Penumbra:

Shadows Collide


V:

Unexpected


Penumbra - the shadow cast by two objects colliding - as in during an eclipse.


Summer- 2014

Witch Haven Island, off the coast of Massachusetts


A pretty night.

The summer send-off on the mainland was in full swing. Leon could see it from the beach where he sat, watching the festivities. They'd been here for weeks, waiting it out, watching and wondering when the time to return to the world would come. He didn't miss it. He didn't miss any of it.

He never did when he was away from it. His vacations were so few, his relaxation minimal, and his time away from the job was scarce. He didn't miss it when he was gone. It probably spoke volumes about what he was doing with his life. The guilt of knowing he could quit and maybe even convince himself it was ok to do it chased him in the dark like a hellhound set loose to finish him off.

When he got like this, he usually drank too much to deal with it. But he'd been careful on the island with Jill to stay sober. He'd been trying to stay sober since New York and Arias. It was a win most of the time, as he was so busy. But sometimes, like tonight, he wanted a drink or another form of distraction from his demons. Instead of hard liquor, he had a beer beside him in the sand. God knew it was basically brown water anyway.

He could easily sneak onto the mainland, go up the beach, and get one of the summer college girls there to slob on his knob for half an hour to drain the snake and take away a little of the melancholy he was wallowing in. But, like all things, it would just leave him emptier than when he'd started.

As he often did on a long night, he questioned the fight. Why was he still in it? Jill had asked him that, and he'd foisted off the right answer, the one he believed in - most of the time.

He knew, objectively, why he'd gotten in. For Sherry. After Raccoon. It was the right thing, then.

And now?

What about now?

Did he even believe in what he was fighting for?

Sometimes, he was pretty sure he was fighting simply because he didn't know how to stop. The day he'd picked up the badge in Raccoon, he'd believed that he was meant to serve a greater purpose. In his guts and his bones, and his balls, he believed he was meant to do good.

It was altruistic and cliché as all hell, but he meant it.

And now?

He'd stop thinking about the "why" a long time ago. He was now invested so far in the thick of it that he'd gone blind to the reason for it at all. The T-Virus was evil, sure, and it needed to be eradicated. Bioterror was getting worse instead of better. The world needed to be protected.

That was the hero in him talking. And the hero understood the price would probably be his life.

The man in him knew the price wouldn't even matter. If he died tomorrow, fighting the fight, what good would it do? No one would remember him. No one would care. And bioterror would keep killing everywhere it touched.

He laughed lightly and said, "You need to stick with scotch."

Apparently, beer made him introspective. The brew was not his friend on a warm night when he felt like he might want, just for a minute, something to forget about the uselessness of it all.

He shivered again and blinked as a towel fell over his head.

Curious, he pulled it around his shoulders and looked up.

Jill sat down in the sand next to him, wearing a blue tank top and jeans. Color-wise, they were playing tag as he wore a similar shade of a tank top himself. A little shawl in tasteful white was draped over her shoulders.

Her dark hair was loose and waving in lovely, sleek locks in the breeze.

They sat quietly for a long moment before he finally said, "Thank you."

"Sure."

They didn't look at each other now. They watched the fireworks from the mainland and the lightning.

Jill finally spoke, rarely was it ever her who did first, and surprised the hell out of him, "After Raccoon City, I spent three days in a hotel in Idaho…." She smiled slightly, amused, "Why? Who knows. There's nothing in Idaho but potatoes. And even those I couldn't find or didn't care to. I cried. I drank. I cursed. I watched bad t.v…when I finally climbed outta that hole and got on with things, it was time to jump right back in and start burying Umbrella."

She curled easily in the sand, and the shall fluttered prettily. She kept watching the lights above them. "I remember when I got in front of a mirror for the first time, the look of horror on my own face – because between the surviving, the nightmares, and the boozing, lack of sleeping, and sobbing – I looked like hammered shit and felt worse."

She turned her face to look at him. He turned his back, laying his cheek on his knees and managing, somehow, to look utterly fucking adorable to her. Whimsome, young, and maybe like the boy he'd been before the darkness had swallowed them both.

Jill stated without preamble, "I didn't look half as bad as you do now. Tell me what you saw. Tell me what you did. Tell me…because whatever it was? It's better out than in."

He considered her, watching her eyes reflect the growing grumbling sky, watching them shine in the flicker of red, orange, green, and pink. And he queried, "Did you? Let it out?"

"I did to Chris. He listened. He got it." She smiled softly, "It helps to tell someone who gets it."

They held eyes, breathing now, so entranced with each other.

And he just started talking.

