Even in the crowded restaurant, his eyes went to her first. She was sitting at the back, facing him, hunched over the book that lay open on the table, idly stirring her coffee with the hand that wasn't occupied in keeping the book open. It was the seat he would have chosen for himself; a back corner with a wide view of both the exits and every other patron seated in the aging vinyl booths and at the long Formica counter.

He glanced at the kitschy Kit-Cat clock on the wall behind the counter and frowned; he was forty-five minutes late, like some kind of douchebag who thought he had better things to do. He was always late, and she always waited, and he always promised that it would never happen again. It was becoming a running gag between them despite the fact that it made him feel like a waste of time.

She didn't even flinch as he slid into the chair across from her, just looked up at him, one eyebrow raised, waiting for the inevitable explanation. The first words out of her mouth were:

"What the fuck happened to your face?!" It came out a louder than he would have liked, and he ducked his head to try and escape the curious looks of the other diners.

"I had a little… incident at work," he said, rubbing his fingertips lightly over the mass of scratches that raked down his cheek on the left side. He knew it looked bad – the black eye, the split lip, the mass of scabs - but it had been a lot worse three days earlier when one of the other trainees had mashed his face into the ground with his U.S. Army issue jungle boots. At least he still had all of his teeth, which was more than could be said for the other guy.

"Well I hope you filled out your OHS forms," she joked, still looking a little concerned as she took in the damage. "You always did have a hard head though."

"Thanks, that means a lot coming from you Redfield," he rolled his eyes. The waitress came by and he ordered a coffee. A half-glass of Coke and a plate with only the garnish left were pushed over to her side. He would tell the boys back at base that he had something masculine – like steak tartare, or maybe veal. They would really eat that shit up. The waitress came back with a ceramic mug which she filled with the coffee pot in her other hand, dumping a handful of creamers on the table before leaving.

"So how's it going…'work' I mean," Claire asked, tucking an old receipt in between the pages of her novel and whisking it away into the bag at her feet. She looked nice with her hair down, a few strands caught over her shoulder.

"It's good," Leon emptied a handful of sugar packets into his coffee, enough to mask the taste of the sludge they usually served at places like this. Places that claimed to have "the Best Homemade Pie in Town" and "Real Brewed Coffee". Leon thought he could probably make a better cup of Nescafe. "Aside from the obvious," he made a vague hand gesture to his face, "it's really good. They offered me a job in Washington, actually."

"Really? That's awesome Leon, that's really big," her face lit up, warm and familiar in the light coming in through the window. She reached over and grabbed his hand where it rested on the table between them. "You deserve a break like this."

He almost jerked back at the shock of her touch, but tried his best not to be awkward about it. It was over in an instant anyway as she reverted to her natural pose of cupping her long fingers around her coffee mug. Her hands were white and soft, a blue ink-stain on the middle finger of her right hand the only mar. His own were rough and torn, dirt pushed so far under his fingernails that no amount of picking got it out, a long gash down the back of his hand from where his fist had met tooth enamel. He tucked them away and out of sight underneath the table.

"Yea it's alright I guess," he shrugged nonchalantly. "What about you? Studying hard like a good girl?"

"In bed by nine every night, scouts honour," she held up two crossed fingers. "Just don't tell Chris. It's weird to be back after so long – I'm stuck with all the freshmen again and it makes me feel ancient."

"You're a real crone, that's for sure."

"You're older than I am," she accused.

"I know, but it's more forgivable for a refined gentleman like myself to have a few extra grey hairs – that's what makes us look so distinguished."

"You do look pretty… distinguished right now."

"Ouch," he mimed a fatal chest wound, "what's the matter, don't you like my haircut?"

"It's very…Kubrick."

"What can I say; my good looks are my major malfunction."

"It's definitely some kind of malfunction."

Leon just shook his head, hiding a smirk behind his coffee mug. This was exactly why he went through all the bullshit of arranging enough leave to be able to come meet with her when she was in visiting her brother who was working up at the S.T.A.R.S. headquarters in town. Some days it felt like his face had frozen into the façade of blasé indifference he forced himself to project. Some days it felt like his face had formed into an iron mask which would crack right off if he tried to change expression. Joking with old friends was one of the few pleasures that reassured him he still had circulation to those parts of his head.

He wondered if Claire would still come visit him when he was in Washington. He wondered if he even had a right to ask her to. Maybe if he could actually show up on time for once.

"Speaking of bad haircuts, how is old Redfield version one-point-oh anyway?"

"Chris? He's good. I mean… he's busy. The trial really helped clear the air for him, but he's still not done with it. I worry about him, you know?"

"I know. But it's personal for him."

"That'll be a great consolation to me when Wesker mails me his head in a cooler."

