1 - Lachrymal

"Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart."
- William Butler Yeats

She wakes from her dream of a red-haired boy, with half-shed tears on her cheeks.

It is always the same.

She gets up and goes to the bathroom - sometimes to pee, usually just to wash the salty tears from her face. She looks at herself in the mirror in a kind of helpless melancholy. She has already lost too much sleep over this boy - this Steve - and for what? There's no coming back from the grave. So she turns the water off and heads back to her bed.

She lies down again and switches her thoughts - and, hopefully, her dreams - to something else. It is no longer Steve but another - Leon - who now graces her mind's eye. And yet, it isn't quite Leon. This, too, is also the same. It is never the man she dreams about; rather, she thinks of Leon's lips, Leon's hands, Leon's mouth, Leon's cock - pieces of him which relate to the man only in the strictest sense. It could be any man's sex she fantasizes about...it just feels better to her to think that it's Leon's.

The similarities and differences between her mind's perceptions of the two men are startling.

Steve is always tentative, careful, almost genteel. He is almost more innocent than she is; her dreams always end before they even kiss. Like a shy boy who doesn't know the rules of this first-love game, he skirts the allure of sex - this animus side of her avoiding the very thing she craves. Which is why she always turns to Leon.

Where her Steve is cautious, her Leon is brash, sexy, an embodiment of her devouring desires. He is only for her pleasure and, somewhere in her dreaming mind, buried far deeper than the places she usually treads, she knows she wants him that way: a lover experienced and unafraid.

Realizing that sleep won't come anymore tonight, she gets up from the bed (again) and goes to the bathroom mirror (again). This time, she turns in front of it, scrutinizing her own body. She pushes her chest up and pulls her nightshirt tightly around her waist. She has a good body; she's not as busty or as leggy as some - like her brother's girlfriend Jill - but she knows that lots of men find her attractive. So why is she so terrified of them?

It is difficult to admit, but men are like fairy tale monsters to her. Some are sweet and beautiful, and others are harsh and horrifying. Her father and brother, the first men in her life, were the kindly kings of her fantasies. She does not remember a time when she didn't love either of them with all of her heart. But they are different than most. To a child-Claire, they were genderless, possessing all of the good qualities of men without the strange - and frightening - sexuality. Even now, as an adult, she is embarrassed to think of her brother or (God forbid) her father as ever being sexual.

It would not be until she wandered into the nightmare that was Raccoon City that she would realize how fearsome a man could be. That was when she first met Leon Kennedy, a man so like her brother and yet so unlike him that she still can't reconcile her apprehension and affection for him. That was also when she met the abominable Mr. X, who was so intimidating that even the memory still gives her nightmares.

Mr. X (she didn't know its real name, but somehow just the act of naming it made it easier for her to cope with it) was a man changed by Umbrella's geneticists, but a man nonetheless. More than that, though, Mr. X was power, a power so alien - so male - that it petrified her on a visceral level. For weeks afterward, she would wake in a cold sweat with the image of its invasive, unstoppable hands on her burned into the backs of her eyelids. Yet, upon waking, she would invariably feel Leon's arms around her, calming her as easily as Chris used to do. Which one - Mr. X or Mr. Kennedy - is the real Man?

With a sigh, she realizes that it is as much a mystery to her as the death of the dinosaurs or the Big Bang.

Big Bang, Claire thinks with a rueful smile. I could be Big Bang-ing all night. But instead I lock myself in the bathroom with a Miss Piggy nightlight.

She sits down on the cold porcelain of the bathtub and puts her chin in her hand, regarding the dim light curiously and with no little humor.

"How do you do it, Piggy?" She whispers to the dumb plastic figurine. "How do you land a great guy like Kermit?" She's not surprised by the silent response, but she still imagines the feedback; her imagination has been quite vivid lately.

"Oh, ma cherie," the light seems to tout in its trademark falsetto, "you just have to choose the right moment. Use your feminine wiles, and then when he's not looking, you clobber him."

Claire chuckles at her own personal joke. Sometimes, she thinks, that's the only way she'll ever be able to get a good man's attention. She is used to the catcalls on the street and the whistles while walking through the park, but the men she really wants never stay around for long. They escape from her under the pretense of work. Or they just...die.

Suddenly, the tears come afresh and, despite herself, she can't stop them. She sits half-naked on the side of the bath and cries hitching sobs into her palms.

Oh please, God, she prays in a tumbling jumble of thoughts. I don't want this anymore. I can't do this anymore. I want him. I want anyone. What's wrong with me?

Again, there is no response, but that's nothing new; she doesn't really expect one. With all of the horror in the world, why should the Almighty take a break in His busy schedule to pay attention to her mewlings?

After a long minute, the tears subside, and she cleans herself up. The cool washcloth feels good against her flushed cheeks and puffy eyes, so she holds it there for a good two minutes, breaking away only to refresh it with more cold water. When she looks into the mirror again, she is a little surprised by how much older she suddenly looks.

Not sixteen anymore, baby, she tells herself.

No, not sixteen. She was nineteen when she had first gone to Raccoon to look for her brother Chris, and barely twenty when she'd both found and lost Steve. Now, she's three months shy of twenty-four, and the aching loneliness inside of her has never before felt so acute.

She lays the washcloth on the rim of the sink, by the red plastic cup with her toothbrush, and turns away. She grabs her comfy terrycloth robe - a birthday gift from Chris only two years ago and already it's gotten fine at the elbows - and slips into it silently, like a thief. The matching slippers are somewhere under her bed, but she doesn't bother looking for them. The hardwood floors feel good - solid - beneath her feet and, right now, she needs all the solidity that she can get.

She heads out of the bathroom and down the stairs to the first floor, being careful not to make too much noise on the middle floor, where Leon's room is. She thinks how sweet and above-and-beyond it was for him to offer her a place to stay, at least until she could get on her feet. The trinity-style house is not large, but it easily accommodates two people, and Claire wonders - not for the first time - why he got it at all.

She pads down the stairs and hugs the robe tighter around her. There's a chill in the house, and she is struck by how much just the cold and silence remind her of the deserted police stations or lonely mansions that haunt her nightmares. For a moment, she stops a few steps from the bottom and casts a wary glance around the floor.

"Hello?" She calls in a low whisper, peering into the long shadows. Then she shakes her head and keeps moving. You're being silly, she thinks. There are no monsters here - here, there is only Safety and Comfort and Love, however simple it may be.

She heads into the kitchen and, more specifically, to the refrigerator against the interior wall. Even after only a few weeks, Claire has learned about some of Leon's more secret habits: like the half-dozen adult movies she found stacked behind the monster flicks one night while looking for some late-night entertainment, the ragged but well-loved scrap of baby blanket that she stumbled across when helping with the laundry, and the perpetual stock of ice cream in the back of the freezer.

She makes herself a bowl of ice cream - it's chocolate this week - and moves into the living room. There is enough ambient light from the street to see around the room, so she doesn't bother with any of the lamps. She goes to sit on the sofa, but not before pausing by the mantle on her way.

There are very few pictures around the house, but what few there are each get a place of honor on the mantle. Claire takes a minute to smile at them.

The first is of a Leon Kennedy who looks impossibly young, standing in a crisp police uniform with an older couple flanking him. A graduation photo, she guesses. That would have been just before Raccoon City. She didn't realize at the time how young he was - he always had such an air of confidence about him - but in this picture, he looks like little more than a boy playing costume in his father's things.