It was effortless once he got going. He talked about Tall Oaks. He spoke of killing Adam Benford, the only man who'd ever really believed in him. He spoke of Ashley Graham and Ada Wong, and Wesker. He talked about the sample he'd lost and the parasite in his body. He spoke of the night sweats, the fever dreams, the drinking, and the forgetting. He talked and talked, and he didn't flirt. He didn't wink and be flippant.

He just…charmed her by being authentic.

She listened, she took his beer and drank it. She watched his face, captivated by it, and the words that seemed to desperately escape his mouth. She'd come out of her room to the beach to escape her own demons…and here he was. He'd been here with her this whole time. But not like this. For either of them - not like this.

It was like she was here for the first time as well.

Because there was no witty banter and playing around. Just a guy on a beach, feeling lonely.

And a girl, on a beach, feeling the same.

Leon said softly, "I don't think this is what I was supposed to do with my life."

Curious, Jill tried to see the truth of that on him. Amazing. He meant it. For a guy who was the fucking talk of the town in terms of what he could do, that humble statement spoke to a man looking for his purpose. She'd thought he had it all together. She thought he was the Yoda of bioterror with his speeches to her. It turned out he was as lost as she was. Was he meant to do it? Maybe not. But he was made to do it.

So, she tried to give him back some of the support he'd given her.

Jill urged, injecting real truth into the words, hoping to reach him, "I'm glad you are. I really am. Every single person that comes to the fight and stays makes a difference. Every single time you choose to go back in and not give up, it matters, Mr. Kennedy, no matter how small you think it is. And you? You're good at what you do. I don't know a single person on Earth who'd have survived what was in the Kennedy Report. But you did. And you didn't just survive it; you made it legend."

Jill touched his face lightly, where it rested on his knees, almost soothing him now, "Don't give up. Not yet. We're close to something; I can feel it in my blood. You've earned the right to see it through, Kennedy. Don't deprive yourself of that."

He smiled softly, and she liked that too. He answered her quietly, "Jill?"

"Hmm?"

"It's Leon. Just Leon."

It was. She knew that. She also knew if she called him that, if she said it, she'd make it personal. It wasn't, not right this second, now? Now was about the war. About the battle. About the cause. It was keeping a good soldier in the fight with her. It was how she separated herself from her men without crossing that line. It was what she was good at.

She wasn't good at separating herself from "Leon." She was able to separate herself from Kennedy. Kennedy was a name on a piece of paper. A file folder. A man with more notations for bravery and adaptability than any agent in a decade. A faceless stranger up to his eyebrows in the same fight as her. If he started to have a real name, he'd begin to matter.

It was easier for him to stay Kennedy.

And so she answered, almost in a whisper, "Promise me you won't give up."

He eyed her, watching the storm flicker in her eyes, and replied, "Not today." He laughed lightly, "I'm still on duty. The story of my life."

Jill flicked a smile and dropped her hand from his face, "Ah, yes. The story of my life too. That's all we can ever do anyway. One day at a time. Like you said, one step at a time."

The fireworks ended. The party died down. The chill off the ocean spilled almost too cool.

The mainland started to settle into night. Jill mused, "It's gonna rain soon."

"Yeah."

She looked at him sitting there. "You wanna go up?"

He kept his chin on his knees, his arms locked around his legs where he sat. "Soon, maybe."

"Ok."

She kept sitting there beside him. They didn't speak again. They didn't need to. But when they finally went inside, they went inside together.

And it wasn't quite so lonely anymore.


It was the music that started the fall.

Leon was outside, watching the water and the island, taking notes on the habits of the suited assholes on the mainland, when the song touched his ears. He paused, listening, what was it? Something classic. She was playing a lot of classical music lately.

After a handful of seconds, he recognized it as Moonlight Sonata - if not one of Beethoven's finest, at least one of his most famous.

Leon climbed down from his perch and headed toward the cabin. He crossed by the window and paused, catching a glimpse of her through the cracked wood shutters. He'd expected her to be sitting and staring as she did most nights, lost in thought and contemplation. She wasn't.

She was standing in the middle of the room while that old record played with her hands over her face and just..rocking. She was rocking where she stood. It took him a moment to realize she was crying.

He wasn't sure why it hit him so hard to see it. Maybe it was because she seemed so fucking strong. Maybe it was because something about her just gave off this vibe that she was impervious. She wept silently, if he hadn't seen it, he would have never known she did it.

He could walk away and leave her to it. He should. It was the right thing to do.

But he couldn't do that either.

He'd been alone too often when he would have liked someone there beside him. And she'd sat on that beach a few nights before with him until he'd been ready to come in. Leaving her alone wouldn't help her, even if it was what she thought she wanted.

