think about there was still the soft yet distinctive smell of Leon that had always brought her comfort. She pressed her head against his chest, feeling as his arms tightened around her instinctively.
If it were possible, she would have stayed like that forever. There had never been anything better than when he came home. Past homecomings where she’d dropped everything to dash home and fling her arms around him flashed through her mind.
“Jesus Christ, I was so scared.” She confessed, still buried in his chest.
A gentle chuckle rumbled against her ear. “So was I.”
“Is Sherry-”
“She’s fine. She was never sent in, you don’t need to worry about that. And cured, too.” Pride threaded its way through his voice, and Claire realised that she never had to worry about their daughter after all. She trusted her in the field more than she did Leon, actually.
Cured.
Reluctantly, she pulled away from her spouse to examine her once blackened hands, finding that they were now back to their usual colour. The brief pinching she’d felt in her arm came back to her again, and she looked back up at him questioningly.
“It’s… It’s a really long story, Claire,” he set her back down on the bed, “a long story.” She nodded silently. Despite her burning for answers, it could wait. “When we get home.” Leon offered, and she nodded again, taking his hand tightly in her own. The fact that there was a cure at all was enough.
Suddenly, the bed felt unbearably cramped. All she wanted to do was move around, look outside of the window, swing Leon around the hospital room. The slightly afraid look on his face told her that it was exactly what he was expecting.
With all of her newfound energy, she practically leapt off the bed and grabbed his arms excitedly. To her, this was their first dance all over again. A grin spread across Leon's lips, and he looked just like the completely out-of-his-depth rookie that she'd met at a zombie-infested gas station nearly thirty years ago.
“Your bike was still there, you know.” It was like he could read her mind. “And my jeep.”
“I still have dreams about that bike.” She sighed wistfully. It'd been her first customisation that she'd done entirely by herself, and she knew she was damn right to be proud of it. The muscle memory pushed her head onto his chest, and they began to slowly waltz around the room.
Leon chuckled. “It was a pretty nice bike.”
“Way more than just pretty. It was like you, but in bike form. I even had an R.P.D charm from the East Office boys on the keychain.” There was little pain attached to either of their memories of the RC Police when they spoke about it with each other.
“Huh. Red line theory.”
“Red string theory.” Claire corrected, pulling her head away slightly to laugh at him. He could never get it right.
“They're the same thing.” He insisted, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Yeah, okay, he was basically right about that. She didn't respond.
The couple continued to glide around the room, movements practised and refined. It was nothing like the first time they'd danced together in a shitty motel trying to keep themselves sane. Leon wasn't tripping over his own feet for one, and there was no sleeping child they had to be careful not to wake.
“We might be getting visits from another kid soon.” Leon broke their comfortable silence.
“Oh?”
“Long story, again. But I met an FBI Agent, and she saved a little girl. She reminded me a lot of Ashley, actually.”
“The agent or the little girl?” Claire smiled.
He thought for a moment. “Both. The little girl was more like Sherry, though.”
“I can't wait to meet them.” She affirmed, planting a kiss on Leon's nose. Nothing could hurt her whilst he was here, and she would make damn well sure that nothing could even come close to hurting him.
Gradually, Claire slowly realised Leon was guiding her back to the bed. She let it happen, but showed her displeasure with a slight furrowed brow.
“You need to rest, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead again and wrapped the thin sheet around her. Every wrinkle in his face was softened, each natural crevice as beautiful as that of a well-loved oak tree. His stubble was getting too long - she'd have to shave it again soon. No amount of begging would get him to do it himself.
“You better be here when I wake up. Or out getting yourself something.” She warned, dead serious.
“Oh, don't worry, Claire. I'm not going anywhere.”