SAVEGUARD ⟼ leon s. kennedy

ii. climbing mountains

𝟚𝟘𝟘𝟝
𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕔𝕙

Mr. Kennedy waits for me outside my apartment, casually hovering next to my door.

As I shamble around inside my kitchen, my feet dragging like I'm one of the undead, I can see his arm against the doorframe, his fingers brushing against his handgun in his holster. I want to tell him that my apartment building is safe, there's no threat here, but then again, I don't really know if that's true.

I don't really know anything anymore, the fog in my brain penetrating every single one of my thoughts. I catch myself staring at his silhouette, and blink myself back to the present. 

I've been doing a lot of that. Starting into space. Unable to make sense of the passing seconds.

As I pack my hip pouch and backpack, I focus my eyes on the kitchen clock. It takes about ten seconds for me to make out the digital numbers. I try to understand exactly how late into the day it is. 

First, it has been fifteen hours since I was broken up with, right here, in my kitchen.

Ten hours since I swallowed the last few drops of vodka in my apartment, tossed the bottle into the sink, and cut my hand trying to pick up the glass pieces.

Seven hours since I bought a cup of hot chocolate from the bodega.

It has been six hours since I stumbled into Tripp's office, half-inebriated, half-asleep.

Five and a half hours since his office exploded, with himself in it.

Three hours since I was dispatched from the emergency room.

Half an hour since Mr. Kennedy explained to me just how much danger I was in. How that grenade was meant for me too, because of something I knew and now that I was still alive, still breathing, still knowing, I needed to go with him, because he needed to make sure what I knew doesn't die with me. That I don't die. That I needed to be delivered to someone called Chris Redfield. His team. 

They'll know, he had said.

The way he had explained everything was like he was trying to shape sentences in as few words as possible, his eyes focused on his hands as he checked his handgun's magazine.

I had listened to him and focused on the blue of his eyes, his dark blonde lashes. How his hair bounced a little every time he looked up to make sure I was paying attention. It was the only thing I could do, to focus on these little parts of him, because otherwise, I felt like I would just rise up into the air, untethered by gravity, forced to watch Tripp's office explode— with Steve and myself in it—over and over and over again.

I hear him clear his throat outside my apartment, and the sound snaps me out of my thoughts. I realise I had been mindlessly stuffing my hip pouch with clutter, useless junk. I empty it all, and fill it again, this time forcing myself to think ahead. A few protein bars, a small first aid kit, two packs of ammunition for my Glock, a small flare gun, a roll of duct tape. Finally, my lucky keychain.

A couple of dark chocolate bars. And a few packets of sugar.

In my backpack I toss a few water bottlers, a disinfectant spray, a neck pillow, a packet of cigarettes.

I take a look at my kitchen, the empty bottles cluttered everywhere like statues, the glass pieces still in the sink. The dessert I had made for last night sitting on the counter, cold and dry. The plants surrounding the window. I take one last look at them and know in my heart that this was the last time I would stand in this kitchen, this apartment.

A sudden anxiety takes control of my knees, forcing me to bend over the table, my ears ringing. The explosion plays in my head again, the sound engulfing everything around me. I can't catch my breath, the air is gone, my heart is about to explode, my hip pouch is on the floor, and suddenly I'm next to it, gasping for some air, even a tiny amount, just to fill my lungs, but I can't, I can't breathe, and the explosion is still so loud in my—

"Hey, you good?" Mr. Kennedy is kneeling next to me, somehow. I can see that his hand is on my shoulder, but I can't feel it.

I blink away the hot tears that have formed at the corner of my eyes. I try to nod, but I can't. I try to shake my head, but that too is impossible. I try to say something, but I realise that is another mountain I can't climb.

"Take a few deep breaths for me," he instructs, and when I don't move, when my lungs remain empty, he grabs me by my arms, and stands me up, walks me over to my couch, and sits down beside me, his hand still on my arm, his touch simultaneously soft and firm.

"Let's do it together," he says, and I look at his lips while he breathes in, and then I look at how easily his chest rises and falls, and after a few seconds, I realise I'm breathing with him.

"You're okay," he says, and politely pats my knee.

I'm okay, I think.

"Have everything you need?" He asks.

I nod. He grabs my hip pouch off the floor and hands it to me. "I had one just like this," he says.

"You did?" I look at my initials on the pouch.

"Yes. Back when I was a cop."

"You were a cop, too?" I fasten the pouch to my belt, and it hangs comfortable at my side.

He nods. "They're convenient."

"They are. Though not very spacious."

"Carry a few more," he says, and I can't tell if he's joking, but I can feel my lungs working normally again.

I can talk. Breathe. Feel.

Outside the balcony, the sun is dipping beyond the horizon, and the apartment is being kissed with warm, golden light. It makes his hair the colour of the bottom of a pot of honey.

"We need to go," he says.

"Mr. Kennedy," I start to say. "Maybe I should stay—"

"It's Leon," he cuts me off, heading towards the door.

"Leon," I say, and I like how familiar his name is in my mouth. "I think I will only slow you down. I should stay."

His fingers let go of the doorknob. "Your name is Clementine, right?" He asks, bypassing my words as if I had not said them.

"Yes. Clem." Where did he get my name from? The nurse? Had I told to him when I was still in shock? Had he read my files?

"Clementine is prettier," he says, and for the first time since I met him, his face loses a hint of its severity. The way he says my name, the way his eyebrows are no longer knitted when he pronounces it, it makes me feel like he's being genuine. "You're not safe here. You need to come with me. You're a trained cop anyway, right?"

"Right," I say quietly. Not a very good one, I think.

"We'll figure this out," he says confidently, and opens the door. "Together."