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After decades of doing this shit, of seeing things nobody should ever be subjected to in their lifetime, Leon thinks that this is overall a pretty damn shitty way to go.
When this started, he expected to be killed in action. Maybe die heroically fighting some B.O.W. At least maybe his death would have meant something.
Instead here he is, in Alcatraz of all places, barely supporting himself against the cold metal bars of a cell while a virus slowly eats away at him.
The worst part?
He can’t even hold Claire’s hand properly.
She’s somehow in worse shape than he is, considerably pale, lips blue, her veins visible beneath her skin. She’s shivering, and yet her skin glistens with a sheen of sweat.
Leon still thinks she’s pretty, but that’s not the point.
Her fingers are curled against his, and she’s not really even gripping him; she doesn’t have the energy for it, but at least his nearness is comforting.
His breathing is shallow, matching her own ragged pants, and she can’t help but think that they’ve sounded this way before, but under much better circumstances, when they’re tangled in bed together and exhausted and satisfied.
Only here, now, leaning against the cold metal while she slowly feels the life drain from herself, it’s whatever the opposite of pleasant is. It’s a nightmare.
Claire wants to say something to Leon, maybe apologize for cutting him off completely after the chip incident twelve years ago, but her tongue is heavy in her mouth.
So instead, she just limply holds his hand, praying that it’s enough, and listens to his labored breathing as she feels herself slowly drift away.