Blackbird
"Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody."
― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Silver Lake Montana -Fall- 2017
There were things about Chris Redfield that she'd forgotten.
One – he was a man who'd built an empire from a sketch and a concept. He'd built a goliath from ashes, anger, and iron will. He'd grown a corporation from the seeds of vengeance and justice that had created a legacy among the bioterrorism world.
Two – he was HANDS DOWN the best man around when it came to running a ranch.
The guy absolutely did not know how to fail.
If he didn't have the answers, he got them. He pounded them, persuaded, pulled or pushed them out of somewhere. He worked first with the staff and second with the ranch hands from sun up to sun down every day for three months.
Rebecca forgot at one point that he was there.
He left before dawn and came back at dusk.
He came through the doors filthy and exhausted.
She was happy to have dinner on the table for him. She felt inadequate honestly and awful about letting him do all the work.
But he never complained, never said a word. He'd eat, try to help with the dishes and get kicked out of the kitchen, and disappear upstairs to bathe.
She was nursing Faith in the big chair by the fire when he came down one night.
He started talking before he came around the chair to see her, "I'm getting the hang of ranching, I think. I gotta hand it to Kennedy, the guy had this place running like a machine. It's flawless. He knew his shit enough to leave it in good hands when he was gone. The place, honestly, could run itself, B. I'm not sure you need me here to work out the kinks. Not sure there are any kinks, honestly."
Chris emerged around the chair and froze.
There was a tiny bundle suckling her breast. You couldn't…really see anything. Really, you couldn't. Just little pink hands on her pale, plump breast and that tiny face nursing. It wasn't sexy.
It shouldn't have been sexy at all.
And yet he was kinda frozen there staring.
Rebecca smiled up at him, unconcerned, "Don't kid yourself, Redfield. I'm thrilled you're here. I don't know what I do with this place when you go. Do I just…let it run? Leon, was clearly so invested in this place, it seems wrong to not have anything to do with it. Will you teach me?"
His eyes were latched on her breast bobbling in that little mouth.
It was an entirely odd feeling to know he was kinda jealous of a nursing baby.
Her voice was filled with laughter a little as she said, "Chris? You hear me?"
His eyes volleyed up to her face.
Surely, Rebecca thought, it was a trick of the firelight. Or maybe the heat from his shower? Because it looked like he was blushing. Which was stupid. Chris Redfield didn't blush over a boob in a baby's mouth.
Surely not.
Rebecca tilted her head like a dog, watching his face.
He coughed and shook himself, charming the shit out of her. And his voice cracked, just a little, as he said, "Uh…yeah. Sure. Yep. Ollena said she'd be happy to keep Faith so I could show the ropes, so to speak."
Ollena was the housekeeper. She was a charming bustling woman in her fifties. She was like Mrs. Klaus with cookies and pies and rosy cheeks. She was a treasure.
Rebecca smiled sweetly, "You gonna "show me the ropes"? Rope some steers? Ride some bronco?"
Lips quirked, Chris chuckled a little, "You know it. Got a cowboy hat?"
"I'm sure I can dig one up."
"Awesome. Bright and early then?"
"I'll be there with spurs on, pah'tner."
Laughing, Chris wandered away from the fire. His mouth was dry. Nothing a little water wouldn't fix.
Although part of him wanted to wet his mouth with what that damn baby was currently enjoying.
The idea of it made him laugh, and adjust himself a little. Again, he told himself, nothing wrong with looking. There was plenty of times in his life he'd looked at something and not put his mouth on it. Plenty.
And he hadn't wanted to in a long time.
Rebecca stared at the firelight, watching the flames crackle and pop. There was likely a cowboy hat somewhere in the closet.
She had yet to tackle it.
She wasn't ready.
She knew what she'd find in there. Leon's things. Leon's hats. Leon's coats. Leon's shoes. Leon's memories.
She wasn't ready.
So, the closet stayed closed.
His guitar sat by the chair, untouched.
His pack of cigarettes sat on the table on the balcony, unsmoked.
His RPD lighter lay beside the pack, unlit.
His Jeep sat outside by the barn, undriven.
