Chapter Text
The needle stabs into one of Bryan’s many arms at the moment, and just as his mind slips away from him, he returns to the present.
The flesh melts from him as if it were never supposed to be there.
And then he’s slumped back against the wall of the laboratory as the helicopters whirr overhead. His vision fades to black.
The deafening roar of swinging blades above his head are a steady, beeping rhythm within his chest. Bleary eyed and soulless, the hollowed-out man blinks against floodlights. How long had they been in the air?
He doesn’t know.
There’s a few other people here. Armed, armoured and ready; military. But the man behind him — the man practically holding him with a gentle precision but hard, calloused hands — is someone quite unlike the rest. A sculpted, weary face; serious eyes, a bit of stubble to his chin and jawline.
He doesn’t recognise him.
Bryan’s immediate instinct is to flee, is to run, is that these could be the same monsters who had been deceiving him all night long.
But a broad hand tightens at his shoulder, and Bryan remains limp where he rests in an uncomfortable seat as the helicopter rumbles its way to safety. Raccoon City would soon be a speck on the dark fog of the horizon; a gleam of a changed world in whatever remains of the embers glow. The moonlight is vast and all consuming, a flash light in the rain.
And Bryan’s head rolls back on exhausted shoulders. His arm aches in every staggered breath. His eyes flutter shut like they’d never intended to open again.
Whenever he fully awakes, and the consumption has left him sorely ill and trembling, Bryan is someplace new. Not quite a hospital; but not quite not-a-hospital. More of a homey clinic; a small room, on a small but comfortable mattress, and attached to him are IV fluids. His arm is bandaged up to the shoulder, and a blanket covers the soreness of his stiff legs. He stretches out his toes, just to be sure that they are still there.
They are, and he is intact. He squints against the light outside. It’s a fresh, golden morning, and in the distance is nothing but woodland teeming with remarkable life.
For the first time, he lets himself have a soft inhale, exhale. Lets the impending doom and the weight on his shoulders melt into the fresh linen sheets. The cotton is soft, a warm comfort in the ache of his unsteadily beating heart. His forehead has been rinsed of blood, his hair still a little damp; a few strands clinging to his forehead like they might never let go.
And he melts into the softness, the security of the pillow.
Only then, as he allows himself to comfortably rest, does he question where the fuck he is, and who the fuck had saved him?
He sits up, and then immediately regrets it; the pain shoots through his arm like a taser, and the man falls back against the pillow with sharp, gritted teeth. He groans, stabbing, and then turns over on his side to glance out of the clinic’s glass walls. The hallway is well lit, and a few staff — some in military clothing, others wearing lab coats — stroll on by like this is just another Tuesday for them.
His eyes widen. There’s so many people. Granted, he’d only seen maybe six, typically passing by the wall and windows in pairs — but still. Living, breathing people.
People who might shine a light clearer than the sun rays streaming over the fresh cotton sheets.
So he grunts through his clenched jaw and tries to prop himself up on an extremely sore arm. His whole body aches; a background pain no less intense.
And then a man — alone, not in a pair of two or three — walks past the clear glass wall through the hallway. The floors are tile, but glossy dark brown; the walls a deep blue. Like this clinic had been built and painted in the 90’s.
The man is vaguely familiar, and Bryan takes his time to place him as the same man who’d held his posture on the helicopter; a fluttery, blurry memory. One he’s happy to let slip away and forget about, as is the entire previous night. But he can’t.
The man is stern, but approachable and well-groomed. He slides open the door with a crisp, soft sound. Steps into the room with a raised chin and resounding steps. His outfit well fitted, tailored to his broad shoulders and active body; and suddenly, for just a fleeting moment, Bryan feels self conscious at his own beneath the pale hospital gown.
But Leon stops a few paces away from the bed, gently shutting the sliding glass door behind him. His expression is something vaguely soft, vaguely tender; but he’s overall unreadable, and for another fleeting moment, Bryan wonders if he is a threat. He reaches across sheets for a rifle he no longer has. His hands instead curl into fists at the bedside, wrinkling the lemon-scented fabric.