He opened the door instead and ventured inside. The music swelled around him. She heard him coming, or maybe she didn't, so lost in her misery as she was. But she never expected him to touch her. He got the feeling you didn't touch Jill Valentine. Not without risking drawing back a nub. She practically had signs around her flashing: Don't Touch. What kind of life had she known that no one bothered to risk it?

His hand caught her left wrist and pulled it down from her face. Jill turned on him like she'd been attacked. She went to hit him, and Leon spun her around until her back was to his front. He pinned her arms to her chest and held on, doing that thing he did where he compressed her body to calm her.

Jill whimpered and urged, "...don't."

Don't. She didn't want the comfort. But that wasn't really how he worked. She didn't know him well enough to get that yet, but it wasn't at all how he did things.

Softly, she almost begged, "...you should let go."

And he grumbled into her ear, "No."

Instead, he swung her around and into his body, wrapped her close against him, and just...started swaying. She froze, pressed against him, hands curled at his back into fists like she'd been ready to hit him. He swayed and turned her as he did it. Her feet moved on their own.

It took a moment for her to realize he was dancing with her.

He was dancing to a song that echoed in her head like death knells. Why death? Why? This had been her song once. Hers. Her favorite to play. Her favorite to feel. She'd learned it first on the piano at eight years old. She'd learned it beside Fur Elise. The first movement of the haunting melody had always soothed her after a long day. The familiar chords had comforted, like a warm hug on a cold night, when she'd been at her worst.

Now it was the anthem of her despair and the theme song of her defeat.

After a handful of seconds, her hands relaxed at his back. They curved and fisted into his shirt. She put her face against the bend of his neck and shoulder and stopped fighting him. They circled and swayed, Jill trembling in his arms like a frightened rabbit.

Leon laid his cheek on the side of her head. Into the soft thrum of music, Jill whispered, "I don't know how to do this."

He teased gently, "What? Dance? You're doing it."

She laughed a little wetly. "...this learning to live again...it's killing me."

Touched that she'd opened up to him again, Leon made a hmm sound as he rocked her. "You feel alive to me."

Jill closed her eyes and let him lead her to the music. "This song...it was Wesker's favorite. I learned it when I was in S.T.A.R.S. to impress him at a Christmas party once. I played it at the Spencer Mansion and again at the Estate...and in Africa...all the time...anytime he was in the mood to just-" she hitched a breath and clutched his shirt harder, "-anytime he wanted to hurt me. He made me play it. Again. Again. Again. Until it was all I could hear every fucking time I closed my eyes."

Leon stroked a hand down her hair. "You want to turn it off?"

Jill let out a shaky breath, "Yes...but leave it."

Curious, he encouraged, "Ok. Why?"

"Because it's a beautiful fucking song...and he can't have it."

Leon's mouth twitched with pride. "You're taking it back."

"You're goddamn right I am."

They danced for a moment until he offered, "You wanna tell me about it?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't want to talk about it. Not ever again. Never. It's done. I just want it to stay done."

It was the wrong answer. She needed to talk about it. But he understood, and he wouldn't push. She had to come to terms with it on her own time. It was the only way she'd heal. It wasn't his place to force her.

"You want me to let go?" He asked as they circled slowly on the floor.

Jill shook her head against his neck. "No. Just keep moving, farm boy." Advice he'd been heeding his whole life.

"As you wish."

Her soft chuckle warmed him as she joked, "Of course, you're a Princess Bride fan."

Leon teased, "Who isn't?"

The song slid into the second movement, the allegretto - a more whimsical celebration of moonlight, a party instead of a prayer. His dancing answered the change in tone. Admittedly, he was good at dancing. He was also good at taking your mind off your own misery. Such was his gift.

When she stopped trembling, he spun her out and twirled her around, making her laugh. She came back against him with such a genuine smile on her face that he couldn't resist echoing it. He dipped her and spun her out again.

When she came back to his hand this time, she turned herself into his body, putting her back to his front. His left arm slid over her stomach and linked hands with her right. Her left arm went up and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, as they slid together - dancing now with something close to joy instead of regret. It was a good feeling.

Jill turned her cheek and laid it against his collarbone. Leon slid his right arm over her upper chest and gripped her left shoulder, holding her against him as they swayed. Dancing, yes, but hugging - it was hugging, there was no other word for it.

When the song slid into the third movement and the presto agitato crescendoed around them, her mind kept flashing. It kept seeing the demons in the notes. It kept seeing the bodies on the floor around her boots as she played, hands flying, blood cooling. She sat at the Steinway in that ugly hall and played while people crawled, while people tried to flee, while people died. One of those heeled boots Wesker made her wear tapped the pedals on the floor, the other tapped the back of the man dying while he stared upward at her blood-soaked face.

