Orphan

Part One:

-Under the Umbrella-

Chapter 13: Supernatural

Red Dead Wedding, New Mexico

No matter where they landed, Ada found a way to funnel them information. She was pulling strings behind the scenes to attempt to locate Wesker, for all the good it would do. There was no doubt in Leon's mind now that he was the one with the agenda here.

Every contact, every asset, every door Leon had opened in his career had been closed off to him. He couldn't so much as sneeze in certain cities without the weight of a thousand paid hitmen coming out of the woodwork. What the government didn't control, the men behind the curtain certainly did. Someone had put out a hit on him, offered a ton of money, and made it worth the notice of most of the known guns in the business.

The safe house in New Mexico wasn't even one of his. It was Ada's. She'd funneled him the address via a goddamn dove somehow in the park in Wyoming where they'd been hiding. Like something out of Harry Potter, the bird had landed and dropped the tiny little note at his feet. It cooed and took flight and left him with the address of the last place anyone would ever look for them.

He could see why. It was little more than a hut built into the wall of a mountain. The dust balls that kicked up and the cover of cactus in the distance offered little to look at from the heavy clay hovel. It was as third world as you could get without stepping back in time and shacking up with the cavemen.

Sherry emerged from the house to find him standing in the rising sun shirtless. It was never less than a good show for any woman to see it. He was scarred, in ways you'd expect from a man who lived by the sword, but his body was finely honed. Confinement, in its way, had done wonders for his muscle tone. He had nothing better to do than hunker down, work out, and wait. They trained, sometimes from sun up to sundown, and often went undercover of hats and anything else into the small town to use the library public internet access and bounce signals around while they dug up anything that might help clear his name.

She'd come back one afternoon to find him taking target practice in the field beyond the hovel, but it hadn't been him. Not exactly. Not entirely. Not completely.

Sherry must have made some sound of shock because he'd turned, shorn hair and all, and remarked, "...yeah. That's how bad it is. Not my thing, huh?"

It was, and it wasn't. Without all the hair, the face lost the edge of model perfection that defined him. He'd lopped it off in a sloppy style that was short and flattering and colored it a boring brown. The contacts in his eyes turned the remarkable blue a non-descript hazel. It was startling to see a man who'd once been a rebel without a cause turned into another face on the street. Still, you could downplay him from handsome hero to generic extra all you wanted and you still couldn't hide those cheekbones and that signature chin... or so she thought.

He grew some kind of a beard. It was mostly a filthy five o'clock shadow that went on too long. It was as unflattering as it was common. He stopped wearing leather jackets and expensive designer jeans and switched to Wranglers and vintage t-shirts with stupid slogans on them. He looked as run of the mill as anyone. If she'd never met him and seen only his face on a wanted poster, she'd never have made them for the same guy.

She'd stood in the dying sun on that particular day, head tilted, and remarked, "...I'd say it's not you, but it kinda is. You look like Dean from Supernatural."

His brow furrowed, "...who?"

Sherry laughed softly and shrugged, "Doesn't matter. It works...but it takes a minute to get used to."

Leon blew out a hard breath and shook his head, "...yeah. A minute to get used to...right."

He'd turned back to the range and left her standing there aching for him. She wanted to find the right person and rip their throat out to give him back what he'd lost. It wouldn't do any good. It wouldn't change anything, but she hated to see him hurting.

The funny part was that the name stuck. He went by Dean whenever anyone in town would talk to them.

And Sherry returned the favor.

She wandered out into cool morning before the desert turned too hot and remarked, "...how about it, handsome?"

Shirtless, he turned to face her. She had that moment where her stomach seized the second their gazes locked. She was used to it. She'd been living with it all her life. He paused with the cigarette halfway to his mouth and blinked.

She'd popped in contacts of her own, turning her eyes brown and basic. She'd thrown on a clunky pair of cowboy boots and ragged looking shorts beneath a flannel tied off at the waist and graced her ears with chunky turquoise earrings. Her skin had turned a nice coppery gold from all the sun she was getting. She looked, it seemed, as local as you could get.