She sucks on another scoop of ice cream as she moves on to the next picture. This one is of a young boy and girl, and Claire thinks for a second that it could be her and Chris. But the boy's mop of brown hair is too light to be Chris', and even in the gap-toothed grin, she can see the ghost of adult-Leon's carefree smile. That could be a sister or a cousin next to him; there is some resemblance in the eyes. With a little shame, she realizes that she doesn't know much at all about Leon, except what they have experienced together. Blinded by her own worries all these years, she has never made the effort to talk to him about things other than Umbrella, their work, maybe Sherry.

She sighs, then laughs and sputters some chocolate as she looks at the last picture. She recognizes the girl in this one, oh yes. It's Sherry, playing in one of those cardboard cutouts that they have in amusement parks. Disneyland, Claire assumes from the Mickey Mouse outline she sticks her face through. This is an older Sherry - a Sherry who daydreams about first love and dresses and boys - than the forlorn twelve-year-old that Claire usually thinks of.

Tucked inside this last frame is a short string of black-and-white pictures, the kind they give out in quickie photo booths. Claire's face falls when she looks at it, the memory clearer in her mind than the pictures themselves.

She had needed to go shopping for supplies, and Leon was never of a mind to let her go anywhere by herself. Usually, it didn't matter to Sherry, but somehow the girl had sensed that Claire would be leaving soon, so she had demanded to accompany them. While they all knew it was dangerous to be seen in public together, they had, at some point, managed to forget about their predicament and actually enjoy themselves a little. Sherry had been the one to spot the photo booth, and she had hustled them into it with a modicum of fuss.

Claire stares at the picture, remembering Sherry's high-pitched laughter mixed with her own, and Leon's hands on her waist, trying to hold her steady in his lap as they all made silly faces at the timed camera. Only the last picture in the column captured them with any kind of seriousness, and Claire once again feels a pang of regret.

She knows the looks on their faces without even being able to see the picture in the half-light - she has thought about those looks for years now. It isn't fair; any other people are able to think back on good times without feeling guilty, without feeling pain.

I just want to be happy, she thinks somberly.

She plays with her spoon across her lips, which feel suddenly numb. She goes to the sofa and sits down, curling her feet beneath the warmth of her robe. She stares at the outlines of the pictures on the mantle for a long time, without really looking at them. She thinks, vaguely, that whatever guilt she's feeling is her own fault, for leaving Sherry and Leon then, and now for leaving Chris.

In the dark, it's easier to think of Chris being close and not thousands of miles away doing God knows what. She can almost hear his voice, hushed in her ear as she kisses him goodbye at the airport: Take care of yourself, baby bear. And then, almost as an afterthought, those favored words that always seem to stutter in his throat: I love you.

Claire starts to cry again, but these tears feel gentle and refreshing, like a summer rain. She leans back against the sofa and closes her eyes, running the memory of being in Chris' arms over and over again, so she won't forget.

At some point during her thoughts of Chris, she drifts to sleep, but she dreams of him. She dreams of him coming home late and finding her asleep on the couch, and then trying to wake her.

"Chris?" She mumbles sleepily.

"It's too late for you to be down here," he whispers back to her, his voice sounding somehow different. "You should be in bed."

"Fine here," she tells him, and then she tries to huddle further into the warmth around her.

He brushes a hand over her hair, and she leans into his palm, seeking his heat. He puts his arms beneath her and lifts her up gently. "Come on. You can sleep in my bed."

Instinctively, she curls against him. His embrace is protective, loving, and so strong. She has always loved his strength, has always felt safe in it. She worries in her dream about kicking him out of his bed, brotherly duty or no. "Where's Jill?" She speaks into his chest, where she can feel the comforting thump of his heart.

He pauses, and then he tells her: "Jill's not here."

She accepts that easily enough, and she rocks against him as he walks carefully up the steps. She doesn't remember the safehouse in Colorado having a staircase. Their parents' house did, though; in her semi-conscious mind, she thinks maybe she's substituting that old three-bedroom house for the one they stayed in during their hideout days.

He sets her down in the bed and brings the covers up around her. Their cool freshness feels very good, but not as good as his hand as he touches her forehead again. He mutters, "Sleep well."

Claire snuggles into the pillow, which feels very soft, and then calls after him: "I love you." She has done this since she was a child, first to her father and then to him, when he became more father than brother to her.

She can sense him still nearby, maybe at the door, watching over her, ever the protector. He pauses again, and then he answers. "Good night, Claire."

She wiggles deeper into the blankets, knowing that he loves her even though he doesn't say it, even though he has very rarely said it. But she knows; that is all that matters. She continues to sleep, dreamless this time, and smiles for his love.

2 - Anything You Want

"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye."
-Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The sound of water, like a staccato, makes her open her eyes. She thinks for a moment that she is in Colorado, with the rain pelting down on the roof above her head. But this isn't her room in the old safehouse. Her room in Colorado had been Spartan, little more than a double bed and a chair where she could hang her clothes.

Now, she half-sits up and looks around the strange room, trying to focus her sleep-addled brain. There is a plain, low dresser in one corner, and she takes a long second to look at herself in the small mirror bolted to the back. Her auburn hair is bunched around her head in tangles, and she forces her fingers through them in an effort to get them under control. Finally satisfied, she continues to look around.

The door on the closest wall is closed, and it's from there that she can hear the water sounds. A shower, then. Leon's shower. This is Leon's room, of course, which she has seen before but never from the vantage point of his bed. She feels her pulse quicken of its own accord. This is the bed where he sleeps and dreams, maybe of Raccoon, or of Sherry, or maybe of her; the bed where he listens to Mozart, for whom his mother has a passion; the bed where he lies naked after a hot bath, with the steam drifting off of his reddened skin in lazy swirls and the sweat rolling along the dips and curves of his body.

Claire shakes her head quickly, aware that she has become a little flushed herself. Just don't think about what he looks like in that shower right now.

She feels a brief pang of shame for thinking about Leon this way; he has been nothing less than gentlemanly these last few weeks. She also can't help feeling a little guilty for not thinking about Steve. It was Steve, after all, whom she was supposed to fall in love with. She was supposed to lie awake at night wondering if Wesker's words were true ("We have your friend, Steve..."), if Steve would ever come back to her. Or, if he was dead, she was supposed to mourn him, pining away for him through the night like a good lover, like Leon did for that Ada Wong woman.

Except he hasn't been pining recently, a little voice in the back of her mind tells her. In fact, he's been downright happy lately. Why do you think that is, sweetheart?

Claire smoothes her hands over the navy blue bedspread and stares at the stitch-work beneath her fingers. She thinks of Leon's open, honest smile ("You know how I feel about you, right?") and of his clear, blue eyes ("I don't want you hurt,"), and she chuckles to herself.

Why is that, indeed.

The phone rings, as loud and as startling as a gunshot. Claire jumps a little, and then, as it rings again, she looks for and finds the offending machine on the opposite side of the bed. Just as she reaches for the handset, she hears the answering machine at the foot of the stairs start rambling in Leon's blasé, recorded voice:

"I can't come to the phone right now because I'm out toppling some small South American dictatorship. But leave a message and I'll return your call after the victory parade in my honor. Thanks."

There's a long beep and then girlish laughter processed through the machine: "You really ought to change that message, you know."

It takes Claire only a second to realize that it's Sherry on the other end, and she snatches the handset up before she says another thought.

"Sherry!" Claire says into the phone, her smile showing in her voice.

"Hey, Claire! Sorry to call so early."