His daughter lay against Rebecca's breast, sleeping now, unknown.
And now the tears came to her eyes, unbidden.
God.
He'd never know her. She'd never know him. His laughter. His smile. It lingered behind her eyes every time she closed them. His smile.
The ache in her was nearly choking.
Some days she could barely get out of bed from it.
She'd roll over and wait to see him. But his side of the bed was empty.
She'd received an obligatory phone call from the new director of the DSO, Helena Harper. The condolences, the grievances, the flowers – endless and encompassing. The estate was full of them. Funeral flowers. Mums, gladiolas, endless arrays of lilies and daisies and death. DEATH.
She was sick of it. She was tired of the sad.
She just wanted to go to sleep and wake up and find him there, watching her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd kissed him. She tried.
Her brain just couldn't find the memory.
She went out onto the ranch with Chris.
He showed her the barn and how to tend the horses. They toured down by the steer and he showed her how to rope one. The ranch hands were so excited to meet her. They kept calling her "the missus". God.
It felt so wrong.
Chris was called to pull a calf around nine a.m.
Rebecca stood back while he put his arms inside of the panicking mother. He soothed her easily enough, speaking to her in those low tones of his. The mother mooed, calming but still nervous. Rebecca stepped up to pet her head, clicking her tongue a little.
The ranch hands were speaking quickly. Chris, in his white t-shirt, seemed at ease as he adjusted. His brow sprang with sweat and she watched every muscle in his arms rope and bulge.
Her belly liked it. It was a helluva show.
And he spoke, quietly but commandingly, "B? Can you come around behind me please?"
She did, quickly.
"Thanks. Now grab my biceps and anchor me ok? Put resistance on me and don't let me go forward."
"Ok."
"Thank you. Ready?"
"Yep." Rebecca gave him a thumbs up and slid her hands over his biceps. He braced, his arms bulged, and her belly tightened more. And he said, "Now. Pull!"
She pulled. He pulled. The cow lulled and mooed.
And the calf came free in a burst of fluid. It should have been gross or something.
But it was just awesome.
Just like that – they brought new life into the world. Rebecca laughed with delight and hugged him from behind. She kissed his stubbled cheek and had him smiling. Chris chuckled lightly, patting the rump of the mama cow to soothe her. She pranced a little with delight to be free of the big calf.
It was trying to stand up.
Rebecca giggled with such joy that he had to feel it with her.
She was just enraptured by it all.
She cooed at the calf and petted it when it wobbled over.
She laid her cheek on his shoulder, thrilled with the moment. Maybe, she thought, maybe ranching would be ok. Maybe it would be ok for her.
She made an easy dinner of fettucine and salad. They had so much to talk about. It thrilled him to see her so excited.
She hadn't smiled like that in so long. She was just enthusiastic and charming.
She fell asleep in the chair nursing the baby after dinner.
Chris hesitated, watching. She was in pink sweats from Victoria Secrets and a small white tank top. The top was tugged down to bare her breasts for the snoring baby on it. One hand was mounded up to her plump offering and the baby was drooling on her mother with contentment.
He considered leaving them there.
Instead, he picked up Faith and laid her in her bassinet in Rebecca's bedroom. He gathered the afghan blanket from the back of couch and covered Rebecca in the chair. He hesitated, decided not to be a coward, and tugged her top down over her breast.
Feeling like he should be given an award for altruism, Chris went upstairs to shower.
Hoping to give Rebecca a chance at a full night's sleep, he slipped on some sleeping pants and curled up in her bed to sleep close by in case Faith woke up in the middle of the night.
True to form, about two a.m. she awakened him fussing.
Chris picked her up and made her a bottle from the frozen breast milk Rebecca kept on hand from pumping. She took the whole bottle, burped like a champ, and proceeded to keep on fussing.
He rocked her, changed her, walked her. He patted her, rubbed her back, and tried laying her with him on the bed to settle. She was having none of it.
Finally, Chris said, "Ok. You little stinker. You think you're the first girl I couldn't woo to sleep? You've met your Aunt Claire. She was a monster."
