In the middle of the day
When you drive home to your place
From the job that makes you sleep
Back to the thoughts that keep you awake
Long after night has come to claim
Any life that still remains
The thick taste of tobacco smoke coats the inside of his throat with every drag he pulls. Chris hasn't smoked in years but tonight he can't stop, even if he hates the way his hands keep shaking, hates the feel of that weakness against his lips. The night is windy and cool, the bushes that line the veranda rustling their branches against the latticework. Next door, in an almost identical victory-era bungalow, the back door slams and a pair of heavy footfalls pound down the stairs towards the garage – they have teenage kids that are constantly on the warpath these days. Chris never got a chance to hate his parents; by the time he was sixteen he was too busy looking after his kid sister and his widower father to be misunderstood.
This house, with its blue siding and white trim, its unkempt little garden and its faded Christmas lights, is the first place he's really settled since Raccoon. Back then he rented a bachelor suite in a building with a real asshole of a landlord who always threatened to cut off his hot water. Jill lived on the other side of the police station in a much neater one-bedroom with a shitty view. They bought this place together out of convenience and familiarity; after years on the run living side by side it seemed a logical step. He could sell it now – he doesn't need the extra bedroom anymore, the extra half of a mortgage payment sucked out of his paycheque – but he's come to genuinely like the place. It's comfortable. It's home. And it is so quiet now he can barely stand to be within its walls.
From inside he can hear the front door open and the higher, female tones of his sister's voice. She arrived about an hour and a half after he did, took one look at him, and burst into tears. Only half of her shuddering, stuttering sobs were for the extinguished life of the closet thing she ever had to a sister; the other were for the man she can barely associate with her flesh-and-blood brother. She couldn't even recognize his low, ravaged voice over the phone when he called to tell her the news. She's never seen his shoulder so stooped, his eyes so haunted; despite everything he's been through, nothing has ever hit him like this. She cried because she knew it made him feel better to have someone to take care of, and because she knows he never will, even if the act of keeping it all in is erasing the best of traits she associates with him.
A lower, masculine voice mingles with his sister's as the sound floats out through the cracked-open back door. A few minutes later the light footfalls of someone wearing a favourite pair of boots make their way to the door, swinging it open on creaking hinges.
"Hey."
"Hey," Chris glances down at his watch, "you got here fast." He appreciates how loyal, how punctual, the other man is. Leon Scott Kennedy never misses an appointment, never hesitates in dropping everything for a friend. He was only late for work one day in his life, and look at where that got him.
Leon shrugs, depositing his lanky body into the other worn Adirondack chair. "Every job has its perks, right?"
He has never seen Chris Redfield look so depressed, so compressed. Claire's brother is a man he associates with confidence, a man with a purpose: a leader. That kind of a man takes up space; when he walks in a room people take notice, they gravitate towards him. Chris' body is curled in on itself – he doesn't even look up when Leon sits down. His elbows are dug into his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. Sandwiched between two fingers a cigarette is burning itself down to the filter. Soon it will join the discarded, squashed bodies of its pack-mates in the old, chipped, coffee cup on the little table that separates the chairs.
"Is that her blood under your fingernails?"
"No."
"Is it yours?"
"No."
"Then you've already taken care of it."
There's no reply. Leon scratches a little at the chipping blue paint of the chair before realizing this was probably Jill's chair. She probably curled up in the same seat with a book and a cold drink, maybe stretched out with her legs draped over one of the arms. He crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his elbows.
"So what the fuck happened out there?" It's the question that's been burning in his brain since earlier this afternoon when Claire phoned him and shakily asked him to fly in.
Chris finally looks over at the younger man. His eyes are shadowed, his jaw dark with at least a couple days' stubble. There might have been a time when Leon would have been intimidated by that kind of look, but tonight he knows none of the loathing is directed at him. Chris turns away again, stubbing out the cigarette and tossing it into the cup.
"Got cocky," he says matter-of-factly. "Got sloppy." Getting sloppy in this line of work doesn't mean that the photocopier runs out of toner, or that a grant application misses its deadline. You get complacent, and then you get killed. And maybe your family gets a folded flag and a letter, but maybe – probably – they don't get anything at all.
Still, it's not really an explanation. It doesn't really detail how someone can wake up one morning and go to work - the same routine they've had for years - and at the end of the day wind up dead. What words can? Leon doesn't push it – he's seen people go off the deep end before and it's never pretty. He doesn't want Claire to have to see her brother turn into an animal, and he certainly doesn't want to be the one responsible.
"Look, Chris, if there's anything that I can do… just say the word." Leon is a man who can get all kinds of things done. There are a lot of people in the government – and out of it for that matter – who owe him a lot of big favours.
"There is something, actually."
"Consider it done."
Chris sits back in the chair, eyes still staring out through the railing of the veranda to the shaggy brown grass in the yard. He's not used to having to ask anyone for help; he's used to having someone by his side who knows his limitations, who knows intrinsically when to step up to the plate.