Claire shakes her head, even though Sherry can't see it. "No, that's okay. I was up anyway. How are you?"

Sherry's giggles are clear. "Fine. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Claire can almost see the girl's sly grin, and she shakes her head again. "No, of course not. What's up?"

"Just calling to see how you're doing. All settled in yet?"

Claire tucks one leg beneath her and sits on the edge of the bed. She shrugs at the phone. "More or less. I've got another interview next week. Hopefully that one'll pan out."

"Oh, you should just let Leon support you for a while. I would."

She chuckles. "Somehow I don't think he would appreciate that."

"That's what you think. How is he, anyway?"

Claire cocks her head, not quite sure what Sherry's asking; the younger girl has always had a knack for pushing her buttons. She decides to take her at face value. "Leon? Oh, he's fine. He's-"

"Starving," Leon comments in a low voice from right beside her, and Claire gives a little yelp of surprise. He laughs and stands to his full height. "I take it that's Sherry."

Claire nods at him. She still doesn't know how he can sneak up on her like that; a year ago, her reflexes and senses wouldn't be so dull. Maybe it's just that she's finally getting over being so paranoid....

"What was that?" Sherry asks.

Claire looks at Leon - he's still standing close to her and smiling. In a pair of loose grey shorts and a faded U2 t-shirt that looks the better part of fifteen years old, he seems very relaxed, and she thinks that that's probably what he would look like every day...if he hadn't stumbled into the world of Umbrella and conspiracies. Even so, it's a nice look for him, one she wouldn't mind seeing him in more often.

He half-whispers, half-mouths at her: "I'm going to make some breakfast." Then he nods and is out the door. She can hear him take the steps quickly, one by one, like he usually does. A faint whistling comes to her up the stairs.

"Claire?" Sherry's voice snaps her back.

"Oh! Uh, fine, he's fine." She puts a hand to her forehead and brushes away her bangs. "What were you saying?"

"Well, I've got a break coming up next month. I was wondering if I could drop in with you guys for a couple of days?"

Claire feels a tiny rush of both excitement and anxiety at Sherry's idea. While she's always enjoyed seeing the girl, there's a small part of her that would like to spend some time alone. Still, how many more times will Sherry be able to visit? She has already started to look at colleges, and who knows what will come after that?

"That sounds like a great idea," Claire tells her softly. "Though we should check with Leon. It's his place, after all."

Sherry tsks at her. "Come on, Claire. It's your place, too. I mean, you've been there, what? A month now?" She pauses and there's another giggle. "And you know that Leon'll do anything you say."

She doesn't know how to respond to that one. "I still think we should ask him."

Sherry sighs dramatically. "Okay. Let me talk to him?"

"Sure," Claire says, then rests the mouthpiece against the palm of her hand. "Leon!" She shouts.

"Yeah?" Leon calls from the lower floor after a moment.

"Sherry!" Claire calls, then puts the handset to her ear again. "He's coming." Sherry giggles again, and then Leon's voice floats up to her over the phoneline. She sets the handset down and stands up from the bed. She gets to the door and pauses, looking around his room with a little smile. She wants to remember this, the way that it looks and smells and feels, for fear that she'll never be here again.

Finally, she goes to the stairs and listens to Leon's half of the phone conversation:

"Yeah, that's fine. Just- yeah, send me the dates." A pause, and the creak of wood as Leon leans against the stair railing. "I guess. She hasn't mentioned going to Canada yet." He laughs, and she realizes that they're talking about her. Then he stops, abruptly. "Sherry..." Another pause. "We'll see. Listen, I've got to go. Take care, now. Okay. Bye." He puts the phone back in its cradle and shakes his head. He is about to head back to the kitchen when he spares a glance up the steps and sees Claire, regarding him thoughtfully. "Oh, sorry. Did you still want to talk to her?"

Claire shakes her head. "No, that's okay." She runs a hand over her hair again. "I think I'm going to take a shower, if that's all right."

Leon gives her an open-armed gesture as he steps toward the kitchen again. "Mi casa, su casa."

She watches him move away from the stairs and then walks slowly to the third floor. The steps creak a little under her feet, the same way that she remembers them creaking in her dream from the night before. He must have carried her all the way up the stairs to his room, and she didn't even realize what he was doing.

She goes into her bathroom and closes the door behind her. She leans against it for a moment, the towel that's hanging there surrounding her head like a soft pillow. She pushes herself up and begins to undress, and she wonders if Leon's shower routine is anything like her own.

Does he strip down and stand barefoot on the cold porcelain while he waits for the water to warm up? Does he turn on the shower and look up into the water, brushing his newly-wet hair from his face? Do his hands run the course of his body the way that hers do, along her calves, up her thighs, over her breasts?

She closes her eyes and lingers beneath the shower, imagining what he might feel like, his skin against hers under the torrent of the water. She lathers the soap between her fingers, preferring the sensation of her hands to the coarseness of her washcloth. If these hands were his, would he be timid or bold? She imagines him being both, the modest side of her afraid to admit to her own desires and the brazen side of her wanting nothing less than everything.

After several minutes, she turns off the water and steps from the shower, dripping onto the bathmat. She grabs her towel and wraps it around her in a loose fashion, more for cover from the chill than to dry off. She steps into the hall and gasps as she walks straight into Leon.

"Sorry!" He says, hands up in apology. She sees his gaze go to her wet chest for just a second and then flash back up to her eyes. "I'm sorry." He shakes his head. "Um, I've got to run down to the store for some milk. Did you want anything?"

She tightens her grip on the towel with one hand and wipes some wet hair out of her face with the other. "I don't think so. Thanks." She smiles at him and, noticing the color rising steadily into his cheeks, tries hard not to start chuckling. She points past him toward the door of her room. "Can I get by?"

Leon grins and rolls his eyes, as if scolding himself. "Sure, sure."

He steps out of her way and, as she passes him, she can almost feel the weight of his gaze. It is much more flattering a feeling than she would have otherwise thought.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he says, now at the stairs.

She nods in response, then goes into her room and laughs at herself. "What was that about?" She asks aloud.

She goes to the closet and the cubby-boxes full of her clothes, and she picks out some good weekend wear: a pair of boot-cut jeans and one of Chris' old, green crewneck shirts. She crouches down to her underwear drawer at the bottom of the closet and shuffles among the bras and panties for a moment. Without wanting to analyze too much her motives for doing so, she pulls out a matching set of red silk panties and camisole.

With a smile, she remembers one night when Chris had gone looking for some snack food in her duffel bag. He had been groping for the telltale crinkle and rustle of cellophane, but rather than the expected junk food, he had come up with the expensive camisole, a gift from Jill for her birthday. (To justify her extravagant gift, Jill had told Claire with a grin: "Even if you can't always dress like a movie star, it's important to have the option.") He had dropped the lingerie as if it were hot coals, and Claire had teased him about it for days.

She dresses without fuss and, when she's finished, she puts her hair up in its usual ponytail. She slips into a pair of socks and then heads downstairs, where Leon greets her with a bag full of groceries.

Claire looks at the double-ply bag in amusement. "I thought you were just getting milk," she teases as she follows him into the kitchen.

Leon shrugs at her as he sets the bag down on the counter and starts to pull food out piece by piece. "So I'm a compulsive shopper. Here." He tosses her a dark purple plum and then goes back to emptying the bag.

She shines the plum on her sleeve and sets it down on the table. "Need any help?"

He sends her a smile from over his shoulder. "Juice would be nice."