"I didn't mean to piss you off,"

"I know, I'm sorry. It's just that everyone always tells me how I have to 'move on with my life' and it's such hypocritical bullshit coming from him."

"Hey, you're doing the best out of all of us."

"Not even," she sank her chin into her palm, elbow propped up on the table. "I started seeing this guy at school – a nice guy and everything don't look at me like that – and it just totally fell apart. That's such normal shit and I'm so far out of it still. I mean I couldn't even…" she stopped herself, breaking eye contact to look off to the side. "Nevermind. It's way too embarrassing." She tried to laugh it off.

"C'mon, this haircut is embarrassing. It's not like I'm going to tell anyone. I, on the other hand, have to go out in public like this."

"It's like… he would lean in to give me a kiss on the cheek, and I would freeze up. I can't handle having people I don't really know that close to me anymore – I always feel like they're going to take a chunk out of my jugular." She covered her face with her hands, "ugh! This is so… lame. Forget it."

"I'm sorry," offered, even if he wasn't sure he really was. The thought of some up-and-coming college kid making a move on Claire Redfield made the coffee in his stomach sour.

"Don't be. If Raccoon taught me anything, it's how trivial all that stuff can be."

"Really? It taught me how important it is."

She looked at him, saw his expression, and realised how far he had grown apart in the past few months. They had grown close in their days on the run; they were the closest in age and experience - it was only natural. Then Leon had gone away, and shortly after Sherry had gone away, and Leon had been the first person she blamed because he was the closest. It had taken time for them to move past it, but now here they were.

But the man sitting across from her was almost as much of a stranger as the idealistic rookie cop had been on that first night. Claire had spent months glued to Leon's hip – she knew how he looked, how he moved and his voice when he spoke. The man across from her took the form of her friend, but he held himself taughtly, eyes suspicious and exhausted. He looked hard – if she didn't know him she would probably keep her distance if she saw him on the street. It hurt something in her chest to see him so different – and distant – and she could see by his eyes, vulnerable for just a flash, that it was something he felt too.

"Did you ever make it up to see your folks?" she asked, spinning the conversation off in another direction.

"Not yet. I haven't really been able to get the time."

"Leon," she scolded, "I think you can make time for your mom. She made time for you – nine months of it."

"It's not just that," he paused, but she waited, "I mean, you know how it is in this line of work. So I go home, shock the shit out of everyone, and then go get my head blown off the next week. I don't want to give my mom a stroke."

"If she can handle her son dying in the first place, I think she can handle him coming back from the grave… or wherever it is they keep you stashed away these days."

Leon nodded, but looked away to the pattern on the linoleum floor, half obscured by the mud the patrons had dragged in after the morning's rain. Something chimed in Claire's bag and she reached down to fish out her cellphone, flipping it open to turn off the alarm.

"Shit," she looked up from the screen, disappointed. "I've gotta go or I'll miss my bus."

"It's okay," he tossed a couple of bills down on the table, "I'm sorry I made you wait so long. I really appreciate you coming out."

"Hey no problem. I love visiting Chris and all, but I can only spend so long around him before I remember why I decided to go to school in a different state."

He walked with her down to the bus stop where she would catch her ride back to Chris' apartment.

"I'm thinking of coming down again for Thanksgiving – you should come over if you can. I mean, maybe if you start the paper trail now you can actually be there."

"I'll see what I can do. Take care of yourself, kid."

"Look who's talking," she replied, pulling him into a tight hug. He wrapped his arms around her as firmly as he could without crushing her, his cheek pressed against her hair. Like her, there were so few people he could stand to be touched by that every moment of contact he could bear had to be as genuine as possible.

"Don't be afraid to keep in touch Leon, it's a lot easier for you than it is for me to try to get a hold of you." He could feel her words against his shoulder. She pulled back a little, lightly touching the scratches on his face with the tips of her fingers. "And try not to do anymore damage to that pretty face of yours."

He frowned, "But you know it's my goal in life to have rugged facial scars to impress the ladies."

"You know what the ladies would love even more? An eye patch."

"Really? Is that a fact?"

"Cold and hard. I'll get you one for Christmas and we can test it out," she stepped out of his arms as she caught sight of her bus making its way down the street. "But only if you promise to be good."

"I don't think I can make a promise on that front…"

"But you'll at least try?"

He held up three fingers. "Scout's honor."

Her bus pulled up to the curb. She stepped onto the step, turning back to wave at him over her shoulder. "Take it easy, Private Pile."

He waved her away, turning to walk back to where his time-consumingly borrowed jeep waited to speed him back to all the Important Government Business and other assorted bullshit that waited for him on base. In the back of his mind he wondered absently how many days it was until Thanksgiving and when exactly Claire Redfield had started wearing perfume.