Spring had come late, the chill of winter still lingering in the shaded, concrete-floored garage that was attached to Claire's brother's house. From his vantage point, one hip pressed up against a workbench, Leon could still see a little pile of dirty snow hiding in the shade of the eaves where the sun had yet to penetrate. Her brother was gone for the weekend and so Claire had commandeered the drafty little structure – something Leon figured happened fairly often judging from the relative organization of the tools that hung on neat little pegs along the walls. Chris seemed more like an organized-chaos type of guy – Claire was the stickler for details. It came across in her demeanor, which was possibly why people, some virtually strangers, seemed to have no qualms trusting their small children into her care. Still, she hadn't taken over the place completely – a faded pin-up calendar of World War II aircraft nose art hung crookedly above a pile of what appeared to have started life as lawnmower parts.
"Can you pass me that 5/8" ratchet over there?" A hand smudged with black grease came reaching over the gas tank of a now mostly-reassembled motorcycle. "I've almost got it."
Leon found the tool laying out on the work table and passed it over, its grateful recipient awarding him a cheery wink in response. He'd known women that spent hours in front of a mirror and came out not looking half as good as Claire Redfield smudged with motor-oil; a big black streak of it ran across her forehead where she'd unconsciously been brushing her bangs out of her face all afternoon.
"Where'd you learn how to do all this stuff anyway?"
"My dad taught me when I was a kid," she said, her face twisting up as she tightened something on the other side of the bike.
"And your mom taught Chris how to bake bread, or what?"
"Ha ha – you've obviously never been subjected to his cooking. Dad and Chris built a shed in the backyard, and dad and I built something to keep in there."
"I see."
"I mean, have you ever seen the hands on that meathead – he's not really one for detail work."
"Fair enough."
"But it's like he has a level in his brain," she made a tilting motion with her arm, as if it was trying to find the horizon. "Let me tell you, if you ever need any shelves hung, I know just the guy."
"I'll keep that in mind the next time I'm renovating."
He could just glimpse the top of her head, bowed for a moment in concentration, over the bike. The long, auburn strands shined and glinted in the afternoon light that came in through the open garage door. As with many houses built in the same era as the neighbourhood, Chris' garage faced the alley instead of the street and Leon thought he could hear the skid of bicycle tires on dirt from somewhere nearby. It was a nice day, and it seemed that everyone was taking the opportunity to dive into all the outdoor things they had been planning all winter – be that taking the bike out for a spin or raking the last of the dead leaves off the lawn.
"C'mon, I'm sure your dad taught you how to change oil in a car or something, right?" Part of Claire's brain was running on autopilot, just trying to keep the conversation going while the rest of her mind was occupied with the mechanics of the machine in front of her. If she had just looked up a second before she spoke, she might have caught some look, some skew to his features that would have advised her to take the conversation in a different direction.
"My dad worked a lot," it was an understatement. "We didn't get a chance to spend a lot of time together when I was a kid."
"Oh," she paused in her work, looking up, realizing the faux pas. "Well, that's okay too, I mean, that's what older brothers are for – right?"
Leon rarely spoke of his family and mentioned them less and less often as time wore on. Claire knew the basics – the names and general age gaps, the professions and locations – and never pressed for more. He had closed off a lot since starting his work for the president she had noticed, but every once in awhile she was rewarded with a little insight, or a little flash of the determined rookie cop she'd first known.
"Right."
Truth be told, Leon spent more time with her older brother than he did with his own. And he was alright with that – they had more in common anyway, and occasionally it meant spending time with the other, prettier, Redfield sibling.
"Do you want me to teach you how to change the oil?" She smiled up at him with her grease-smudged face, looking the perfect wrench monkey.
"It's okay; I figured that one out on my own," Leon could feel himself smile a little back.
"How about a ride then?" Wiping her hands on her jeans, Claire got to her feet, one knee cracking as she stood. She straightened out the sleeves of the black leather motorcycle jacket she wore over a worn-in t-shirt.
"Only if I can drive," he teased, knowing she would never go for it.