He set Faith down in her bouncy seat and turned on the vibration feature. She fussed angrily, shaking her fists at him.
"Hang on there, small fry, give a guy a minute here." Chris picked up the guitar by the chair. There was no way he could have known it hadn't moved since the last time Leon Kennedy had played it, the night Rebecca Chambers had decided to keep him.
Chris sat down in the chair and tuned it. The moment the music came from it, the baby settled, watching his face raptly.
Mouth quirked in a half smile, Chris mused, "What do you like, hmm? Country? A little rock 'n roll? Claire was a stickler for the ballads. Shit…I haven't played one of these in years, so bear with me, ok?"
The baby was sucking her fist, watching him with rapture.
"You want a lullaby right? I think we'll try Claire's favorite. What do ya say?"
The baby gurgled, babbled,…and smiled.
Something in his chest just kinda…shifted a little. Coughing, chest tight and voice a little hoarse, Chris Redfield, the Human Tank, used Leon Kennedy's guitar to serenade his baby.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Rebecca froze outside in the hallway.
He'd picked up the guitar.
He was playing it. He was playing the Beatles for her baby.
And he could sing. His voice, a rich baritone, soothing and lilting. The voice he'd used to soothe his sister who'd been so sad and scared. The voice he used now to soothe a baby restless and tired.
Heart pounding, she leaned there by the door, listening.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Rebecca pressed her palm to her racing heart, eyes closed, shaking a little. The tears spilled fast and warm down her cheeks.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Was she? Was she waiting for this moment? This one? This moment. The one that reminded her she wasn't dead.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
That her baby wasn't alone. That she wasn't alone.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
She turned a little, looking now into the room at them. The baby in the carrier. The man in the chair. Not the right man.
But not the wrong one either.
How to explain what was in her in this moment?
Chris glanced up as Rebecca moved into the room. He glanced down at the baby, smiled, and then at the guitar. She saw the moment he figured it out.
And then?
She saw the pain on his face. He shook his head and set it down. He let out a long breath and held out his hands to her, "I'm so sorry. I didn't…I'm so stupid. I used to play and sing for Claire after our parents died, ya know? I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have touched it."
Rebecca shook her head, shaking, " I didn't know you could."
"It's been a long fucking time, that's for sure. I won't do it again. I'm so sorry. I was just trying to let you get some sleep."
He was covered in scars. His chest was a mess of them. His arms were striped with them. He turned a little to lay the guitar safely on the bed and she saw his back.
He was mounded in places with scars so ropey, so thick, she wondered if he had any feeling at all in the places they covered anymore. Her chest hurt looking at him. She made a small sound of pain.
Had they both lost everything in that castle?
Faith babbled and giggled in her seat. She grinned toothlessly.
No, Rebecca thought, not everything.
She breathed, hitching, "You sang Blackbird for your sister. When your parents died. To help her sleep. The Human Tank."
He laughed a little, red cheeked. "I'm a limited talent, I'm afraid. Not like K-"
He stopped. He froze.
He tried to back pedal.
But Rebecca laughed wetly, "No. It's ok. Not like Leon Kennedy. Right? The Executioner. The Executioner and his guitar. Jesus. God."
She put her fist to her belly and hunched just a little with it.
Chris, looking guilty and raw, started to get up, "B – don't. Don't cry. I didn't even think about it being his guitar. I never should have touched it. I'm so sorry."
The Human Tank held it his hands like...what?
Like Leon Kennedy's blood was all over them?
Didn't he realize yet that it wasn't? He'd saved her in that castle. He'd saved her baby.
Leon Kennedy's blood wasn't on his hands...it was on hers. She was bathed in it. Cloaked in it. Mired in it.
Drowining in it.
Rebecca shook her head again, she moved forward and went to her knees. She slipped between his arms and looped hers around his waist, clinging.
Surprised, Chris looped back, holding her.