He’s tense in every sense of the word as Leon carefully approaches. The man raises a light eyebrow, eyeing Bryan over for a second or two as if studying his posture. And then he decides to let the space between them remain just that.
He finally speaks.
“Who are you?” But it isn’t a demand; it’s just a soft, curious question.
Bryan hesitates to answer with a thick tongue. “Bryan,” he manages. Then, coldly, he adds, “Who are you?” It’s a fearful demand rather than a question. He’s red around every rim.
Leon seems something else. His lips itch just a little at the corners, like he’s fighting back an amused quip or smile. Instead, he remains steady, and dares to take a step closer to the bedside. Once there, he drops beside the bed to one knee, if only to make easier eye contact with Bryan, who’s still staring at him like he might combust into a wall of flesh at any given moment.
He feels about the same as he looks; his heart already racing, the monitor attached to his finger an unsteady, frantic beep in the air. Bryan manages to sit up and lean against the headboard on his elbows, if only to put distance between the two.
“Agent Leon Kennedy,” the man says, remarkably calm.
“What kind of agent?” Bryan hisses, but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.
Leon evades the question in a soft, unassuming tone, “Buddy, you can relax. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Bryan narrows his eyes, still full of the hum of distrust. “Don’t ‘Buddy’ me,” he hisses again through slightly pained, gritted teeth. Keeps his demeanour just as defensive, his every muscle a sore tremble from within. His exhaustion is evident in the dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes. They’re just a bit glassy.
And at the moment, Bryan feels nothing but the lingering panic and fear from an extremely traumatic day and what had felt like a thousand flights of stairs.
There’s pain in his tense muscles and in every little movement; lingering soreness; the kind you feel after a strenuous workout.
Leon eyes him over carefully, almost fondly. Like he’s observing Bryan break down in real time. Bryan straightens his shoulders to the best of his ability, but they both ask themselves the same silent question.
How the fuck did Bryan survive this?
But Bryan falters beneath his gaze, beneath the haze of past agony and the timid despair that exhaustion rings upon him.
“I’m serious,” Leon tries, a little more stern this time; but not unkind in demeanour. “We’re the good guys. We’re the ones trying to stop this thing. And you’re lucky you even survived.”
Bryan wants to ask what ‘this thing’ is, but decides against it. He knows too much already; he doesn’t even want to hear the answer to such a question.
So instead he fumbles over unsteady, vague words, something like, “Well, I would have survived better had you fuckers rescued me sooner. And what happened to the rest — I mean, the scientists? There was only one cure, wasn’t there? The one I transported. The one your people so carelessly fuckin’ dropped—“
Leon hushes him — not directly, but with a silent look, and Bryan falls timidly quietly, suddenly worrying that he’d upset the wrong kind of person.
But the well-groomed man before him straightens just a little, and his expression remains incredibly soft. Incredibly understanding. Like once upon a time, he’d worn Bryan’s own shoes.
Not that the guy was currently wearing any shoes. Actually, he realises now as he stretches out his toes, he’s completely barefoot.
“Bryan,” he says. He says it carefully, like he’s not quite sure he has the name right. “I’m not a part of those scientists — of Umbrella Corp. I’m something else. Someone…” he thinks for just a second, biting his full lower lip. “Someone better.”
That soothes Bryan just a little; incrementally, imperceptibly. His shoulders slump against the headboard just enough for Leon to catch it. Anyone else might have missed the expression shift entirely.
“You saved a lot of lives yesterday,” Leon continues, his words chosen carefully. “I’m honestly impressed.”
“Damn, I’m impressed too,” Bryan says without thinking. He backtracks immediately, flustered under the clearly more perceptive and experienced man’s unwavering gaze. “I mean, of myself. I mean — I didn’t know I could do all the things I did. Horrible things, honest to god. I never want to do that fuckin’ shit again.” And Bryan is rambling faster than his air lets him. He pauses only for a breath, but Leon takes the opportunity to fill the air in that gap.
“There’s a problem, though,” he says smoothly. He isn’t worried; but the words alone are enough to send Bryan spiralling. He sits up again.