She goes to the cupboard and gets one tall glass, then grabs another. She sets both down on the table and goes to the fridge, doing her best to stay out of his way. "Cran or o.j.?"

"Both," Leon responds without missing a beat.

Claire snickers. "Both?"

He nods. "Yeah. Just pour half and half into a glass."

She shrugs. "Okay." Doing as he says, she pours both juices into his glass. The red and orange mix together into a cloudy pink that looks kind of pretty. She has never considered the two drinks going well together, but it actually seems okay. She pours herself a glass of the same, then tastes her handiwork. "Pretty good."

Leon grins. "See? You can trust me."

She returns the juices to their rightful places in the fridge and sits down at the table. She regards him fondly. "I already trust you."

He stops and looks at her somewhat strangely, as if puzzled by her remark. Then he smiles, leaving the comfortable silence unbroken.

Claire drops her gaze to the glass of juice in front of her and stares into the liquid lapping at the sides. "Thanks," she mutters.

Leon comes over to the table and leans over it. "For what?" He asks quietly.

She shrugs. "Everything." She looks up at him, then adds with a chuckle to herself: "Last night, especially."

He smiles again and waves away her comment. "Oh, you can sleep in my bed anytime." Then he shakes his head and wags a finger at her. "Uh, that didn't come out right. What I meant was..." He pauses, then shakes his head again. "Why don't I just make breakfast?"

She laughs, wondering if these antics are for her benefit, or if he really is that uncomfortable talking about last night. Deciding to let him off the hook (for now, at least), she turns the glass in her hands and asks idly: "Do you have to work today?"

Leon twirls a frying pan in one hand as he lights one of the stove's burners. "Nope. Brodie and Thompson are covering for me." He goes into the fridge and comes out with the carton of eggs and the milk. He comes up and flashes her a grin. "You're looking at a free man." Then he pauses, and the grin falters a little. "At least for the next three days. French toast okay?"

Claire nods at him, secretly amazed at how effortlessly he moves in the kitchen. She has never been very confident behind a stove or even a microwave. She remembers one time at college when she exploded a mug of hot chocolate in the microwave. She decides to just leave the cooking duties to Leon and stay out of his way.

He doesn't seem to mind: there's a cool confidence with which he moves - almost glides - through the motions of making breakfast. He cracks two eggs into a plate and scrambles them with a fork, then asks her, "So, what did you want to do today?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I thought, maybe, we could go out and get some lunch or something."

He turns back to her and leans on the table again. "I've got a better idea. Why don't we go out and get you some new clothes?"

"Shopping?" Claire asks incredulously. "You want to take me shopping?"

"Don't think of it as 'shopping,'" he says. "Think of it as...appropriating proper equipment." He chuckles and turns back to their half-prepared breakfast. "You can't live out of your backpack forever."

Claire smiles to herself. Three weeks ago, she moved in with two duffel bags, the clothes on her back and very little else. Leon laughed at her then, saying that they would have to spend some cash to get her more of an identity. Now, she thinks, he's holding her to that promise.

He plops a piece of egg-and-milk-covered bread into the frying pan and tells her, "I need a new pair of sneakers anyway."

She puts her chin on her fist, still watching him. "I don't have a lot of money at the moment, though."

Leon sighs. "I didn't ask if you had any money. I asked if you wanted to get some new clothes." He finishes one piece of bread and starts to work on another.

Claire feels her face flush, and she thinks about what Sherry said earlier (you know that he'll do anything you say). "Okay," she says softly. "Thanks."

"Good," he says with a nod. He puts the second piece of French toast on the plate and presents the small stack to her at the table. He gives her a cocky grin. "Then it's a date."

"A date," she repeats, feeling her pulse flutter slightly.

She hasn't been on a date - a real one - since college. She silently wills herself to calm down, to remember that this is just Leon, and that they're just going out for a trip into the city. She would do the same with any friend or housemate. Yes, that's all it is - an excursion into the shopping district with a friend. A very handsome friend who just happened to offer her a place to stay in his house...and who just happens to get her hormones going.

"Sure," Leon tells her in an offhand way. He looks up at the ceiling and starts rambling: "I'll pick you up in front of the house, say around eleven, we'll go to lunch, and then I'll take you on a wild shopping spree. We'll go for a walk along the canal - weighted down by plenty of bags, of course - and I'll regale you with sordid stories of my youth...."

Claire starts to laugh at him earnest. She realizes that he's just trying to charm her with that off-center wit of his, but it's a welcome feeling. "And then I suppose we'll do the waltz around Dupont Circle."

He stops, as if considering her proposal. "We could do that, sure. It would look pretty weird, but we could do that."

"I'm joking," Claire admonishes him amidst her laughter.

"Anything you want," Leon says, opening his arms.

Without warning, thoughts of being in his bed earlier this morning spring to mind. "Anything," she whispers. She watches him, the way that his shoulders work beneath his shirt, the jaunty stance of his legs, the lines of his body both under and out of his clothes.

"Within reason, of course," Leon adds, blissfully unaware of the gears starting to grind in her head. "I mean, I draw the line at robbing a bank. But we can figure out something fun to do."

Claire plays with the food on her plate, swinging the fork back and forth in the air. Mr. Kennedy, she thinks to herself, and a pleased if devious smile crosses her lips. You have no idea.

3 - Fools In The Rain

"Venus favors the bold."
- Ovid

Claire flattens the sheer nightie against her bosom and turns to her companion. "What do you think of this?" She asks, batting her eyelashes impishly. Standing in the middle of the lingerie shop, she looks more like a twentysomething browsing for new fashions than the vigilante-cum-monster-hunter she considers herself to be.

With a sniff, Leon crosses his arms in front of his chest and snickers at her. "If you think you can embarrass me, Miss Redfield, you're sadly mistaken."

She demurs and puts the padded hanger back on its rack. "You know," she drawls, as she shuffles through outfits that can be considered clothing in only the strictest sense of the word. "My brother couldn't even step foot into a store like this without bursting into flames."

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not Chris."

Claire looks at him from over the clothes rack. "Trust me, I've noticed that." She walks over to the sleepwear section and picks up a set of soft cotton pyjamas. She holds them up to her neck and turns to look for a mirror, when Leon clears his throat.

"How about this one?" He asks, and Claire nearly spits laughter when she sees him. His head is cocked to the side like an appraiser, and he's holding a see-through chemise to his chest.

"Stop it," she admonishes, trying not to laugh outright.

Leon gives her a look. "What? You don't think blue's my color?"

"Now you're embarrassing me."

"Oh, what do you know about clothes?" Leon scoffs playfully.

One of the attendants, a pretty young thing with a look that just screams after-school-job, taps Leon on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but are you interested in that one?"

He nearly trips over himself, and Claire hides her smile behind her hand.

"Uh, no," Leon tells the girl. He tosses the offending piece of clothing back to the table where he found it. "I was just checking it out. Browsing, I mean. Not for me, of course." His face falls and he motions in Claire's general direction. "I'm with her."

The girl nods. "Okay. Well, if you need anything, just let me know."

Leon waves to her, then leans in toward Claire to whisper, "How about some water to wash down my foot?"

She shakes her head and goes back to her shopping. "You're really incorrigible today, aren't you?"

He shrugs in response. He watches her pick up one outfit, hold it up, then set it back in favor of another. He leans on the column next to the rack she's stationed at and sneers. "Obviously, not everyone's as good at shopping as I am."

"Oh, please," she argues, but with a smile. "You bought the first pair of sneakers you saw. You didn't even try them on first."

