(is it positivity or jack knife utility? get the job done, it is all he's capable of anymore. it is not an option to fail, and he's too stubborn to even contemplate the possibility. he'll do the job or he'll die trying, wondering after hypotheticals is just a waste of brainpower. either way, not exactly a persistence that should be entirely admired; though it wouldn't be fair to say it didn't show results.
the place is a ghost town, disheveled at best and destroyed at worst. like there's nobody left here but ghosts of how it used to be, just fingerprints in the dust and forgotten notes left in whatever mass exodus forced everyone out. to be fair, the faceless monsters and giant chasms everywhere you turn, it's not the most accommodating of neighborhoods. but how did it get like this? and more to the point, why has it been allowed to persist when he's one of the only living pieces of evidence that most times it's easier to go scorched earth than invest in fixing anything. all the same, he feels some strange pang of something to drip all over this room like a drowned rat. somebody had cared at some point, when they picked this ugly carpet. painted the doors badly, tucked the sheets just so.
Maria is back, and he takes the towel. it smells like the inside of a moth-ball ridden closet when he tries to dry his face. the pressure at his back surprises him, he stiffens on instinct. it shouldn't be a surprise, but he's more used to choke holds and maulings at this point. lots of maulings, just a little bit ago, actually! it is obvious and intentional as the strain in his muscle deflates. letting it happen, even though he's more than capable of drying himself off. or, more accurately, they're both equally incapable of it — because nothing he's wearing is going to dry any time soon, and no amount of towels and gentle pressure is bound to change that. )
If that's the case, I think we'll both have bigger problems. ( no point in trying to find things in a world set for biblical destruction, after all. he tries to wring out his shirt. it splatters on his shoes, a cruel cosmic joke. it's truly a hopeless gesture, somehow makes him more cold, now that the fabric isn't plastered directly to his skin and air sneaking in like an icy fire. ) I thought we had plans, but I guess I'll make an exception if you've got Monopoly.
( it's a gentle out, if she wants it — he can strip down somewhere she won't get an eyeful. he doesn't even have to go far! the bathroom has a door. it's not exactly a move, he's just being practical. he'll drip less without the sodden clothes. she's a flirt, that does not mean she's required to tolerate a relative stranger getting close to naked in her presence. )
( tiny little houses and precious silver pieces and a neat spread of paper money wouldn't have lasted for seconds with whatever happened here, in this place. it feels like--somewhere she should recognize, and maybe that's the real reason that she's holed up here, where an old room at the rundown hospital or any number of abandoned apartments between here and there would have served their purpose. something beautiful and menacing about this hotel, something that feels like it needs protecting and offers protection all the same. pretty memories never last for long, because they catch fire too easily; but surely someone used this room for more than just trying to feebly dry a man from the torrential downpour outside.
the towel, at least, she drops to the bed; a plume of dust pillows and wafts off with even just the weight of it, which might also mean the dampness of the towel is now caked in it, but it doesn't matter. he's right: they had plans, up to a certain point.
which means he shouldn't mind the hands that wander, slow fingertips that feel for the wet hem of his shirt, plastered to his skin. there's a funny little splat of sound when they come apart, and despite his height, it doesn't take much except a lift onto her toes to start to roll the material away from his waist, up his stomach, peeling and tugging towards his ribs. )
You never said what we'd do after you got out of all your clothes.
( it's neat, matter-of-fact: just like he offers her an out, and she doesn't take it, he deserves one all the same. teasing, her gaze lifts, but she's not going to be able to get the shirt off entirely without his arms playing along with the movement; her fists give a pointed tug up to indicate. )
Got any fun, naked games in mind? ( her smile curves, a slow, curious flutter of her lashes, and if he lets her, she'll peel and smack the rest of that rain-soaked shirt right off his head. ) I know a couple we could try if you're up for it.
( does he mind? not necessarily. Maria is warm, friendly, easy to be around. Leon is generally only one of those things at a time, and in very short intervals. hard not to be drawn to it, when he mourns the version of him that used to be the same. well, similar, anyway. the kid in Raccoon City probably would be swallowing his tongue about now, the color of a cherry, delighted by the interest and not entirely sure what to do with it. he's grown up a bit since then, though this kind of closeness isn't something he allows himself often. in that sense, it is a little foreign, to have someone in his space, when he's used to existing in it on his own. edging under his defenses with each tiptoe of too-pink fingernails up his stomach.
it'd be a lie to say part of him isn't following that path, mapping it to remember later, enjoying the barely there hint of her touch. but even if he lets her drag the sodden, clingy fabric over his head, he's not thrown that much caution to the wind. he's being practical more than carnal in his desire to strip down. in another situation, who knows, but with skinless monstrosities roaming the foggy wastes outside their door — not a great time to get caught with his pants down.