When he said nothing, he graze drifted to his belly and the still healing pinked scar there. It was hardly visible anymore. On the muscled patchwork plane of his abdomen, it just marked him as male in a way that made her mouth dry when she looked at him. To cut the awkward silence, she asked, "...you ever wax your chest?"

His brows winged up. His eyes sparkled a little as Leon returned, "...not that I recall. Why?"

She shrugged a shoulder and mused, "Seems you should have more chest hair."

He laughed and it was a good sound to hear. He was getting back to himself. It was taking awhile, but he was trying. Each time he punned or laughed or made a sarcastic remark, she felt a little more of him emerge from the shell created by his world falling apart.

His gaze lowered from head to toe on her. Sherry's heart knocked around as he retorted, "...seems you should have more clothes. Where do you think you're going in that?"

Sherry's laughter made his mouth twitch with amusement, "...really? You're half-naked. You wanna say something about my state of undress? You hypocrite."

Leon flicked his cigarette and moved toward her. Her heart slapped and sped up when he was close enough she could smell what was left of his shower that morning on him. He looked around her backside and made her headlight with pleasure when he replied, "...you're basically wearing denim underwear. This is how girls your age dress?"

Sherry licked her dry lips and cocked a hip, acting cute and coy, "...you don't like it? It's cowgirl chic."

His gaze latched on to the fraying edges of those denim shorts just barely at mid-thigh. If she shifted enough, he could catch a glimpse of what might be pink panties. Pink panties. What kind of woman wore pink panties? That was...it was...it was girl colors. She was a girl.

He reinforced the thought in his head.

It was hard sometimes to remember she was a girl. The concept gave him pause. Hard. A curious word to use in the face of everything. Hard was the nature of their existence lately. From the way they lived to the state of the training, they did to the current condition of his dick looking at her in those denim underpants she was wearing.

Hard.

He had to admit, he liked the chubby in his pants. In a way, it meant he was still alive. He felt, sometimes, like parts of him had died in that house with his mother. That he was still in his body enough to get a boner from a nice ass was a blessing in disguise.

To his surprise, his hand came down and swatted her right on the ass in question. She jumped, her face flushed, and he instructed, "Clothes, princess. Go find some. This? This will get men to stare at you. This isn't how you blend in."

Sherry tilted her head and wondered, cheeks pink, "...do you care if they stare?"

He arched a brow, "Do you want them to?"

She shook her head. Her lower lip rolled under her teeth as she confessed, "...no...you maybe...but not anyone else."

Yeah. He was still alive. The surge of narcissistic pride of that one remark reminded him of the fact he was still a man underneath all the layers of pain and regret. He wanted to grab her denim-clad ass and hike her around his front and bury every bit of his man inside of her woman.

Annoyed, Leon skimmed passed her into the house. "Downplay it, kiddo. We don't need anyone to pop wood when you walk by with your ass shaking like a Vegas showgirl."

Sherry blinked into the coming sun when he was gone. Did he think she was trying to entice men? She was just trying to look like she belonged. As usual, it was abundantly clear she didn't. She'd never felt like she belonged. Growing up, she'd been a sore thumb in a family of geniuses. She'd gone from that to the girl that either was a monster or the one who had one for a father. She didn't need a shrink to let her know she had issues about abandonment and security.

He thought she'd risk their safety - his safety- for a few cheap thrills?

Leon was just putting some ice in the glass of his second glass of whiskey at 7 a.m. when Sherry admonished, "I would never do anything to risk what we're doing here."

His brows arched. He tilted his head at her, "No? You look like a cowgirl call girl. How is this blending in? You look like Daisy Duke - the porno edition. All that goddamn hair and your ass hanging out. Who are you kidding here? Go change, Sherry, you look like a whore."

Sherry felt the flush of embarrassment and shame. A cowgirl call girl? She'd studied the local girls to make sure she fit the profile perfectly. He was being deliberately cruel. Why? Because he was so fucking angry all the time? Because it was easier to call her a whore than deal with his own demons?

Quietly, voice trembling with anger, she warned him, "...I'm gonnna let you think about what you just said to me. I'm gonna pretend it's that cheap-ass whiskey talking instead of a man who knows me better than that. And if you ever call me a whore again, I'm gonna show you how hard a cowboy call girl can slap."

