A/N: To be fair, I have nine thousand stories in the works. Nine thousand. Or like fifteen? Something. But this one is going to be slow and updated infrequently. This is my brain child in the making with a friend on here. It's another slightly AU romp from the lover of weird similar story lines. It's what 7 should have been. Could have been? Something. With a more familiar pair.

Let's see what happens shall we?

This is a more classic pair then my usual crack ships of love. Ha.

This is just to get the first chapter out there. I'm going to attempt to finish the Devil's Bargain, possibly Obscurity, Not a Hero and Obsession before I really run hard at this one. But I had it in my brain at 4:11 a.m. (I don't sleep, clearly, as I have insomnia and an overactive imagination plus I'm ALWAYS working. So I'm all over the place) and had to get it out there.

Read or leave or love it or hate it. You know the drill.

Slainte.

-TLF

….

:Prologue:

Augusta, Georgia – 2017

The trembling heat permeated where it touched. It leeched against the screened in porch where he slept, fitfully, dreaming of things that bred in the dark and brought you screaming to your knees. The skittering flicker of the television screen echoed across his face, casting shadows and seeping light on a smooth complexion.

Age had been kind to the face it blessed with its touch, it left just a fine spill of crows feet from the corner of sea foam eyes and the suggestion of smile lines at the edges of a kissable mouth. Although the mouth in question hadn't done much kissing…not in years. The etched jaw and finely bladed nose added depth to the five o'clock shadow that made a beautiful face somehow masculine. There was a line of cheek, a bend of brow, a curve of jaw…something…that took away the femininity that might have taken residence on such a fine countenance. The hair that spilled sweaty across the brow was some shade lost between blonde and the buttery brown of good dark leather. The gift of forty years had woven a few strands of silver at the temples and through the shaggy sweep along the tender shell of an ear.

The face was graced with the spill of a single scar that cut across the right eyebrow and curled a little toward the fluttering eyes with their sweep of dark lashes. A gift, it would seem, from one of the things that chased him now in his nightmares. It made the perfect face approachable; it marked the man who wore it as a survivor.

Because he was. He was one of the original survivors of Raccoon City; the first of the major metropolises to fall beneath the swinging sword of bio-terrorism. It had struck sharp and fast, cleaving the world in two on who stood for it and who stood against it. Those who hadn't died had bonded together, fighting for the cause like warriors on a crusade. They bore their banners of redemption proudly, striking blows in broad and silent ways, leaving the gaping corpse of the evil Umbrella corporation nothing more than a bleeding mess.

And yet…yet…Umbrella had risen again. It had risen to reform. It was now…the good guy. The paramilitary force set up as BLUE Umbrella – blue for good – blue for redemption. It was meant to strike back the evil that it had once wrought upon the waiting world. And those who had spent a lifetime fighting it were now being asked to step up…and range themselves beside it.

The price often felt too high.

The price had led him on a path of revenge and vengeance. It had guided his hand like a marionette, using his fingers to pull the trigger against those who needed to face the reckoning for what they had done. He'd stepped into the battle to protect a little girl…and he'd lost the only thing he'd ever cared about in her bid to protect another.

On the small phone that lay against his softly heaving stomach, a single video was still playing. It played all the time. It played on repeat when the day was done and the long night offered little respite from the demons that clawed at his throat and wanted his blood.

It haunted him…her face.

It was there now on the tiny IPhone screen, laughing. Red, red hair cut shaggily to her pretty chin and big green eyes. Waving. She was waving. The sea was behind her, tossing in the troubled gray sky. "Hey handsome. Hey baby. Has it been three weeks already? This trip is taking FOREVER. Some babysitting gig huh? She's sweet though. Super cute. Reminds me of Sherry but with dark hair. Fuck, I miss you. I said no when you offered to come along. That was me right? I said no. Stupid. Next time right?" Her face smiled, a little sadly now, into the screen, "See ya soon right? Don't forget me, Mr. Kennedy. Promise?...I love you."

The video shimmered, it stopped. The phone buzzed.

He shifted in his sleep.

It buzzed again.

Annoyed, he cracked one beautiful eye and peered at it. His gloved hand lifted it to his face. The white t-shirt he wore was stuck to his honed torso with rivulets of sweat. It was summer in the south. It was never less than 100 on any given day in this god forsaken shithole. But it was HER place. He couldn't sell it. He couldn't leave it.

He lived there with her things. Her smell. Her dog. Her memory.

Her ghost.

The dog woofed gently on the floor by the porch swing where he'd fallen asleep. He sat up slowly, a crick in his neck. Rubbing it, he clicked his tongue and the fat Pug leaped up beside him. Bob. Dumbest dog name ever. He'd given her the damn dog for her birthday. Three weeks before she'd left him to escort a little girl found amongst the burning ashes of a raided lab in the waters off the coast of Bolivia. There was some connection there to Heavenly Island where Claire had been working on shutting down an B.O.W. Outbreak with TerraSave.

Claire was the first choice for children. It was in her blood.

Even if it wasn't meant to be in her arms.

The contamination on Sushestovanie Island from the T-Phobos virus had left her infertile. They'd tried for months and months before seeking a specialist. She'd wept for days afterward. Inconsolable, he'd finally wrapped her in her mother's blanket and carried her to the porch. On the swing, they'd rocked, Claire on his lap, pale and lost.