"Try, shmy," Leon says dismissively. "My feet have been the same size since I was fifteen." He pauses and glances at the tips of his shoes. "It's actually a very heartbreaking story, if you want to hear it."

Claire throws her head back and laughs. "Okay, fine, we can leave. Just let me pay for this stuff."

He yanks the small pile of clothes from out of her hands and shakes his head. "You mean I'll pay for this stuff." He starts to walk over to the cashier's station, but he pauses on the way. He lifts a pair of rose-colored panties away from the pack. "What are these - little boxers?"

She tries to snatch the clothing away from him, but he keeps it out of her reach. "They're called boy-shorts."

Leon grins. "If you really want boy shorts, I've got a whole drawer full of them back home. You can take your pick."

She finally manages to grab them back and tells him amid her laughter: "I don't want to wear your shorts. Besides, it's just the name of the style." She sets it down on the cashier's table and leans toward him. "They're comfortable, okay?"

"Just trying to help," he tells her, holding his up hands in surrender.

The same girl from before smiles at them as she collects the lingerie and starts ringing it up. "Cash or charge?"

"Charge, please," Leon answers, handing her the credit card.

The girl takes the card and smiles. "You're lucky," she says to Claire. "I wish my boyfriend would pay for my shopping sprees."

He shakes his head. "Oh, I'm not her boyfriend." He pauses very briefly, and Claire wishes that she could shut him up. She doesn't know what's going to come out of his mouth, but she's sure it can't be good. As if to confirm her fears, he blurts: "Just her sugar daddy. That's why I'm buying her all of this stuff."

The girl smiles again. "I see."

"Don't pay any attention to him." Claire tells the cashier.

The girl shrugs at her. "All I care about is a signature," she says, pushing forward a receipt.

Leon takes care of paying for the clothes without another word (except an offhand "bye" to the girl behind the counter), for which Claire is extremely grateful. When they get outside, she grabs the bag from him and tells him with equal humor and annoyance:

"I'll probably never be able to shop there again, thanks to you."

He pokes her in the side and grins. "I saw you laughing in there. You encourage my behavior."

"Hardly." She pauses, then smiles at him. "Thank you, though."

He nods. "You're welcome." Then he claps his hands and rubs them together like a greedy prospector. "So! Where to next?"

She rolls her eyes. "I think I'm done shopping for now."

Leon raises an eyebrow at her. "No more clothes? You're just going to walk around in your new underwear from now on?" He gives her a once-over glance that's impossible to miss and adds, "Not that I'd mind, of course...."

Claire laughs. "I'm sure you wouldn't." She touches her stomach. "Actually, I'm kind of hungry."

"Okay. What do you want to eat?"

"I don't know. You're the guide here; pick someplace."

Leon squints down the street one way and then turns back the other way. His eyes light up suddenly. "Ooh, let's go to Bardia's! You like Cajun food, right?" Of course, he doesn't wait for her to answer; he just takes her hand - a completely innocent gesture but still somehow laced with an unspoken intimacy - and starts to pull her down the street. "It's just a few blocks from here."

She lets him lead, pushing their way through other couples and past a few young families; he navigates knowledgeably, but with a certain unfettered relish that causes her to giggle at him. She doesn't pay much attention to the path he leads her on. Instead, she watches him: the way that his head weaves back and forth as he looks for an opening in the midday crowd, the way that he bites his lower lip when he's both distracted and concentrating, and especially the way that his face breaks into a wide smile when things work in his favor.

Twenty minutes later, she's sitting across from him at the restaurant, munching thoughtfully on her lunch. He's babbling something about the menu and how he gorged himself on food when he was in New Orleans two years ago; she's more interested in watching him than in the actual conversation. Watching him is like watching a waking dream.

His lips have a gentle curve to them that turns lusty whenever he smiles. She has only kissed those lips once, in an emotional moment of need, when she was desperate for his touch. She can't even remember what it felt like, or how he tasted, but oh, how she wishes!

Suddenly, he snaps his fingers in front of her face. "Hey. Ground Control to Major Claire."

She sits up straight. "Sorry."

Leon grins at her - again, that vibrant smile. "Don't tell me I'm that boring."

Claire shakes her head and pokes at her po' boy sandwich. "Don't be silly. You're one person I have trouble keeping up with."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says, leaning forward to put his chin in his hand.

She returns to her lunch, chewing thoughtfully. She is so used to the sound of his voice that it takes her a moment to notice that he's stopped speaking. She glances up at him mid-chew and meets his fixed gaze. "What?" She asks from the corner of her mouth that doesn't have any food.

Leon chuckles. "What what?"

She covers her mouth with her hand while she talks around her food. "What are you looking at?"

"You," he tells her softly. The smile graces his face again and he adds, "You're cute when you talk with your mouth full."

Claire grimaces and swallows down the last of her sandwich. She wipes her mouth with her napkin and drops it to the table. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm finished." She grabs the check from the table and swings up from her chair.

He follows her to the checkout stand, his body swaying easily with some unseen current. As she pays for the food, he bows his head close to her shoulder and mutters, "I'm sure we can find something else to put in your mouth."

She turns her head so fast that her ponytail whips her own ear. She almost says something to him, but he's already moving off to the door, casually looking out the glass to the street beyond.

She stands at the checkout table and stares at him. What was that supposed to mean? Was he just being a smartass, or was it part of some blatant come-on?

Unconsciously, her gaze drifts over the line of his profile, catching his movements with a photographic eye. He seems to move almost in slow motion: an offhand swing of his head here, a shift of his legs there. His hands go to his waist, and he hooks his thumbs into his pockets, looking for all the world like a carefree cowboy.

"Uh oh," he says suddenly, jerking his head toward the outside.

Claire snaps herself out of her stupor and glances out the window. There are tiny drops of water spattering on the glass. "Oh, no." She steps up to Leon and squints. "Should we run for it?"

He sniffs good-naturedly. "It's just a little shower. But we should get back to the car anyway. I think my two hours are almost up." He opens the door and extends a hand. "Ladies first."

"You just want me to get wet first," she says. She steps out into the gently pelting rain and turns back to grin at him.

He ducks under the already-dripping awning and smirks. "I'll take whatever I can get." He motions up the block. "Come on; let's get off of Eighteenth Street."

Claire walks quickly alongside him, holding her bare arms. The temperature itself isn't very cold, but the rain adds a chill to her skin. She starts to think that maybe they should have stayed at the restaurant, when a particularly large raindrop hits her right on her hairline. "Ugh," she mutters. They barely go half a block before another one hits her on the cheek, and then a third and fourth smack her on the back of the neck, where her shirt pulls away from her skin. In a moment, Leon's little shower has become a sheeting torrent.

He wipes his wet forehead. "Okay," he relents, "I think now we can run." With that, he trots away from her, laughing.

Claire follows him at more of a full-on run, dodging the growing puddles that get in her way. An oddly-placed block of pavement catches her off-guard and her foot splashes flat into a deep puddle. "Damn!" She pauses to shake the excess water from her foot.

Leon runs back to her, grabbing her by the arm and hustling her forward. He's still laughing, even though he's as drenched as she is, and that makes her laugh, too. He points up the block. "Almost there!"

She runs with him, matching his stride, and it makes her think of Steve, oddly. She and Steve had run side-by-side through most of their time together. Though she didn't think much of it at the time, it was nice to have someone with her then, just as it's nice to have someone with her now. Whether through snow or flames or just a simple rainstorm, the presence of that other is as comforting as a fire on a cold night. She shudders involuntarily; what she wouldn't give for a nice warm fire right now.

