Nightmare Mirrors (Leon S. Kennedy x Claire Redfield)
Part of my If I'm with you, I'll never die series, but set before what happens before those one-shots. First part is 72 Hours. Second part is Some Like It Hot
Claire is running through the R.P.D., the wooden floors creaking under her boots, but no matter how fast she is, she can’t lose the zombies behind her. She can smell the stench of their bodies like a dark, ominous cloud at her back; their groans fill her ears, and their cold hands keep trying to reach her.
She reaches the north‑west stairs, but the zombies are somehow still behind her, and another set of noises adds to the macabre symphony: heavy taps on the walls accompanied by ragged breathing and gurgling hisses. She doesn’t need to turn to know that a couple of lickers has joined the party.
Claire begs her legs to run faster. She doesn’t have enough bullets to face the horde behind her, and even if she did, there are too many for her to handle alone. But if she reaches the S.T.A.R.S. office, if she reaches Chris, she will be safe; after all, her brother is an awarded marksman.
Claire reaches the end of the stairs. A brush against her back tells her she is far from losing her pursuers; in fact, they seem to be shortening the distance between her and them. She tries again to run faster, to no avail. Just as she reaches for the doorknob, the wall to her left breaks open in an explosion of debris and dust that makes her start coughing.
Claire’s eyes itch and immediately turn red. Blindly, she tries to open the door, but the doorknob has somehow disappeared. Panic doesn’t have time to appear before a big hand grabs her by the neck and smashes her against the right wall.
The damned creature dressed in a trench coat and that ridiculous fedora hat is choking her, his grey face remaining imperturbable, devoid of any emotion while looking straight into her eyes. Claire struggles under his hold, kicking her legs, trying to scratch at the hand squeezing her throat.
The echoes of the groans of the zombies and the lickers grow duller as the burning sensation in her lungs keeps intensifying. Black dots fill her vision as the iron grip around her neck tightens.
Claire wakes up with a jolt. Tears sting her eyes and sweat covers her body; the bed sheets are wrapped around her and sticking to her skin. The first thought that comes to her mind is that they look like a shroud. Vomit rises in her throat, and Claire flees the creaking bed for the bathroom in quick strides.
It only takes her three heaves to empty her dinner into the toilet bowl. As she kneels there shaking, with the debilitating weakness that follows vomiting, she hears a set of footsteps. Claire’s eyes frantically sweep across the bathroom, searching for something she can use to defend herself; no matter how flimsy, anything is better than the feeling of being empty‑handed.
It’s only when the hesitance in those footsteps registers in her mind that the blaring alarm inside her finally shuts off. It’s Leon. The breath she didn’t know she was holding leaves her lips when his head appears through the open door, concern and sympathy weighing in his blue eyes in equal measure.
Leon steps into the bathroom like a man walking through a minefield, his movements slow and deliberate so he doesn’t set anything off. Without a single word, he hands her a glass of water. Confusion must be evident on Claire’s face, because he quickly whispers to rinse your mouth from the vomit.
Claire nods at the gesture, it is something that feels very Leon in a way she can’t explain. She rises from the floor before accepting the glass, not trusting herself to grab it earlier without spilling half its contents on the tiles.
Through the mirror, Claire can see his hands hovering in the air behind her back, unsure whether he should rub her back to comfort her or drop them and give her more space. After a couple of seconds, Leon lets them fall to his sides.
Did I wake you? Claire finally asks. No, I was having a hard time falling asleep on my own, Leon says, before adding in a soft voice. I have an inkling of what I’m going to see if I do.
They exit the bathroom and sit with their backs resting against the wall. From their position, they can see Sherry shifting around in the cheap motel bed she had been sharing with Claire until a few minutes ago. Next to it is Leon’s empty one.
Their bodies are close but not quite touching, and despite the silence, the warmth radiating from Leon’s body feels comforting. It is funny, in a twisted way, how three days ago he was a stranger, and now he understands a part of her she doesn’t know how to explain to people she has known for years.
They haven’t figured out how to keep going after everything. They don’t know what the future holds for them, nor how they can comfort the others. They will, she is sure of that.
~ᰔᩚ~
Her steps on the marble floors echo through the empty corridors, but no matter how hard Claire tries or how much she pushes her body, she can’t walk any faster, as if she were made of lead. Countless invisible hands grab and pull at her arms, her legs, even her hair, tugging in all directions, trying to hinder her advance too.
CLAIRE! The voices keep shouting her name, concern lacing her brother’s voice, worry in Jill’s, agony in Leon’s, and the desperate cries of Sherry. She tries over and over again, but she can’t go faster. They are so close yet so far, as if she’s being allowed to brush the tip of her fingers against where she’s going but never truly reach it.
Her brows furrow with effort, fear, and frustration. Stubbornly, she keeps pushing; one step closer at a time is better than nothing. Yet, as the dark voice whispers inside her head, it is not enough. She will not save them on willpower alone, not this time. Chris never taught her how to quit a fight.
The endless corridor keeps stretching in front of her eyes. The volume of the voices grows with each second, until she wants to cover her ears to stop the torture of having to keep listening to them while she remains useless. Claire closes her eyes; maybe if she can figure out how to get rid of those pesky hands or lighten her legs again, she can save them.
Opening her eyes again Claire glances down, and an anguished scream leaves her lips. The floor is covered in blood, a dark stream that soaks into her shoes and trousers. She stumbles, and the crunching of bones reaches her ears. Her legs wobble, and soon she is on her hands and knees. The voices are now so loud it feels as if they’re screaming directly into her ears.
The blood swirls under her hands before chaining her in place. She tries to pull away to break free from it, a useless fight. The voice whispers again: she has been sentenced to stay like this forever.
Claire snaps awake, wide‑eyed and without making a single sound. Her heart drums in her ears with such intensity that, for a couple of seconds, it drowns out every other noise. When her body finally relaxes enough for her to move again, Claire staggers to her bathroom.
The cold splash of water on her face is a welcome sensation. Claire examines herself in the mirror; she looks pale and ghastly, her pupils still dilated as if searching for an invisible threat. Claire closes her eyes, draws a deep breath, holds it, and then finally lets it go in a very slow manner. She repeats it several times until she feels more in control of herself.
A pair of strong arms wrap around her waist before she is pulled back against a firm chest. Leon. Her eyes find his through the mirror. Did Mrs Irwin’s car eat your bike again? The joke is stupid, but the picture it brings to her mind starts to chase away the image of the corridor filled with blood, bones, and voices.
It was a one‑time thing, but you aren’t letting go of that silly dream, are you? she asks, half relieved and half exasperated, before turning on her heel and hugging Leon, her forehead resting against the warm skin of his bare shoulder.
Maybe in a couple of decades. Claire can’t see his face, but she knows he’s sporting a cheeky smile right now, and then she feels him tighten his hold around her as the fluorescent light above their heads flickers. Outside her tiny bathroom, the sound of the night train drifts in, another piece of normality for her mind.
Do you want a glass of water? Chocolate? Leon asks again, his voice raspier than the rookie she met years ago. No, just stay, she says, her eyes fixed on one of the moles on Leon’s arm. It is good that he has so many of them; tracing connections between them calms her thoughts on nights like this, when she doesn’t want to think about her nightmares any further or give Umbrella’s monsters more control over her life.
As long as you want me around, Leon replies in a calm voice. He never promises her a forever, too self‑aware of the dangers of his job, but Claire knows that if he could, he would. She is sure of that.