“Problem?” He squeaks out. “What kind of problem? Another problem? A raccoon city type of problem? Freakish monster… freaks type of problem?!”
“Relax,” Leon raises an extended hand like he’s trying to soothe a rabid dog. “We have this covered, but unfortunately, you’re going to have to stick around a little bit longer.”
Bryan bites his inner lip. “Yeah, not like I got anything better to fuckin’ do.” He’s throwing out a crazy amount of F-bombs for his ramming anxiety to hide beneath.
But Leon cracks a small smile. Almost a smirk; polite, but definitely amused. Bryan still just eyes him warily; although he’s growing more familiar with the man’s presence every passing second.
“You see,” Leon continues, gently, “That was the only cure we know of right now.”
“I’m following.” Like it needed to be said; Bryan quirks an eyebrow for emphasis.
Leon still meets his eye. “It’s in your blood now.”
“My blood?!”
“You’re immune,” he says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “But that was it. One shot — that’s it.”
“That’s it?! No more cures? Wasn’t there — wasn’t there a backup-backup?!” He’s panicking all over again.
“Unfortunately… not,” Leon grits his teeth like it’s painful to let out. The truth is there, but he wants nothing to do with it. He claims no association to the benevolent mishaps of the Umbrella Corporation. But his face shifts back into that steady calm that Bryan is slowly growing familiar with. “But we have a solution. And that’s you.”
Bryan shakes his head like it’s a prayer, “Me?!”
“Yep,” Leon nods once, sharp. “The cure is in your blood. We take a bit — a small amount, like you’re donating it at a blood bank — and then the scientists here can use that to manufacture a new cure.”
Bryan thinks about that for a panicked second. And then he allows himself to settle down, back into the warmth of the soft sheets. “Just a bit of blood? Not all of it?”
“Like I said, we’re not affiliated with Umbrella. We don’t do cruel experiments. You donate some blood, and we get the cure. Simple as that. All you have to do is stay here for a bit longer.” His eyes harden. “As long as you’re okay with that?”
“Okay with that…” he repeats, like it makes no sense to him. And for a moment, it doesn’t; but then it all clicks.
He glances around the homey room.
He doesn’t exactly have a big family or many friends to return to.
And so he relaxes, just enough, just slightly. Bryan lets out a deep, shaking exhale. Just to calm his unsettled nerves. And for a moment, he allows himself to believe this strange agent. To believe in the warmth and the scent of clean lemon and fresh cotton and the sight of the sun beams rising outside of a beautifully furnished, green forest, teeming with flora and fauna.
He allows himself to feel safe — or something akin to it.
So he glances back at the man and sighs in deep consideration.
“If it doesn’t kill me,” he says.
“It won’t,” Leon says.
Bryan shakes his head like he’s still indecisive; but truthfully, he’d pretty much made up his mind the second he’d decided to go on this long-ass delivery trip.
“Then I’ll do it.”
Leon perks his head just a bit. Almost smiles.
“I really appreciate this, Bryan. We all do.”
“It’s no—“
“You’re a hero, you know?”
Bryan grows flustered, and now he has the security and trust enough to not be so worried about imminent danger. And all he can see is this man — objectively attractive, although Bryan wouldn’t dare admit that to himself — staring at him like he’s made of gold.
He hesitates, fumbles for the right words, and eventually lands on, “I’m just a delivery guy.”
“Right,” Leon says. “And I’m just a man.”
He sits up against his knee and stands by the bed, and Bryan looks at him a little queery from his last suggestion.
Still.
The bed is soft beneath him.
The light outside only bears the warmth of the sun and the sound of birds.
This man is loose in professional, friendly posture.
He might just be safe. Actually safe.
And so Bryan closes his eyes as Leon lingers in the doorway. He allows himself to soak in the warmth of the rays through the window; a cascade of early-morning gold across the blanket, across the side of his cheek. The skin there is a bit raw from the previous events.
He allows himself to exhale deeply, to not worry about how loud that breath is. To not worry… at all.
Something good is coming his way.
This good deed would go unpunished; but not unrewarded. Leon would soon see to that.