"I need you to take my sister home and look after her for me. She trusts you; if you explain it to her, she'll listen. Eventually."
This isn't exactly the type of thing that Leon was expecting, but he understands. This world of repressed pain, of anguish and emotion denied is one that he's always been grateful Claire has spared herself from.
"Sure. No problem."
"I just… I can't be the brother she needs right now. Not tonight."
The fact that he is willing to admit this shocks Leon, and it reveals something a little sinister. If it is humanly possible, Chris Redfield always puts his family and friends before himself – for better or for worse.
"Don't worry about her – just look after yourself, man."
Easier said than done. Chris gets up from his seat, stuffing the package of cigarettes into the pocket of his worn bomber jacket. Following suit, Leon stands up too, placing his hand on the doorknob.
"Leon, thanks. I owe you."
"It's not a problem."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
Inside, Claire is just hanging up the phone when they both walk through the door. Her eyes are red right down to the waterlines of her lashes, a sign that there just aren't any tears left. Chris crosses checkerboard tiles of the kitchen floor and puts an arm around her shoulders.
"Hey kiddo."
"Hey jerk," her voice is congested from having to blow her nose. "That was Barry."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He says he'll phone tomorrow before his flight leaves so someone can go out and meet him."
"Did he sound alright?"
"He sounds like shit."
"Yeah," Chris lets his arm drop and Leon steps a little closer. She can sense that they're ganging up on her like she's the one they need to keep an eye on. Fuck them and their misogynistic solidarity she thinks to herself. "C'mon, it's late. It's been a rough day. Why don't you head home and get some sleep."
"Forget it, Chris."
"Claire…"
"I'm serious!"
"I know kiddo, I know."
Because he's never really around that often, Leon often forgets how similar they are, how painful it can be when they disagree. Chris has always had a bad wrap for being the over-protective older brother, but Claire can be just as defensive, and occasionally even more stubborn.
"He's right, Claire," he interjects gently. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day - we all need a proper night's rest."
Right. Like anyone present here will be getting any of that.
"You stay the fuck out of this Leon," Claire snaps. This qualifies as one of the worst days of her life; the last thing she needs is to feel like she's been pushed into a corner, like she's been talked down to and placated. The truth is she's afraid to leave, afraid that if she leaves him alone there won't be anything left in the morning. "You've never taken his side in your life, so just stay out of it and you won't set a precedent for yourself."
It's true that he and Chris don't often see eye-to-eye on things. Their goals are the same, but their methodologies can be quite different. Still, Leon can feel for the older man on this one, he knows the value of time spent alone. Chris pinches the bridge of his nose; this isn't a fight he wants to have tonight. He knows what his sister is afraid of, and he knows that there's not much he can say to reassure her. It's not a fight he can win.
"Look," Leon says, several years of conflict-resolution training coming into play. "Can I just talk to you outside for a minute?"
"Fine," she brushes past both of them out the back door. Leon follows closely, closing the door quietly behind him. In the silence of the kitchen Chris can hear the sound of their voices trickle in through the mail-slot and a crack in the window sash.
"You are out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm leaving. Out of your mind."
"Claire…"
"That is my fucking brother in there Leon, or don't you get that?" She's usually a lot more articulate, but she's starting to lose it again, her eyes pricking.
"I get that," Leon's booted feet hit a creaking floorboard as he takes a step toward her. "And it's exactly why we've gotta go."
"Don't touch me, Leon. Just don't," she sniffs loudly. She doesn't want Leon to see her cry like this, doesn't want him to think of her as just another damsel in distress he has to save from herself. "I can't just leave him here alone. We're family, we take care of each other in times like this."
"I know. But you're his kid sister Claire; as long as you're here he has to be the strong one, he has to take care of you."
"I just don't want him to have to be alone," her words are shaky and she doesn't protest again when he puts his arms around her. Leon has always admired the inherent strength of women, their ability to face things and feel them and still heal and move on. His chest is full of the painful moments he refuses to acknowledge. They lay there in wait, and one day he knows they will be the end of him.
"He wants to be alone."
"He just wants to die, can't you see it?"
"Chris Redfield isn't just going to roll over and die. C'mon, even I know that. Now please, let me take you home – let him have tonight."
She hesitates, still not wanting to abandon the only family member she has left. Claire doesn't give up on people, even if it means she has to bleed for them. For a moment Leon wonders if she's just gathering her strength so she can punch him out and tell him to get lost. But she sighs, resigned. Tonight of all nights she doesn't want to fight them both. They leave together on the promise to return the next morning with breakfast. For his part, Chris just promises to be there.
And then he's alone again, sitting in his usual spot at the kitchen table, the house dark but for the light in the exhaust hood over the stove. On the fridge is a note penned in red ink in her thin, neat writing:
Chris – Daniels needs that inventory form by FRIDAY
Don't piss him off – he knows people in payroll!
J
The words blur; he hasn't slept. Less than forty-eight hours ago they were both living in this kitchen. He had been sitting in the same place he is now, sections of a newspaper spread out over a tactical map and an assortment of opened mail. Jill had stood over by the stove in a worn pair of jeans and a tshirt that was old and soft and settled on her just right.