"Forget it, Kennedy," a helmet nearly smacked him in the chest. "But how about if I give you the best seat in the house?"
One long, lean leg swung over the bike as she straddled the seat, the heavy weight of a motorcycle boot contacting solidly with the cement floor. Looking entirely in control, and more than a little dangerous, she motioned the space behind her.
The small space behind her.
The small space behind her that would require him to press himself tight up against every inch of her and those mile-long legs. Leon swallowed.
"What's the matter – would you rather walk?" She taunted, silver eyes glinting, promising one hell of a ride.
"Don't count on it," Leon slid in close behind her, wrapping an arm tightly around her hips and pulling her tightly into the vee of his own muscular legs.
"Just move with me and stay close," he watched her nimble fingers as she pulled out the elastic holding her hair up in its usual ponytail and quickly began to work the russet strands into sloppy braid. "You ever ridden before, Rookie?"
"Of course."
"Not like this you haven't," she promised with a wink over her shoulder, settling her helmet over her head. Leon followed suit, settling his grip on her more solidly as she kick-started the engine to life.
It took a couple of moments to get used to the balance of the bike on the road, and a couple more to get over the anxiety of not being the one in control. But it quickly became apparent to Leon that the only thing better than being behind the handlebars of a bike on the road, was being behind a drop-dead gorgeous woman at the handlebars of a bike on the road.
At first he thought she was being easy on him, keeping a nice, steady pace as they wound through the streets of the city, heading towards the outskirts. And then they hit the flat, empty, secondary highway outside of town and Leon suddenly became aware of why Chris Redfield sometimes got a particular, tight-lipped look when someone brought up his sister's name. This woman who had opened up the engine as wide as it can go, this wild-child with a mane of dark fire that had escaped its bonds to fly up all around him, who pressed her hips back against his as he pulled her closer – she wasn't the same sweet girl who hugged scared little kids and told them not to be afraid, the same angel who disarmed corporate wolves with her sugar smile... Or was she?
Whoever she was, she felt amazing pressed up against his thighs and all along his chest. It took a lot to get a reaction – any reaction out of him, but flying down the highway at the speed of light with only her to hold on to had him reacting alright. He hadn't felt this alive, this free, in years and it had his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
Eventually the blur of the landscape on either side of them began to slow down, gradually regaining some recognizable shape. Claire guided them off the highway onto a poorly-maintained road, heading a few miles away from the main drag until she pulled up beside an old, abandoned gas station, killing the engine. Although the pumps were relatively modern – only a couple of decades old maybe – the building itself harkened back to the 1950s or maybe earlier. Claire pulled off her helmet, trying to smooth back the mass of strands tangled by wind and speed.
"Sorry about the hair," her lips twisted a little sheepishly "It has a mind of its own sometimes."
Leon pulled off his own helmet, taking a deep breath of the clear country air. His own locks were awkwardly pressed and matted to his head from the helmet. "Don't worry about it." He slid off the bike so she could put the kickstand down. "What is this place?"
"I don't know," she drew her own leg over the seat, walking around one of the pumps. "I've been by here a couple of times, but there's just an old house a couple of miles up that back road and nothing else."
"A ghost town." A cloud of dust obscured his view as he peered through one of the windows. His hand tried the doorknob and found it stubbornly locked.
"Allow me," Claire pulled a small silver instrument out of her back pocket.
"You always carry a lockpick around with you?"
"Hey, I learned from the Master – so I always come prepared."
Leon stood back as he watched her fiddle with the device in the door, finally opening the weakening panel of wood on ancient hinges. He wanted her. Badly. Badly enough that maybe he was willing to throw better judgment out the window and just reach over and take her.