"I'll never be a mother."

Nothing had ever hurt him worse.

And he'd said, "Yes, you will. I'll buy you a fucking kid if I have to."

"Black market baby bartering, Mr. Kennedy? Pretty risky behavior for the second most powerful man in the world."

"Pfft. Second? The President is a figurehead, sweetheart. I'm the MOST powerful man in the country. I'll buy you a goddamn village of orphan kids. A herd of them. Say the word."

"…you're so dumb."

"I mean it, Claire. I'll go punch a pregnant crack head in the face right now and take her baby. Just give me the go ahead."

"Will you still love me if I can't have your children?"

"No. But I'll still fuck you…because I'm a good dude like that."

They'd held eyes in the early dawn. She'd twitched her mouth. He'd twitched his. They pressed foreheads together.

"You're a real pal, Kennedy. Let me tell ya."

She'd laughed. She'd laughed and held him. And loved him. And it was better.

And then?

The fetch and carry mission. No big deal. Just escorting a little girl.

Until one day, she stopped calling. The transmission was lost with the ship she was on. Poof. Up in smoke.

No goodbye. No see ya later.

Gone.

Missing.

No trace. No answers.

Gone.

He was still trying to find her. He was still trying to find himself without her.

The beer on the ground was warm but he didn't care. He picked it up and took a swig. The foamy yeasty beverage tickled. He tucked the pug against his side, the big googly eyes watched him soulfully, and he opened the email on his phone.

His heart stopped. It stopped in his chest.

The email address was familiar.

And the words were there. THERE. For the first time in three years:

L-

I'm here. Come find me. Hurry.

-C

An address.

Dulvey.

Dulvey, Louisiana.

Nowhere. A hole in the wall. A two stop light town in the middle of the bayou.

Why? WHY?!

Why now?

He rose, heart racing now. RACING. He dialed the phone. It rang once and was picked up. The other voice was gruff but alert. Did he sleep? Probably not. He was a machine.

"….she's alive."

"What?"

"She's alive."

"….how do you know?"

"She emailed me."

"What?"

"RIGHT NOW. Right this second. It's her account. The trace I just threw on it? It's legit. It's Dulvey, Louisiana. Why? What's there?"

Silence. He listened as her brother breathed sharp and low. He could HEAR the same desperate hope in each heavy gust of it. He'd come through. He didn't know any other way.

He was Chris Redfield…and his baby sister was missing.

"I don't know. Don't go in alone, you fucking idiot. Give me a few days. Let me dig and see what's there. Why now? Nothing else? Nothing?"

"No. Just that. Just come find her. She's waiting."

"God damnit, Leon. It's a trap."

"Maybe. Maybe it is. Maybe. But what if its not? What if she's been trapped or something all this time? What then? She's waiting. I'm going."

"Leon! Give me a few days."

Leon shifted toward the house. He could hear the crickets and smell the summer air. He could feel his heart. And he hadn't felt his heart in years.

"I'm going. Follow me down there when you're ready. But I'm going. "

"Leon, wa-"

But he didn't wait. He hung up. He was already moving. He was already rushing.

He was Leon Kennedy. He didn't wait for back up. He went in alone. It was his thing. It was his M.O. And it was his GIRL.

A thousand horses from hell couldn't drag him away.

"Hold on, sweetheart. I'm on my way."

He hoped, somewhere, she could hear him.

He was going down into the fucking bayou to bring her BACK.

He had no idea what waited for him there.

And what it would cost them both to survive it.

The email fired off. She grabbed her head, gasping, gasping. She shook, hands trembling. The pain was clawing in her brains. The need was there like a red, wet, sucking thing. Her sweaty face lifted, breathing shaky and uneven. Terror licked around her lungs and stole her breath.

She was in the dark, always in the dark, horrified and lost.

Her hands typed fast on the dirty little keyboard. She didn't have much time. They'd find out she'd gotten out soon enough. They'd come looking.

Daddy…would come looking.

Making a small terrified sound, she clicked the record button. Because the first email wasn't her. It wasn't. It wasn't Claire Redfield sending it.

It was HER.

She WANTED Leon to come. She wanted him here. She wanted family. She wanted family for Claire.

She wanted Claire's husband to come looking for her. So they could finally be a family. A mommy. A daddy. An eager daughter.

OH GOD.

Claire started speaking, terrified and low, whispering, "Leon…baby…don't come ok? Don't come. If you get this? Ignore that last email. Forget it. Please. Don't come. Stay away. STAY AWAY. Oh god…" She felt the tears spill out of her eyes. "Burn this place to the ground…hurry. But don't come after me. I'm done. I'm lost. She's INSIDE me…"

The door creaked. Claire felt the fear burst sharp and slick in her stomach. She gagged with it, like she'd vomit all over the floor. She spun toward the sound…nothing.

Just the dark.

But she was NEVER alone.

She whispered it one last time, "Stay away, baby…please…I love you."

And the door was thrown wide now. Claire started screaming. She scrambled. The chair over turned. She ran. It wouldn't matter. It never did.

The dirty floor hit her face. She hit her knees. She kept pleading. She kept screaming.

She was still screaming when the video cut off.

And she'd never been able to hit send.