-
"What's a five letter word for dinnertime annoyances?" he had asked, having given up the endless reports on the North Korean nuclear test in favour of something more recreational.
"I can think of a four letter one that starts with 'C'" she jibed in return, turning over another spatula's worth of hash browns.
"Ha. Ha."
The stove turned off with a click, the clatter of cutlery and ceramic not long behind. A plate of golden, crispy, starchy cubes of potato deposited itself on his newspaper, along with a fork.
"Here, I made too much."
"You always make too much," he had said, exchanging the pen for the fork. "What happened to you Jill? You used to pack it away like a field hand. You used to be cool."
"I'm getting old, that's what happened. You can't be old and cool – you're a perfect example of that…"
-
Chris puts his head in his hands – he can think of a four-letter word for complete fuck-up. He drags himself out of the chair and upstairs to where the bedrooms and single bathroom are. But he doesn't stop into his own dark room, the curtains still tightly drawn against the sunrise he was often up too early to be interrupted by anyway. Instead, he continues around the staircase to Jill's room where he steps in to sit on the edge of the bed.
The room's design is a mirror image of his own; much of the furniture is the same but it's all in the wrong place. Jill kept her room nearly impeccably – his is a lot more haphazard in its organization. But, like everything in this place, it's familiar; he could find his way around in the dark with his hands tied behind his back. Stuffed into the frame of the mirror on her dresser are an assortment of photographs and souvenirs. She has the old, laminated paper slip from his R.P.D. S.T.A.R.S. badge, a postcard from when his sister was in Austria, a couple of ticket stubs, a newspaper clipping…
In the lower-most corner of the frame is a snapshot of them together, a year or so ago, at Barry's wedding anniversary. Chris can recognize it by the setting, the unusual formality of their clothing. He hadn't seen her that dressed up in years, hadn't been able to stop himself from stealing glances at her in that royal blue number all night. It had a wider, boxier cut that was belted in at the middle to emphasize her physique, the wide boat neck sometimes slipping a down on one sculpted shoulder or the other. She caught him eyeing up her legs at one point and threatened to strangle him with his tie.
By the time that Moira made it around to them with her camera the tie was nearly off, hung loosely around his neck, his jacket long gone – vanished somewhere into the good cheer. In the photograph Jill is standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward while he sits in one of the mismatched spindle-backed chairs that the Burton's had collected for the garden party. Neither of them is looking at the camera: instead they're facing each other, smiling, exchanging some hidden look.
There used to be a lot of hidden looks, those little exchanges of eye contact decipherable only to them.
Chris turns away from the mirror, grabbing one of the pillows from the head of the bed and pulling it into his chest. He can still smell her on the fabric - her shampoo, her sweat, just the very essence of her. Of course it will eventually fade from the fibres, but he knows he would recognize it anywhere. It's nice, like being close to her again. His eyes close as he sinks into the comfort of it, his fingers twisting into the down of the pillow.
-
When he opened them he was holding her again, back on the rocky beach, covered in her blood.
"Chris, it hurts," she took his hand and put it on the damp fabric of her tactical vest. Underneath, his jacket was already soaked through. "It hurts so fucking much…"
"It's okay, it's okay; I've got you now."
Somehow his hand found her skin underneath all of the soaked fabric, pressing against the torn, slick flesh. Her organs pulsed underneath his palm, warm and wet, pulling him in further, deeper inside of her. Finally his hand came to rest around her heart, feeling it frantically flutter against the grip of his fingers like a trapped bird. She's all around him, her warmth soaking into the chill of his arm.
"Chrissssss…" Her back arched with the pain of it, her hands tearing at his clothing. Wide-eyed, he stared down at the twisted agony of her beautiful face as his hand began to squeeze the life out of her.
"It's okay; I've got you," he could heard himself say again, deadpan. A prisoner in his own mind, his own body, he fought uselessly against the possessed crush of his own hands that had begun to tear out her heart.
She screamed. And screamed. Andscreamedandscreamedandscreamed until he couldn't hear anything at all above it. He was screaming against himself too, but he couldn't hear that either; all of his consciousness wrapped up in her. She fought him, clawing at his face, his eyes, and still he couldn't stop himself, couldn't save her from himself, couldn't look away…
-
A car door slams shut outside the neighbour's garage and Chris sits bolt upright on her bed. His entire body is drenched in sweat, her pillow twisted and distorted in his hands. The sound of his raw, gasping breaths are the only thing to break the silence of the room. He can't bring his breathing under control. He can't bring anything under control anymore. Shaking palms are pressed deep into the burning sockets of his eyes as he forces his head down between his knees, squeezing his skull until it feels like it will crack. He feels sick all over; a complete and utter wreck of what used to be a man.
In the east, the sun is rising over the trees and roofs of all of the sleepy little houses. The diffused, pinky-golden light of it pours through the sheer curtains on her window. Day one counts.