in shades of gold the evening begins its slow descent, crawling on its belly ; the breath of summers eve and the blunted edges of an impulsive haircut tickling her shoulders, warm honey on her tongue : it is a nice night for a walk, for dinner, for sharing sunsets and in another life perhaps their days would be filled to bursting with the splendour of something so simple. instead there is the pervasive ache of all her wounds — fear she has overcome, guilt laid inside its coffin and now, all she has is the bruised wings of her hope held within the hands of men who see it as naivety and yet, they all want the same thing. someone to save them, aid them, love them. each time he calls her — each time she answers, whether four am in new york or eight am in stockholm — his self-made martyrdom grows teeth, resentful at the envisioned idyllic life she has, seeking not to share their suffering but foist his misery onto the only other person who could have ended up in his place. more than once she has entertained that the wedge between them was carved by her hands as much as it was his : if she had stayed, if she had been some anonymous figure in the interrogation room, if she allowed them to make a lapdog of her, would they be closer? stubborn as she is, she refuses to break. claire has never balked before a challenge, irregardless of the odds, and despite all the barriers he has put between them, there is a crack small enough to fit her fingers. a laborious, delicate task, to pry deep enough to find something worth saving without shattering what remains.
"going to?" incredulous, but amused. he says it as if she is a child incapable of having a serious conversation, but she cannot blame him entirely — they have only ever danced around anything meaningful : he too distant, she too quick to speak her mind and between them, the chasm growing wider, more treacherous. festering with things unsaid. they should be friends — they were, at one point, she thinks, but sometimes it feels as if the man beside her is another ghost. there's an empty grave of a boy she’s remembered longer than she ever knew him, tended to by her and her alone, all those fantasies where she kept her promise tainted with the reality of another — if he had lived, would he too have grown unfamiliar, unrecognisable? there are a thousand people in the world who understand the tragedy of raccoon city, but only two whose experience is interwoven with her own. they never speak of that, either. "we already are. it's normal to argue, sometimes, y'know. doesn't have to be the end of the world. i'm not chris -" it's a nice thought, that the tension between the two stems from some misguided desire to protect his little sister, but that is merely wishful thinking. they are of different worlds now, different lives, hers overlapping leon's more than her brothers : all red tape and bureaucracy, men whose power comes not from might but money, a pit of gilded vipers, a ring of snakes.
how many times had she sat in sherry's room, watching simmons from the corner of her eye? he was kind to her, sympathetic, and yet always her gut instinct twisting itself in knots : you cannot trust this man nor the woman clinging to his arm. surely, leon saw it, felt it. how could he not? had his anhedonia blinded him to the nameless, faceless women worn like accessories on government officials?
as if she has any right to judge. neil had slipped through her fingers, bypassed all her alarms, and she has paid for it in blood.
"only good boys get dessert, leon," were she still in her twenties, she would have his leash wrapped around her finger, aching for something put against his lips against other than the mouth of another bottle — it's a selfish, second-long consideration : she's too sober to embarrass herself attempting to relive her youth and he's not drunk enough for honesty. instead, she nudges him with her elbow, squeezes his hand, "c'mon, it won't be that bad," awkward reassurance befitting the waiting room of a dentist.
what a pair they must make, walking hand in hand and yet, unable to look at one another. her lashes still damp with tears, he in preformative dishevelment. "yeah, heard you’d taken to riding," there’s a touch of disappointment there, an avenue for connection that he simply turned away from, unwilling to share the details of his life ; those she knows spoken not by him but by reports, whistleblowers, paparazzi still carrying a flame for the national hero than saved the presidents daughter. friends feels juvenile, coworkers inaccurate. what do you call someone who shares your wounds but never answers your calls? family, she supposes, for better or worse.
against her hand, he feels warm. real. compromised of skin and bone and not just propaganda. another nudge, coy, "leathers, too. you know, if you missed me, you could have just called."