unfair how it's colder now with the shirt off than it was with it on. his skin pebbles in protest. hopefully the dim light hides the worst of silvery scars, somewhat marring the otherwise enjoyable picture of a half naked, handsome, and unbelievably fit. he doesn't do much to hide, and if Maria wants to look she can, though he does try to reclaim one of the towels to chase off some of the damp clinging to his skin. ) Huh. All the games I know are about stripping. ( by the time the clothes are gone feels like a good time to drop the pretense and get to the point, as far as he's concerned. )
( the material is sodden, soaked and clinging in her hands, and without thinking of it, she immediately stretches it together, wringing it through her fingers as though to twist the water of it. naturally, such actions are better served in a bathroom: there's a splash down at their feet, narrowly missing the edge of the bed, which makes her laugh, some, as she takes a step back from him. silly little amusements are like scraps of food for the dying, in a place like this--it doesn't put off the inevitable horrors, but it tastes as good as a brief flash of sunlight through rain-soaked clouds. in the end, she shakes the wet shirt out again and turns to drape it over a chair; it'll have to air dry, given that she hadn't seen any old hair dryers in the bathroom. could be worth it to look for one, but she's not keen on going outside the room again.
besides, why leave when there are such nice things to look at? her wet hands curve in against her folded arms, twisting a step back towards him, and another still--unabashed, which he surely expects, her gaze goes down his chest, down his arms, dropped down to the waist of his pants before sliding back up again. )
Good thing I'm great at stripping.
( with a ghost of a smile, but rather than start to shed her own clothes, she only steps close enough to get another hold on his. her hands land on his hips, featherlight, wandering across the width of his belt to the buckle at the front.
he doesn't need the help, but it's polite to offer, isn't it? )
You probably have girls begging to do this all the time. ( a point for his natural, handsome features--but it doesn't sound jealous, or agitated, just amused; her fingers work the buckle loose, starting for the button of his pants beyond it. ) You were looking for a girl, is that right?
( she remembers, of course, but it's better to feign the foggy details; he might reveal a little more, that way, in explanation. )
( Leon does have a sense of humor rattling around in there. it isn't all stupid puns that he mostly just levels at sociopaths. he huffs an actual laugh at Good thing I'm great at stripping because — who the hell says stuff like that? it is verging on absurdist humor, even though Maria's bawdy flirtation is just about the first thing Leon noticed about her. which is really saying something, because he can be pretty obtuse about this sort of thing.
to that end, it might be to Maria's benefit that she's so direct. hard to not notice the lingering glances, her hands bearing on his hips. the way she walks her fingers cross wet fabric and damp skin to pluck at the his buckle. Leon is not shy, he doesn't really have room for it, but part of him does wonder how wise it is to let himself get too comfortable around here. it'd probably be better to be half wet and half dry than all the way naked.
but he doesn't actually do anything about her plucking at his belt until it's already mostly over. the reminder of what he's doing here is like being back in the frigid rain, and sobers him up fast. )
Not a girl. ( Ada is a whole lot of things, but she's never been a girl to him. not even when they met. she'd been older, a woman through in through, in a way that had been tantalizing and intimidating all at once. it's been six years and he's grown up since but the picture of her in his head is still the same. maybe that's because she's supposed to be dead?
he pulls away, trying to regain some distance and some common sense. sits down on the bed and tries to ruffle the wet from his hair like a dog after being groomed. ) She's supposed to be dead. I know that sounds crazy, but if you met her you'd get it. ( Ada just wasn't the type to roll over and die. Leon doesn't know what she'd be doing in a place like this, but that's nothing new because he never really knows what she's after until she wants him to. )
( her fingers catch, long nails that graze the open belt buckle, but with the way he pulls away, it's impossible to continue. lips purse, but she doesn't pursue him--it's almost like trying to catch a rabbit, luring it forward just for a little bit before it gets spooked and hops away. if he doesn't want to get rid of the rest of it, she can't--rather, won't--force it on him, but the tilt of her head speaks to her disappointment, even if her smile stays steady.
no, she hadn't been jealous. hadn't cared, really: she would help him look for the woman, of course, this ada, but then anyone with a heart would do something like that. it's expected out of a good person. the way that he talks about her, though, and speaks of her death: well, that gets under her skin a little, enough that she offers a slow nod, a twisting step back towards the bed.
the wet towel is between them, a barrier she puts there purposefully, as she sinks down onto the side of the mattress, near the end of the bed; another puff of dust jumps up into the air, starting to settle back down again. )
Not a girl. ( she agrees--her form of a wordless apology. ) But then...