And Rebecca whispered, "I was afraid there'd never be music in this house again. I was afraid she'd never hear it or know it. I can't sing. I can play piano, but I can't sing. I was afraid, she'd never hear it. He'd want her to hear it , Chris. I'm so glad you're here. I was afraid that his guitar would sit there forever…unplayed. It's…it's wrong of me to let his things go untouched. It's wrong to let them go unloved. It's wrong to let his life go unfinished. It's not what he'd want. It's not what he was about. Help me give the music to her, Chris. It's what he'd want. Help me give her at least that part of him."
Jesus.
He put his face against her neck, holding on. Such a sad request. Such a simple request. She was no Jill. She was no Claire. She wasn't afraid to ask for help.
And he wanted to give her anything she needed. Because he'd stood in the rain and promised.
And he was a man that never broke his promises.
Against her neck, he murmured, "Whatever you need, B. Whatever you want. I'm here for you."
Her hands stroked his back, skimming over his scars. She clung harder, stealing his breath with the force of it. She kissed his ear, and the place behind it, "….so much pain…in this house…in us. So much pain. What's under the pain, Chris? What's under it? I don't know if I can feel anything but the pain. Can you?"
Her hands stroked over his back harder now, down his side, along his hip. His breath hitched. Her mouth kissed along his jaw, under it. She could feel his pulse hammering against her lips.
Hoarsely, he answered, "Some of it's pain…some of it's numb…some of it's tender still…"
She kissed his Adam's apple and it bobbled, desperately. She kissed the scars that laced over his collarbone and the top of his left shoulder. There were three burns in a row that looked like cigar tips above his left nipple. Rebecca skimmed those with her fingers, bringing his breath in a hitched breath.
The spill of rage for him was blended in the pain. "You let him torture you. All that time. Why?"
He was so quiet, the man of few words. And finally, she realized he wasn't going to answer.
But Faith giggled.
And that was answer enough.
Rebecca watched the baby. Every time he spoke, she smiled. Every time he grumbled, Faith blubbered. A conversation with the man in her life, no doubt. Was he aware? Rebecca was, painfully.
She pressed a kiss to those scars above his heart, and whispered, "Feel anything?"
He whispered back, "Yeah. Plenty."
"Yeah?" Her fingers skimmed and goosebumps popped all over his skin. She laid her palm completely over his pectoral, feeling his heartbeat beyond her fingers. That wasn't pain, she thought, that was pleasure. Pleasure at being alive.
His hands gripped at the arms of the chair where he sat, shaking. He wanted to touch her. But the guilt held him back.
Guilt.
Guilt at being in Kennedy's chair.
Guilt at playing Kennedy's guitar.
Guilt at loving Kennedy's baby.
Guilt…at wanting Leon Kennedy's woman.
Jesus.
He rose, knees weak, and slid away from her touching hands. Rebecca let him, watching him. They were both trembling. They were both flushed now.
There was no blaming the fire light. There was no blaming the shower.
They were both warm with blood and need.
Gruffly, Chris intoned, "I'll let you get some rack. You gotta be exhausted. Long day huh?"
Rebecca stayed sitting on the floor where he'd left her. She said nothing. He was beating a hasty retreat, no lie there, but he didn't want to put the moves on a grieving widow during a moment of weakness. He'd promised to take care of her, not take advantage of her.
She heard him close his room door quietly.
She stayed on the floor, breathing slow and long. The baby was awake again, watching her.
Rebecca rolled her head, watching those owlish blue orbs. She whispered, "What?"
The baby gurgled and grinned around her gums. Rebecca smiled back, charmed, "You little stinker. You watching us?"
The baby cooed happily.
"You little voyeur. Like the show?"
Rebecca slid her fingers down the strings of the guitar in front of her.
The little inscription drew her eye. The Executioner has named his trusty guitar. He'd christened it...
Out loud, she whispered, "Excalibur."
The sword of heroes. The sword of legend. Passed down from one...to another. From one legend to the other.
As if Chris Redfield has pulled it from the stone to pick up the fight.
She'd thought the music had died with Leon Kennedy.
She brushed a finger over Faith's soft cheek, breathing softly.
She thought she'd died with Leon Kennedy.
But she could feel her heart.
And it was beating.
And sang under her breath, off key but full of feeling…
You were only waiting for this moment to arise…