He gurgled and went still, whimpering sadly as the light left his eyes. Her comfort tune became her symphony of death. She floated out of herself in that moment, watching herself from above, a birds eyes view of a monster madly flying through the motions. The music punctuated each groan, each gasp, each grunt of mortality - like drum beats backed by song. And when she finished, the clapping started.

Wesker crossed the bloody floor with the smooth glide of victory and control. He touched her shoulder, flecked in offal as she was, flecked in red - two blondes with hair turned pink from slaughter. His hand curved over her muscled juncture, fingers pressing against her collarbone as he praised, "Beautiful, Jill, beautiful..." His eyes traced over the bodies around them on the floor, guts spilled, throats slashed, mortal coil shucked. And he commanded, "Again."

In her head, she was screaming, but her fingers simply slid over those ivory keys soaked in red and started that hateful song once more.

When the record scratched to a finish, bumping quietly as it continued to turn, they kept right on swaying where they stood. Jill clutched Leon a little harder, reluctant to let go. There was no blood here, no death - there was just the scent of ocean and his neck - soap, and survival. Into the silence, Jill murmured, "Songs over."

"Hmm."

"...we're still dancing."

His lips brushed the delicate shell of her ear as he mused, "You didn't say stop."

Her eyes fluttered open as she smiled. He was looking right at her over her shoulder. Her hand slid down from the back of his neck, fingers trailing over the beginning of a pretty impressive beard. She murmured, "...you need to shave."

His lips tilted. "Why? Got a thing for dudes with beards?"

Her pointer finger lingered at the dip in his chin, tracing the cleft tenderly. "It's growing on me."

His eyes sparkled. "I think it's growing on me, actually. I don't think it would look nearly as good on you."

She laughed, the glitter of tears in her eyes somehow making her look almost painfully young. She'd always look young, he thought with a niggle of something he couldn't name. She would always be young, always be beautiful - what would she think if he didn't? And why did it matter?

What did he think was happening here?

He didn't know. He just knew he hadn't felt this, whatever this was, in a long, long time. He felt like it would fade away and disappear the second they left this secluded cabin. He knew that. He was reluctant to see it end.

In a couple of weeks, he'd managed to get to know a woman he'd barely spent five minutes with before. He got the feeling that she was sharing more with him than she'd probably shared with anyone in so long that she was rusty at it. She was rusty at interacting with other people. What did that say about Chris Redfield as a friend?Apparently, loads. He could punch boulders, but he couldn't help Jill back from whatever cliff she'd been standing on since her return.

Five years. She'd been back from imprisonment for five years. She still seemed like she was a captive. Maybe this time to herself, her own regret, her own guilt. And the power of a long-dead bastard who'd lived way too long passed his expiration date. However long they had on this island, he was going to do his best to help her figure out how to let go of that shit.

If she didn't, it would eat her alive. It was already trying, munching through what remained of who she'd been and devouring who she might be if she just...kept moving forward. Leon was well aware he liked to save people. It was sort of what he'd been put on the Earth to do. He was aware that came with risks.

But the only risk here was to himself. Because the more time he spent with her, the more he liked her. The more he liked her, the greater risk he'd fall for her. But who was he kidding anyway? He'd been falling for her from the moment she'd sat on the beach beside him and offered him comfort when he was down.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had bothered. However, this ended, he knew only one thing - he wanted to hold on for as long as he could. In his world, that could be an hour, a day, or a lifetime - you just never knew.

Until then, he'd keep on dancing.

Their eyes stayed locked until Jill bumped her forehead against his and remarked, "It's getting late. We should try to get some sleep."

"Hmm." He kept on swaying, "Then stop dancing."

Her lower lip rolled under her top teeth, charming him, as she returned, "Maybe in a minute." So, he just held on. And he didn't let go until she was ready.

When she finally did, Jill crossed to the phonograph. She lifted the needle, and then she played that song again. Leon watched her, quietly, with no judgment, no complaint. The music began, and she exhaled, making a whoosh sound as she did it, centering herself.

He got it, he did. She was going to play that damn song until it was hers again. She was going to play it until the world she'd left behind fit into her hands like it should have. It cost him nothing to stand there and let her.

She turned back to face him. They watched each other in the flickering light from a gas lamp behind her. After a long moment, she offered her hand to him. He got the feeling that, too, wasn't something she did often.

He took it, and she slid into his arms, waltzing now - eyes locked on each other's as they moved.

And they danced until the moon was the only light left in that cabin.