The double cohort of their booted feet on the wooden panels of the floor set off a chorus of groans and a few eruptions of dust that caught and twirled in the streams of sunlight that made it in through the hazy windows. The place had been gutted long ago of everything of value, leaving only a collection of barren work tables and an ancient fridge – the kind small children got trapped and suffocated in – stuffed into one corner. Along all four walls are hundreds and hundreds of rusted nails, hammered into the wood in no particular pattern, a few still holding rubber belts or a length of rotted rope. He watched her as she strolled across the room, eyes curious, hair still a tangle as she peered into a hidden back alcove. The heavy boots gave her a particular swagger that drew his eyes down to her trim hips and the incredible curve of that same, perfect ass that had driven him to distraction the whole ride here.
"Come check this out!" She pulled her head out of the alcove, blocked from actually entering the space by a heap of rusted-out machinery that apparently had started life as diagnostic equipment for vehicles that were long past their manufacturing dates. Coming up close behind her, he leaned over her shoulder, putting his hands on the doorframe around her. "Look up there in that corner."
Over in the farthest corner a spider had used the walls and the rusted nails to construct a magnificent, intricate web that was looped and woven over a huge section of the wall. Personally, Leon had had somewhat of an aversion to arachnids ever since his first day on the job as a cop. Of course, Claire Redfield would never let something like an outbreak of biological weaponry destroy her appreciation of nature's beauty. So while she took in the delicate, gossamer filaments, Leon looked down at her instead, at the portion of her sharp-nosed profile he could see without obviously shifting his position.
"Don't you think it's amazing?" She turned her head back towards him, seeming to become suddenly aware of how close he was, his arms pressed up against the frame on either side of her. A part of him wanted to tell her that while he didn't care much for spiders, he thought she was pretty damn amazing herself. But on second thought, amazing didn't even begin to describe the woman in front of him, so he did what all the other parts of him wanted to do and leaned in to kiss her.
She was a little startled at first, having been caught unawares, but the adrenaline of the open road had affected her too and in a heartbeat she was turning back toward him and kissing him back, petal-soft lips sliding against his. His long fingers found their way into the snarled maze of her hair, anchoring her in place as he kissed her hard, and wet, and deep. Her lips parted to delve her tongue into his mouth, parrying and thrusting against his. He kissed as if he couldn't ever get enough of the taste of her, his lips trailing across her face, up to the sensitive skin close to her ear, then down along her neck to her pulse and back up again. It was a surprising and intimate gesture from someone who usually held himself so aloof.
Encouraged, she slid her hands up under his jacket and shirt, ghosting her palms up the warm planes of his back only to draw them back slow and hard enough that he could feel a little remnant of engine grease smearing along his skin. When he pulled back her lips are swollen and red, open and breathless, but he only stalled long enough to lift her to wrap her legs tightly around his hips, holding her there as she looped her arms around his neck, sealing their mouths once more. For years he had wondered – sometimes idly, sometimes more intently – what those full, pouting lips would taste like. Would they be sweet with flavoured lip gloss like his high-school sweetheart? Or rougher, tangier with sweat? Now he knew they were neither – not artificially sweet and slick, but soft despite her habit of biting them, and with a flavour all their own. He could kiss lips like those for hours, but with the way she kept moving her hips against his he wasn't sure he would last that long. Moving backward through the space until the back of his legs came up against something solid. He broke the kiss to glance over his shoulder at the dusty old workbench, still strewn with a few remnant parts.
"You caught up on your tetanus shots?"
"How considerate of you to ask," she dropped herself back to the floor by unlinking her legs from around his waist. Grabbing the front of his jacket, she twisted to reverse their positions until she was backed against the bench, pulling him down towards her. "Why? What kind of kinky things are you planning to do to me?"
"I just believe in safe sex, that's all," his tongue traced a line down her neck starting at the sensitive indent just behind her ear. As he worked, one long arm swept behind her to clear away most of the junk and larger particles of dirt.
"Shut up and get back to work," her order came on the tail end of a throaty moan, fingers working down the zipper of his jacket and pushing the garment over his shoulders. Leon shrugged out of the sleeves, tossing it behind her to provide a little padding and protection from any jagged, rusted metal implements.