She spun on her heel and disappeared into the bathroom.

It wasn't her fault.

He let the guilt rush over him as he heard her quietly close the door. She didn't even slam it. She didn't storm off. She didn't throw things or have a fit or over react. She just...shamed him and walked away.

He felt like a fucking asshole. He was always unsteady when feelings for her cropped up and cramped his belly. He didn't want to feel like this about anyone, ever, and certainly not in the middle of the biggest mess of his life. He was half hard with want of her, half hard up with grief. He was a goddamn mess. It wasn't her fault, any of it, but apparently his dick didn't care. It wanted him to hurt her because it wanted to be inside of her.

Stupid.

He was stupid.

Contrite, he set down the drink and knocked on the door softly, "Hey...I'm sorry, kid. What can I say? I'm an asshole."

From beyond the door, her small voice admonished him, "I'm tired of your asshole...it stinks."

His mouth twitched. His lips curled up on a smile. He didn't laugh, but it was close. She was cute without trying sometimes. Tone sweet, he teased, "...yes, yes it does. Like shit."

Her silence was loud somehow. After a moment, Sherry returned, "...you think you're cute, but you're not."

Leon urged with a touch of witty repartee, "...I'm a little cute."

Sherry's voice answered, "...go away and get some pie...Dean."

He laughed and left her alone behind the door. He figured a trip into town and some flowers might soothe the savage beast of hurt feelings a little more. He was sorry to keep lashing out at her. He didn't think he'd have made it this far without her.

With everything going on, she was the only anchor left in his world. He didn't want to cut her loose because part of his body wanted to find its way into part of hers. That was juvenile and stupid. Was he going to blame her because his body liked her in those shorts?

While in town, he intercepted a message from Ada in the local paper. She dropped messages in the personals like a code between good spies. He deciphered it quickly enough - she was implying that so far the coast was still clear and he was stay to put. Annoyed, wanting to go out and kick some asses and clear his name, Leon returned to the safe house feeling grumpy again.

Sherry emerged from the bathroom as he was setting her flowers in a vase on the table. Without looking at her, he started bitching, "Still no word on when we can even begin to escape this hell hole. I wish I knew who the fuck was behind the goddamn smear campaign."

Sherry soothed, "You'd do what? Punch them until they cleared your name?"

He turned to face her, "I'd probably kick the-"

She'd cut off all her hair. The sight of her stopped him where he stood. He froze, eyes wide. It was shaggy and short, dyed from the pretty platinum of her youth to the dirty dishwater blonde of a typical woman.

She'd thrown on a baggy t-shirt over the shorts and ditched the boots for bare feet. She looked like a teenager home from college for the summer. She looked...her hair...he was...his mind was tossing around in a sea of surprise.

Sherry gave him a droll look, "...there. Nothing special about me now, is there? Just another dumb blonde in a big shirt. Good enough for government work, right?"

She turned and left him where he stood, still blinking. He felt like a shitty asshole now for sure. He'd shamed her into to cutting her hair almost pixie short.

Leon leaned on the counter and closed his eyes. There was only one thing in the world that was capable of making him feel like he was utterly and completely without a hope of surviving. It wasn't monsters...it was-"...women."

One woman leaving him with a huge hole in his heart that was slowly bleeding him to death. One keeping him captive in her safe house while he sat around with his dick in his hand waiting for her to save him. One making him wish for things he'd never be able to hold onto in a million years.

He stood there wishing he'd never met a single one.

The soft sound of music drew Sherry from her bedroom. He was sitting on a chair in the kitchen strumming his guitar. He looked so sad in the setting sunlight. She stood in the hallway watching him with a swell of emotion she couldn't really describe. How was it that he could be somehow even more beautiful in the thick of complete loss?

He wore tortured underdog like other heroes wore a cape. If perseverance had a face, it was graced by a buttchin and a pair of perfect blue eyes. Sherry listened as he intoned the sadness left behind at the loss of everything he'd loved.

Sherry leaned on the wall, watching him mourn with his eyes closed and his brilliant fingers finding a way to use that music to make a plea for some kind of peace.