Leon breaks away into a sprint as they get close to the car. He stops at her door and unlocks it, yanking it open for her. "Open mine," he tells her as he jogs around to the other side.

She hops into the sporty jeep and leans over the gearshift to open the driver side door. Leon jumps in beside her, and she sits back, slamming her door in unison with his. He's already snickering.

"Jesus!" Leon says, indicating himself. His clothes are plastered to his skin, and little streams of water run down his face from his hair. He wipes his bangs away from his face, causing little clumps of his hair to stick up at awkward angles. "I look like a drowned rat." He looks at her with a huge grin, then turns away quickly with a look of stifled distress.

Claire glances down at herself, noticing for the first time that the rain has soaked her through as well, making her shirt stick to her like a second skin. Even through the top of her camisole, the points of her cold-hardened nipples are obvious. She rubs her hands over her arms, effectively covering her breasts.

She looks out her window, trying to decide whether she wants to be embarrassed or flattered. The little-girl-Claire thinks, Don't look at me like that; I can't help that I'm a girl. But the now-Claire - the one sitting beside the man with his hands clenched on the steering wheel for fear that they may just reach over to her of their own accord - turns to face him unafraid.

His eyes are shut tight, and the bridge of his nose is crinkled, as if he's silently scolding himself. Something about his posture tells her that, if he knew it wouldn't alarm her, he would start banging his head against the steering wheel. She can't help an impudent smile from crossing her face as she sees him like that.

"Leon?" She says softly, craning her head out to look at him more closely.

He takes a sharp, hissing breath. "Yeah?" He asks, finally turning to her. There is a sweet, apologetic expression on his face.

She drops her hands to her lap and leans forward, whispering, "How about some heat?"

Leon nods and smiles. "Yeah, sure." He puts the key in the ignition and starts the car. When he reaches toward the air panel, Claire stops him.

"Not that kind," she murmurs. She lays her hand on his, realizing that he's trembling almost as much as she is. It could be just the cold, but she gets the feeling - at least, she hopes - that it's something more.

She moves her hand to his cheek and coaxes him closer with the gentlest of touches. She leans toward him, keeping low-lidded eyes on him until the only thing between them are their shallow, half-anxious breaths. Then she closes her eyes and kisses him, trying to be gentle but knowing better. She holds herself against him, lost in a moment that could be a heartbeat or an eternity.

4 - Almost

"[A]ll this life can give us is
A child's laughter, a woman's kiss."
-William Butler Yeats

It begins with a kiss - an interminable, inexplicable, and completely unavoidable touch of lips that becomes oh-so much more.

Claire parts from him, her heart pounding in her ears and her breath coming only when she forces it. She's afraid to open her eyes, afraid that the moment will be broken before it's barely begun. She leans toward him again, ready to continue their kiss.

Leon's hand touches her arm, pushing her back. "Don't," he says, softly.

Her eyes snap open, and she can actually feel the look of shock pass across her face. "What?"

He puts his hands on the steering wheel and glances away for a second. But then his blue eyes come back to her, as if compelled. "Not here," he admonishes. He waits a moment, and then something like a smile slips across his lips. "Okay?"

Claire feels her cheeks flush more than a little bit. "Sorry." She bites her lower lip to keep from saying anything else.

Leon holds her gaze. His eyes soften, as though there's something he wants to say but can't quite. Finally, he murmurs, "Don't be sorry." Then he turns away and puts the car into gear.

Slowly, she fastens her seat belt over her chest and waist, her fingers smoothing the wet cloth on her skin. She shudders, closing her eyes again.

The car thrums beneath her, and she concentrates on the droning hum, in an effort to put Leon out of her mind. She realizes that there's something very comforting about that steady vibration. Even in this closed space, there's a feeling of freedom that she associates with driving, even if it isn't on a motorcycle, her transportation of choice.

Almost unbidden, she wonders whatever happened to her old bike. She left it in Raccoon, of course, but maybe someone found it, before the city went catastrophic. She hopes so; Trigger deserved better than vaporization.

Despite herself, thoughts of the bike bring a wide smile to her lips, and she opens her eyes. She looks out the window and watches the streets slide by behind the curtain of rain, thinking about old Trigger. When her brother saw her sitting on top of the motorcycle for the first time, he commented wryly that she looked like a pint-sized Roy Rogers astride his trusty mechanical horse. So Chris baptized the bike Trigger on that very day and, even though Claire thought it was a little silly, she let it stand; she never could refuse him.

She moves her fingers along the armrest, wondering what Leon would think about Trigger. They met after she had been forced to ditch the bike. He knows about it - her love of motorcycles and all things fast and furious - but now that she considers it, she can't remember a time when she has ever taken the wheel with another person. Chris never let her steer, whether it was his old Schwinn or an F-14 - something about how being the big brother always gave him driving privileges. Leon drove her in Raccoon; Steve drove her in Antarctica. Even Sherry got to rig the train! A sudden thought comes to her: all this time, she has been a passenger, taken along for the ride but never really in control.

She blinks as the car comes to a slow, easy halt, almost without her being aware of it. She hears the clink of keys as Leon turns off the ignition and then the zip of his seat belt as it retracts into its place.

"Claire?" He says softly.

She inhales deeply and pretends not to hear him. She picks up the bags at her feet and opens her door, and the still-pelting rain hits the skin on her arm. Again, she shivers, and she hurries up to the house.

Leon follows her, and with each step she can hear the keys bounce in his hand. He trots up to the door and opens it for her, ushering her inside quickly. As he shuts the door behind them, he shudders. "Brr." He looks at her with a gentle smile and moves toward her, arms open. "Jeez, you'll catch your death. Let's warm you up."

Before she knows what he's doing, Claire feels his hand on her cheek, smoothing wet strands of her hair off of her face. Something like electricity passes from his fingertips into her, and she sucks in a deep breath.

There's the smell of rain on him but, beneath that, the low scent of something else - the word pheromone comes to mind: a chemical that stimulates behavioral responses. Her apprehension of him fades like some forgotten dream, and like some poor, dumb animal not in control of its actions, she responds to him.

She grabs him tightly by his still-wet shirt and pulls herself forward, kissing him once again, more forcefully than before.

He stumbles backward against the wall and his hands go up, as if in surrender. She senses what could be hesitation from him, but then that, too, fades. He moans against her lips, and his arms circle around her, holding her head and waist close. He maneuvers her away from the wall and to the most convenient place - the sofa in the middle of the room.

They fall together, and Claire winces as he steadies himself with the hand that's now firmly entangled in her hair. "Ow!" She protests, opening one eye.

"Sorry," Leon says with a smile as he works at freeing his hand.

Claire looks up at him and smiles back, a little ashamed by her outburst. "That's okay," she whispers, assuring him. She doesn't want this moment to end, nor does she want him to stop.

Lying beneath him, she is reminded of Steve. On the flight from Rockfort to Antarctica, she had stayed pressed against Steve - to keep warm, of course. The heat from another human body kept her sane, made her remember that she was still alive, that - for a moment anyway - she was safe. Leon's body is warming, too. Though that is welcome, she also can't help feeling a surge of arousal. When she was with Steve, she was far too concerned about Chris - and staying alive - to give any thought to her own desires. It had been the same in Raccoon, when she first met Leon. Now, though, things are different.