"Yes ma'am," his own fingers tore into the buckle of her belt as she stripped out of her own black leather jacket, the tiny hairs on her arm standing up in the sudden chill. As he yanked open the fly of her jeans and pushed them past her hips she hopped up on the table to help him peel them the rest of the way off. He started by tugging off the heavy motorcycle boots, the metal buckles clanging against the concrete floor. Her jeans quickly followed, turned completely inside out in his haste, revealing a pair of thick, purple wool socks that almost coordinated with her striped cotton panties. "Very sexy."
She crossed her long, smooth legs in mock indignation. "I thought I told you to put it on mute," she said as she grabbed the collar of his shirt to pull him in for another long, breathless kiss that had his hands diving in to caress her thighs and open them again. Leaning back, she let him get closer, running his hands up her legs and under her shirt and then back down again after barely grazing the sides of her breasts through her bra. He brushed the backs of his knuckles against her wetness, feeling how damp the fabric was already, using his crooked index finger to find her center slit as he bent down to keep his lips on hers. Loving the buffered contact of his hand through the cotton, Claire shifted her hips to lift her legs to encircle his waist again, arching her back as she did. Leon pulled back, took in the sight of her arched, rolling body with that fiery halo of hair and those half-closed, come-hither eyes and nearly busted his zipper trying to open his fly.
He fisted himself for a couple of strokes while he watched her kick off her socks and peel her panties down her legs until they hung off one delicate toe. Leon had always been a fan of the inherently sexy way women dressed themselves, but he was an ever bigger fan of the way they undressed themselves. He pulled the scrap of cotton off her toe and added it to the pile of abandoned clothes on the floor, then moved in closer between her legs, teasing her with his hard length. Then he pushed into her with one single, solid thrust, slick and smooth, and made her groan long and loud in the abandoned space. When he had settled himself all the way in he paused to pull her legs up to his shoulders, tilting her hips further. Claire stretched her arms up over her head, meeting him thrust for thrust as he began to move inside of her.
The sound of the rocking table legs and the far edge of the bench knocking against the wall filled the room, a steady beat to underscore the satisfied moans the likes of which Leon had never heard from one of his lovers. Every breath was a sound of passion, free to be as loud as it pleased in the abandoned, lonesome space, not dampened in the slightest by fears about what anyone else might think. He could tell she was getting close by the way her breathing changed in frequency and pitch, and by the way she shifted his hand, showing him just the right place to rub his nimble fingertips. His other hand strayed farther up, pushing her shirt over her bra, and pulling the simple, utilitarian undergarment down to expose a pair of perfect, creamy breasts, each one topped by a rosy, puckered bud. The sight of them alone was enough to push him a few steps closer to release.
He was a little surprised when she didn't scream her climax out to the world but was virtually silent, only the smallest whimper escaping out past her lips, her head thrown back and eyes squeezed tightly shut to savour the sensation. His own orgasm was just a few moments behind, caught up in the rush of wetness and the clench of her inner muscles around him. He didn't make a sound; he had only ever learned to be a quiet lover. Spent, he sagged against her, letting her legs drop from his shoulders to wrap his arms more fully around her, holding her close in the lazy, languid aftermath. After their breathing slowed back to normal, the comparative silence of the garage bordered on deafening, interrupted here and there by the scratchings of something unseen under the floorboards that had been disturbed by their intrusion. Leon pushed up from the bench, tucking himself back into his jeans and handing her the pile of her clothing from the floor. He made sure her boots were close by and ready to slip back into and then gave her a little privacy while she geared back up. What did you say to someone – a woman, a friend, after you had just randomly fucked your brains out together?
Booted feet clomped down on the floorboards and Leon turned just in time to catch the jacket that was being tossed his way. Shrugging into her own coat, her hair an even wilder halo about her, Claire gave him a wink as she twirled her keys around one finger.
"So I guess it's my turn to take you for a ride now?"
"Sure you don't want me to drive?"
"Believe me; I'm sure," she sauntered past him back to the bike, straddling it as she waited for him. As he closed the door behind she called out to him, "best seat in the house is still all yours though."
Leon slid in behind her, settling the front of his thighs against the back of hers.
No complaints there.