Underneath the cold November sky

I'll wait for you
As the pages of my life roll by
I'll wait for you
I'm so desperate just to see your face
Meet me in this broken place (*)

She wondered if she'd ever reach a point where she didn't want to kick in the teeth of anyone who made him hurt like that. His mother's face was all over his. His heart was hers, that broad and encompassing love that Sherry had felt for just a fraction of what he'd spent a life time protecting was ingrained in his bones. Vera had raised him from the seed of a psycho, to the soul of a superman.

Her mouth twitched with her own poetic reflection. It seemed he wasn't the only one who could find music in their feelings. Apparently, she was one flowery passage away from a Shakespearan style sonnet.

Even if You take it all away
I'll wait for you
Even when the light begins to fade
I'll wait for you
I'm so desperate calling out your name
Meet me in this broken place

Her heart squeezed as she watched the grief streak across his face. He needed to sit down somewhere and sob, but he'd never do it. He just wasn't built that way. So he just...suffered in silence. Well, he suffered in stereo - since music made a path for him to walk toward healing.

Hold me now
I need to feel you
Show me how
To make it new again
There's no one I can run to
And nothing I could ever do
I'm nowhere if I'm here
without you

When his hands slowed, Sherry filled the silence with a single question, "...Vera or God?"

He laughed and it sounded like breaking glass somehow, "...there is no God. I thought you knew that."

He set down the guitar and rose. Sherry laid a hand over her chest to feel her thumping heart, "...Leon...you don't mean that. Every one needs something to believe in."

"Not me." He lifted the gun holstered under his arm and winked at her angrily, "But I got this, kiddo. The way of the gun? That's something you can put your faith in."

"...you need more than a goddamn gun."

"Yeah? Says who? You're right. I need the gun and a good glass of whiskey. The rest is negotiable."

He moved into the kitchen and she followed him. His hands grabbed for the cigarettes on the counter and the lighter.

Sherry admonished, "...you don't need that either."

She shook her head and grabbed for his hands as he snapped, "Stop trying to mother me, Sherry! Don't tell me what I need!"

He grabbed her arms and shoved her away, gently, because even angry at her, he'd never hurt her. Aching for him, she grabbed the pack of cigarettes and crushed it in her hand. The other grabbed his lighter and she threw it out the window beside him hard enough it disappeared in the sand too fast to find where it landed.

The anger on his face was good. She liked the anger. Anger would get him back to himself faster than anything. She warned him, "Every time you light it up, I'm gonna slap that shit outta your mouth. Do you understand me?"

His hand seized around her throat and pushed. Her back hit the refrigerator hard enough she let out a gasp as he growled, "...don't ever tell me what to do, Sherry. I had a mother, I don't need another one. Do you hear me?"

Quietly, she returned, "...how would she feel to see you like this? Angry. Smoking yourself stupid. Drinking like a fish. Living on the idea that all there is for you now is bullets and blood? How would she feel?"

His teeth flashed as he snarled, "She wouldn't feel anything! You know why!? She's dead!" It echoed. She jumped. He added, hand squeezing a little around her delicate skin, "She's dead, Sherry. Dead. You get that right? She's gone. She doesn't feel anything anymore."

Sherry nodded, eyes bright with sympathy, "I know that. But you do. You feel it all. So feel it. Hate yourself. Hurt. Break. Fall apart, but don't join her. You didn't die. You're still here. Be here. Stop trying to kill yourself with guilt."

Leon's jaw flexed so hard that she thought he might break a tooth. She watched his left hand clench into a fist. For a moment, a brief one, she wondered if he'd hit her. Would it make him feel better? She'd just had the thought that he'd never hurt her, but what if hurting her helped him heal?

So, she offered, "...go ahead. It's my fault right? She's dead because of me. They wanted me. They came for me. The freak, the fucking monster, the daughter of a dead Dr. Frankenstein...I came into your life and fucked it all up, right? I forced you into a fucking life you never wanted. I cost you everything. It's me. I'm the reason."

His eyes flinched with pain and she urged, "Yeah. You know it. I know it. It's me. Hit me and make it all go away. Go ahead..I can take it. If it works, if it helps...hit me hard. Break my fucking jaw."