He exhales slowly, his breath warm for the briefest of seconds before turning her skin cold. She feels goosebumps prickle along her arms and down her legs, spreading an odd but exhilarating chill through her. He leans down to her again, his face filling her vision until she closes her eyes, waiting for the touch of his lips.

His kiss is like chocolate - warm and sweet and soft - and as she parts her lips to give him entrance, his tongue darts into her mouth, quickly once but then lingering along hers. She hears herself hum, a low ringing in her ears and mouth and throat.

Claire settles back, her wet hair cushioning her head against the sofa. A stray clump of hair tickles her cheek and she smiles, and then Leon's thumb pushes it aside. His hand dallies along her face and neck, then drifts slowly down her side, pausing at her waist.

She feels his fingers clutch blindly at her shirt, tugging it free from her jeans. He pulls it up toward her face, and they part as the shirt comes up over her head. She looks up into his eyes, which wander over her slowly, never staying in one place too long to miss anything else.

He sighs at her and smiles as his hand traces her curves: the dip of her clavicle, the fullness of her breast, the slip of her waist. "God, Claire," he whispers. "You're beautiful."

She chuckles at him, around fitful breaths of air. Then she sighs as he dips his head to her neck, planting gentle kisses along her collarbone.

Her heart flutters in her chest, and the bump-bump sound of her pulse in her ears makes her dizzy. "Ahh," she breathes, her voice sounding husky even to her own ears.

How could she have been terrified of this? Was it just because she was afraid to let go, to let her heart open again? She didn't want to be hurt, but closing herself off from everyone and everything would have meant missing this wonderful thing, too.

Claire arches toward him as his hand slides back up and his fingers pause at the mound of her breast. His palm hovers there, just barely touching her, and she can feel her nipple harden against the silk of her camisole. She sucks in a breath and moans in a way that is both frightened and elated.

His kisses lead him back up to the line of her jaw, and he starts to nuzzle the shallow valley of skin by her ear. He pauses ever-so-briefly, his breath heavy in her ear.

"I want you," Leon whispers provocatively, then resumes his nuzzling.

From nowhere, an unexpected anxiety grips at her. "Uh!" She says, her breath coming in a puff. She tries to look at him - intent on the skin between her jaw and shoulder - and her inability to do so causes even more alarm. She can still feel his hand closed over her breast, but what was arousing only a moment ago suddenly becomes a source of panic.

"What?" Claire blurts, unable to keep a note of growing distress from her voice.

Leon doesn't seem to notice, though. There's a smile in his voice as he whispers again: "Make love with me, Claire."

She pushes him away, hands on his shoulders. "I heard you, but...."

He rises up from her, removing his hands from any personal spaces, and gives her a quizzical look. His tone becomes almost conversational, no longer a seductive coo; it's like they're discussing the weather. "But what? You're not interested?"

Claire shakes her head. "No. I mean, I am, but-"

"It's not that complicated, Claire. You want to or you don't." He cracks a somewhat nervous grin at her. "You didn't get married or anything, did you?"

"No, nothing like that." She stands up, clutching the discarded shirt in her fingers, and walks to the window. How to say it? How to say she's afraid of the pain and the unknown and the vulnerability? "I just...can't."

"Can't?" Leon echoes from his place on the sofa. "Or won't?"

Claire glances down at the shirt wrapped around her hands and sighs. "When," she says, fighting back a stammer, "was the last time you were...with someone?"

She can hear him breathe deeply, as if lost in thought. Not that hard a question, she thinks, and then throws his own logic back at him: You know it or you don't.

"Um, a little over a year ago," he tells her after a long pause. "It didn't really mean anything, though."

She has heard that excuse from other men - even her brother - but she still can't fathom it. What is it about men, anyway? How can they just turn their emotions on and off like a faucet? "Then why did you do it?"

"I...." He starts, but something about his voice makes her think that what he says next has nothing to do with what he was about to say. "I was lonely, I guess. She was...convenient."

Claire smirks humorlessly. "Am I convenient?"

He gets up, and in less time than it takes for her to realize it, he is beside her. "Claire-!" His voice is almost scolding. Then he rests his hands on her bare shoulders, massaging them ever-so-gently. "You're nothing like her," he whispers.

"Did you love her?" She asks, and though there is only the very slightest tremor to her speech, it makes her feel foolish.

He pauses again, and she closes her eyes, afraid to hear his answer no matter what it might be.

"No," he says finally.

She sighs, and then the tears come, but she doesn't fight them. Even through the drawn curtains of the window, she can see the cascading rain falling along the glass, cleaning the dirt in much the same way that her own tears clean the secrets from herself.

Very quietly, she says, "I've never been with anyone before."

She expects some kind of response from him, but nothing comes. She starts to turn around to find him, when she feels his warmth surround her again.

Leon wraps his arms about her waist and hugs her tightly. He dips his head to her shoulder - a much less seductive gesture than before - and chuckles softly.

"What's so funny?" Claire asks, a little insulted by his reaction. She turns her head so that she can see him.

He grins at her, swaying her side-to-side, then kisses her quickly on the cheek. "You're amazing. You know that?"

She leans away from him, letting the puzzled expression on her face linger. "This isn't quite the way I expected you to react."

He lets go of her and places one hand on her face. A sigh escapes him, and he mutters, "I've screwed up so many things in my life, Claire. I don't want to screw up this." His grin softens to a sympathetic smile, and he brushes her bangs away from her eyes, curling them behind her ear. "Why don't we just take it slow?"

She smiles back at him, then touches her forehead to his. "I'd like that," she murmurs. "I'd like that a lot."

5 - Love Grows

"A man reserves his true and deepest love not for the species of woman
in whose company he finds himself electrified and enkindled,
but for that one in whose company he may feel tenderly drowsy."
- George Jean Nathan

Hot, Claire thinks amidst a haze of fading dream-images. Too hot.

She pushes her arm out from under the blanket, rocking forward to give herself some more air. Something hard stops her, though. She looks down to find an arm around her, holding her loosely in place.

With a flash of awareness, she realizes that they must have fallen asleep here, both her and Leon. How did they get here? It's difficult to focus her sleep-addled brain, but eventually she remembers....

After coming in out of the rain (and after their impromptu sharing session), Leon had convinced her to take a hot shower while he set up the living room as a sleepover pad. She emerged from her shower and slipped into her comfiest nightclothes, then went downstairs to find the sofa's cushions scattered on the floor, along with three or four fluffy pillows and a plethora of blankets. Some 1950s monster movie was already running on the television, and Claire had to chuckle to herself.

Good old Leon.

"Hey," she said, still toweling her hair.

He looked up at her from the floor, where he had pulled out at least a half-dozen of the oddest monster movie titles she had ever seen. "Hey there."

She knelt down next to him, draping her towel over her shoulders, and gave the titles a quick perusal. She smiled. "I thought after everything we've been through, you'd be sick of monsters."

Leon glanced at the movies blankly, then returned her smile. "Think of it as de-, uh, de-sensification."

"I don't think that's a word," she chuckled, and he started laughing, too. But then they both stopped, their close proximity acting as an invitation.

She leaned forward on her knees and he took her in an embrace, bringing them together again. She thought about how cold he was - he was still in his rain-soaked clothes - and how nice that felt against her flushed body. His cool lips touched hers, and she could almost feel her heat move into him; everywhere that their bodies met they shared that warmth.

She felt him shudder, and they pulled apart. "You should-" she began.

"I should," he said at the same time, and then they both laughed again.