Softly, his mouth opened and he offered, "...or maybe I should just kill you instead. Dead...maybe they stop chasing us. Maybe...I get my life back."

Oh god.

Her heart stopped.

The flash of something like fear on her face, somehow, made him feel good.

The moment he saw it, his hand retreated. He backed up. She covered her mouth with her hand and slid away. His hands shot into his hair and jerked to restore something but rage to his brain.

Hurting, he grumbled, "...see? We're both monsters after all. Not hard to understand right? Knowing who my father is. Apparently, blood runs true."

Sherry shook her head and backed down the hallway, whispering, "...no it doesn't. I'm nothing like my father...I would never put my needs over yours...I would never risk you...and I would never betray you...you bastard."

She turned away and hurried toward the bedroom.

Leon kept on staring out the window of the safehouse until his eyes closed. He hadn't meant it. He'd never ever risk her either. He just...he wanted to hurt her. Why? Did part of him blame her for all of this?

Or did misery simply love the company?

Was it just a matter of knowing it was all his fault? All of this was his fault. He had a monster for a father, and he'd become one himself. It wasn't Sherry. It was him. It had always been him.

He was going to get her killed. His hand-picked up the neck of his guitar. He strummed the strings and thought of Vera. What would she tell him here?

We're just sand and water, baby, eventually we all wash away. What remains is the memory of what you did while you were here.

He'd hurt her twice today. First in a rush of hormones, next in a rush of regret. He was as volatile as a volcano about to burst. He needed to harness his emotions before he spilled lava all over and burned them both.

Leon moved down the hallway and knocked on her door. She didn't answer, so he simply grabbed the knob and pushed the door open. Sherry snatched up the shirt she'd just dropped on the floor and covered her chest as he moved toward her, admonishing, "...I said to lock the door."

And she answered, "...I told you...I will never lock the door to you."

His throat closed a little as he demanded, "Even if I came in here to kill you?"

Her lips trembled, "...if that's what you need...then give it your best shot."

When he was close to her, he confessed, "...I don't do well in captivity like this."

Her eyes sparkled with empathy, "...I know the feeling...you get used to it."

"...yeah?"

"Yeah. Eventually...you just give up the fight."

When he was close enough to smell her shampoo, he wondered, "...how do you give it up?"

Her voice whispered, "...I don't know. For you? I don't know."

His face showed so many feelings at once that her heart hurt a little for him as he finally gushed, voice hoarse, "...I would never hurt you." He sounded so broken, so pained, " ...I'm so sorry. I'm just - I keep letting you down. I can't just...I don't know how to just lay down and hide..I'm just...I'm not the guy you want beside you here, Sherry. I'm going to get you killed...I'm g-"

Her hands grabbed his shirt and tugged. Her shirt tumbled to the floor. In just her bra, she clutched him to her. He resisted, trying not to hold her and Sherry commanded, gently, "Hug me back, you idiot...and shut up. Just shut up, Leon. When the time comes, you'll pick up that gun and kill them all. You'll save us both. You'll do that...for now? Just stop fighting so hard. Mourn your mother. Let go...let go and just...let time find the meaning of the pain inside of you...it's there...it'll happen..."

And then?

She whispered, "...you know...I keep thinking about something your mom told me...we're just sand and water, Leon...eventually? We either wash away or turn to stone..."

Just sand and water, baby...stone? It's sand and water...and a million years gone by.

His left hand flattened on the wall beside her head. His face lowered and his free hand caught her arm to hold it. Sherry's caressed his face, turned it down to her, and she lifted hers to rub their noses together. He didn't make a sound. He closed his eyes and she kissed his mouth, sweetly somehow. She whispered, urgently, "...let me help you wash it away..."

Jesus. Somehow the pain squeezed his heart so hard that he thought he might drop dead right there. Instead, he opened his mouth. Sherry made a small sound of need and swept her tongue inside. The moment she did, he leaned down closer to her and let it turn wet and almost desperate.

The hand on her arm pushed her back against the wall and she went on tiptoe to devour the taste of him. They kissed breathless and slick with tongues and teeth and taste mingling. She was sweet and unsure, young and wonderfully ripe. She gave it as good as she got. She didn't play games. She didn't whimper and giggle. She just went after him like she'd eat him.

In a way, it was exactly what he'd needed.

The hand on her arm shifted. It slid down her belly and she gasped, sucking in a breath as it found its way into her pants. Sherry gripped his face, swallowed his caressing tongue, and arched her back toward him.

The good guy in him said - don't touch. But he was tired of being so good. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to see if it felt as good inside of her as she did inside of his heart.

His hand dipped under her panties and down to cup her mound. She cooed softly and one of her hands curled up his biceps where they braced his free hand on the wall beside her head. She thought, with mad glee, he was finally going to touch her.

And then? He just did.

Sherry's left hand squeezed his face as he slipped between the slick folds of her body to finger her. The moment he was inside her with those eager digits, something just...snapped into focus for him. He stopped hurting and just stepped back into his body.

He leaned back to see her face - eyes closed, cheeks pink, mouth parted in a small sound of tiny pants, lips rosy from kissing, damp from the tasting. Beautiful. Perfect. Pure and clean and wonderfully tender.

He explored the creamy heat of that wonderful purity. She moaned and humped toward the feel of him. She let him stoke and stroke her until he finally claimed the whole of her with two taking thrusts.

She felt his fingers part and purge her of the last of her fear. They claimed the core of her body, tucking into her in an increasing tempo. Her hips jerked as he urged her, "...more?"

She nodded. She grunted softly when he increased it, feeling her pretty pussy seize seductively with each stroke. Warm and wet and eager and tight. She was all those things. She was something beautiful he'd been denying all this time. She was a sanctuary. He wanted to be inside of her and forget anything but this - this - this wonderful, mind-boggling thing that happened when he touched her.

He wanted to drown in her innocence.

If he took her, he'd take that innocence away.

She whined high and scared, her thighs seized around his invading hand, and her body just released. She soaked his hand as her belly and thighs, sagging against his palm, using her grip on his biceps to hold herself up. She could toss a motorcycle like rice at a wedding, but she was fragile in that moment with him inside of her. The amount of power that surged through his blood was maddening.

He had a very clear moment of understanding how a villain starts to covet the rush of power that comes with possessing the innocent. He was chasing a high that he could only find inside of this girl. This was what utter corruption felt like. She was suddenly the only thing in the world he wanted. His mouth lowered and kissed her, softly, almost sweetly. Sherry whimpered and held on until he drew his hand from her pants.

He wanted to turn her against the wall and fuck her to see if he could feel that rush again. That's what it was. He wanted to ruin her to feel that rush. It was the first time in days he'd felt more than numb. Wanting her was almost an addiction.

And so he stepped back while she quivered and curled her arms around her chest in the aftermath.

Softly, he murmured, "...see why you should lock the door?"

Sherry shivered, eyes rolling a little as the orgasm cleared her system, and returned hoarsely, "I'm leaving the damn thing wide open from now on."

His mouth twitched. He turned and fled. He wanted to stay and finish her off. He'd be damned if he became the guy who ruined her innocence to get over his dead mother and his undead father.

On one hand, sex was just an outlet for everything he couldn't handle now. It was a way to express frustration and stagnation and castration, all forced on him by people who'd once been his friends and coworkers. He'd fucked his way through half of Europe after his success in Spain had made him the golden boy of the bioterror world. He knew sex was good. He knew it felt great.

He knew it sometimes made girls love you. He knew he wanted to avoid it when it mattered. It mattered here. With Sherry, like this, it mattered more than it had ever mattered before. She was wonderfully naive and redeeming. She wasn't some loose girl he'd met at club in Copenhagen. She made him almost crave her.

He didn't have time to chase her around like a horny boy. He didn't have time for anything like that. The whole world was out to kill him. Taking her to bed would ruin her, and leave her vulnerable to his enemies, and leave her alone with nothing but his memory if he died.

He would never do it to her. He didn't want her to mourn him the way he was mourning. He didn't want her to regret him.

Aloud, he reaffirmed, "I'm a good guy...god damnit."

He would go to his grave saying it. With the whole world waiting for his corpse to turn up, probably sooner than later.