She swallowed. "You should get out of those clothes." He looked at her a little strangely, and she realized what she had just said. "I mean..." She halted, feeling her face flush. "Um."

He got up from the floor, still chuckling. "I think I'll go take a shower."

"Yeah," she said, dropping her gaze.

"A nice cold one," Leon murmured, too low to be a statement but too loudly for her not to hear. Then he went up the steps, taking them two at a time.

She waited until she heard his door close upstairs, and then the faint trickle of water down the pipes in the kitchen. She shook her head at herself, amazed at how stupid she could be. She was the one who didn't want things to go too fast, and yet her mouth was getting her into situations she wasn't ready for.

Still, that had been a nice kiss....

Claire smiles to herself as she looks back at Leon, dozing beside her. Being careful not to wake him, she turns over onto her other side, so that she's watching him. Without all of the adult trappings, he actually looks cute, like a little boy fallen asleep while waiting for Santa Claus, with his rumpled hair and his face half-pressed into the pillow beneath his head.

She chuckles and reaches up to brush a few strands of hair off his face. He gives a little snort and then rubs his cheek against the pillow before settling in again. She shifts herself closer to him, so that her head just touches his chest, and so she can feel the steady, slow rhythm of his breath. His arm closes around her again; she can't be sure if it's just a reflex or some sub-conscious movement, but it feels good either way.

She cranes her head up to see his face, and she thinks of how peaceful he looks.

She is reminded of being with Chris, and how somber he looked on the few occasions when sleep would claim him, especially after Antarctica, when they were travelling to meet up with the others. She remembers in particular trying to doze on a train while the mountains chugged past her window, and being startled by Chris's low snoring. She remembers, too, turning back to him, resting her body against his because he was warm and strong, and mumbling to him: "I love you."

Of course, thinking of Chris and Antarctica also makes her think of Steve, and of those final words from his lips. Steve looked so peaceful, too, but in a different way. Steve was dead. He'd said that he loved her, but she couldn't bring herself to answer him in kind. She hadn't loved him, not that way; there hadn't been time for her to feel anything so strong for him. Maybe it would have been different if she had met him sooner. Or if she had saved him.

Stop, Claire tells herself. Can't change the past.

She couldn't make it work with Steve - the Ashfords had taken care of that. But Leon.... She thinks, maybe, this is her second chance.

She lays a hand on him, gently, right beneath her cheek, and fingers the fine cottony material of his shirt. Beneath it, she can see the faint lines of the dips and rises of his chest. She moves her finger along the center of his breastbone and up to his neck, where the skin becomes prickly from his day-old stubble. She takes her hand away and runs the same trail again, this time letting them follow the curve of his jaw.

Beside her, Leon inhales deeply, then shakes his head as some of her hair tickles his nose.

She smiles, reaching up to move her fingers across his lower lip. "Leon?" She says, testing him. She waits for a long moment and, when he doesn't acknowledge her, she forges ahead.

Claire takes a deep breath herself, then moves her hand back to his chest. This time, she takes the opposite course, running her fingers down along the center of his body. The muscles of his stomach tense involuntarily beneath her fingertips, and she sucks in a breath. For the rest of the way, she keeps a light touch, reminded of how sensitive her own skin can be; she would be absolutely mortified if he woke up on her now.

Her fingers stop at his waist, playing with the drawstring knot of his pants. Then she closes her eyes, too shy to see what she's about to do. But her hand - bolder than her eyes - moves on unafraid.

The fingers sneak below his waist, following the path of the dangling drawstrings. She touches the slit in the pants, pausing briefly while she considers it. Just the thought of feeling him makes the color bloom in her cheeks, so she passes it by, but not without letting him know:

"I like you," she whispers, hoping that he can hear her in his slumber, and at the same time hoping that he can't.

Very slowly, she slides her hand lengthwise along the strange soft thing between Leon's legs. She rests against it, her middle finger propped straight while the others relax alongside it. She wonders absently what it must feel like to be a man and have this thing, how different it must feel from being a woman.

She doesn't want to move her hand - it feels too nice - but some unexamined desire spurs her on. She grips him loosely, testing the suppleness, and in response he jumps a little in her hand. Now she opens her eyes and smiles impudently, pleased that she can get a reaction from him. She flattens her hand against him and then starts moving up and down, very slowly.

A low moan rumbles through his chest and across her cheek, and Claire glances up at him. A faint smile touches his lips, and she snickers, amazed that he can still sleep through this.

Leon's head drifts down toward hers, and a slow, contented sigh escapes him. "I like you, too," he mutters gently.

She jumps away from him. "You faker!" She cries, horrified. Oh, what must he think-!

He stretches and props himself up on one arm. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says with a smile.

She grabs one of the smaller pillows and hits him against the chest with it. "You were awake the whole time!"

He shields his face with his hands, laughing. "No, I just woke up now." When she doesn't hit him again, he drops his hands and grins at her. "Why? Were you being bad?"

Claire sits up, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, borrowing his line.

"Okay," he says. He shrugs, falling back into the pillows again. "Ugh. I'm still tired."

She shoves her feet back under the blankets and rubs her arms. She wonders for a second if he's telling the truth about being asleep, then decides that it really doesn't matter. What's done is done.

As if to prove her point, he lifts the blankets toward her and coaxes: "Come on. Come back to bed." She looks back at him, and he smiles gently. "I promise, I won't tease you."

Claire returns the smile and slips back under the covers with him, lying against him back to front in a spoon position. He doesn't put an arm around her this time, but he does cup her shoulder in his hand as she snuggles next to him. She is suddenly acutely aware of the presence of his manhood, unobtrusive but nonetheless there, resting behind her legs.

"Does it bother you?" She asks suddenly.

"Does what bother me?"

She tries to swallow back the anxiety, but her voice still trembles when she speaks: "Taking it slow."

Leon chuckles into the base of her neck. "I think you're making too much of it."

She sighs. "That's easy for you to say."

"It's not that important."

"Yeah," Claire says drolly. "Right."

Leon laughs again. "I'm serious!" He hugs her shoulder to him, giving her a little shake. "Don't build it up to be something more than it is. Sex can be a great thing, and I'm sure you're incredible..." He pauses, then whispers: "But it's not as important as you think."

She holds the blanket in her fists, rubbing her thumbs along the seam. "I feel like I'm not being fair to you."

"Don't worry about me," he assures her. Now he does wrap his arms around her, hugging her close. "Do what's right for you. If it's with me, that's great. And if it's not with me...well, then it's not with me. I really...I really care about you, Claire. And I want to be with you."

He exhales into her shoulder, and she can sense there's something he isn't telling her. Maybe that his feelings run a lot deeper than he's willing to admit. Or maybe something else entirely. She considers confronting him about it when he mutters, "But if you don't want it, too, then it doesn't mean anything."

Claire touches his hand, linking her fingers with his, and gently kisses it. There is a weight to his voice that sounds odd from him. This is no boy seeking his own solace in her embrace; there is no sweeping romance. There is pain and regret and fear, for her and for whatever came before - that much she can feel and hear and taste in him. But there is a deep sincerity, too. His entreaties of love-or-lust strike a chord in her, and she realizes that, whether or not it's fate that they should be together, he has come to her for the same reason that she has come to him: because he is alone.

He might be a lover one day, but he is also her friend. So it is without anxiety that she can tell him: "I do want you. Just...not yet."

Leon breathes deeply against her skin and settles his body down against hers, not too intimately but close enough to share the warmth. "Then just sleep," he murmurs.

And she does.