Would she not be dead again, in a place like this? With monsters around, like this?
( she thinks she knows the answer to this one, too, but she's more focused on watching leon's profile, her palms behind her on the bed to lean her weight into them.
what would it feel like, to have someone be so desperate to find her that they would go to a place like this and weather all kinds of storms in search of her? feels like it would be nice. feels like it would be some kind of love. )
( Leon doesn't notice the dust. it's no worse than trawling through a sewer or getting splashed with biohazardous waste when blowing up a BOW. all things considered, dust and mildew are entirely average contaminants. definitely not anything worth worrying about. he scrubs at clammy skin with the already damp towel, hoping that eventually he'll hit an equilibrium of more dry than wet — that's all he needs to warm up, right? the room feels cold and somehow the distance feels cold, too. Maria is the warmest thing he's found in Silent Hill, and it's probably the right call to go back to distant. safer.
but nobody said he couldn't mourn the loss.
if he feels the eyes on him, Leon doesn't feel the need to try and evade. he doesn't look in Maria's direction, either, at least — not yet. the storm has found its way to his face, and he'd rather keep that to himself. because Ada, oh, she's complicated. there's a reason he'd avoided the question about being in love. because if he was, if he is, does it even count? when he's the only one that ever felt it?
because on paper, he knows how stupid it is. Ada played him like a fiddle. no, one of those party kazoos, all you gotta do is blow. he'd been young and dumb. it was the end of the world. he thought she was beautiful. that he could help her. that they were doing something good, something important, in all the ugly of Raccoon City. maybe that's why it stung so bad, that the kiss didn't mean anything and she was just using him to finish some job for some shady client. in the end, all of it, all of it, every failed attempt to save someone, watching the city cave in — it really was useless. nothing came from it all but blood and bitterness. ghosts and guilt.
Leon has never entirely believed Ada was one of those ghosts. she was too strong. too resilient. he doesn't know how she could have survived a fall like that, but it makes more sense than the alternative. and she didn't shoot him, in the end. she could have, and she didn't. and she's reaching out now, calling him to this shit hole haunted place. maybe it means something. even now, even all this time later — he's desperate for it to mean something. )
She's survived worse. ( Leon grimaces slightly, at his own words. because when he puts it that way, he's the monster Ada couldn't quite fight past. but he's not. she's alive. she's gotta be. he finally turns to look at Maria, pushing back thoughts of his woman in red to focus on the one next to him again. ) Why are you still here? Don't tell me you're a fan of the neighborhood.
( that's the answer she'd expected, really, because anyone that could be close to a man like this would have to hold their own; at least that's her opinion, in the small amount of time they've been in contact. judging by the way he puts it, she must have worked alongside him. she doesn't want to see the letter, doesn't want to know what it said, doesn't want to question the way that leon's gaze shifts and his expression changes and it's like he's trying on clothing that doesn't quite fit, like the discontent there runs deeper than just looking for a comrade. sure, it's easy to fill in the details, bleed her assumptions in to fill the space. but the confidence that comes with ease, when things are about the physical, doesn't quite translate to a sense of emotional calm.
it's turbulent, seeking, frustrated, worried. it's knowing that she has other things to do here, other things she should do here, than sitting next to leon in a bed that's caked with the memories and mistakes of someone else. but james isn't here, james hasn't been here, and she doesn't know where to find him--even though her memories, scattered as they are, tell her where to check.
is it wrong, to seek a certain level of solace from someone who truly seems like a good man? not that james isn't a good man. but this feels--different. she hadn't been told that leon had been looking for her, for one. )
Me? ( she plays at a smile, easy and warm, though it doesn't quite meet her eyes. ) I was born here. Don't think I could leave if I wanted to. You get caught up and tied to a place when it means something to you, you know?
( her smile falters a little, looking towards the one window in the room--the shutters crack against it, rattling with the wind and rain outside, which means that leon is still a captive for now. )
Someone is looking for me. Well, maybe not me. A me that isn't me, whatever that means. So I should find him, too, but it's been hard to know how to do that. Or if I really want to. Do you think Ada wants to find you, too...?
Hmm, ( Leon muses, because has he? technically, yes. kind of. when he'd been a head in the clouds kid. certain he could change the world. or at least Raccoon City. if he just tried hard enough. drove into his first day despite every indication he should have stayed away. so, yes. the answer is definitely yes.
he was wrong, though. he sees that now. he had made a nominal difference, perhaps more actively detrimental than helpful. sometimes when he picks apart that night, all the things he did or didn't do, the things he should have done better, he's certain that everyone he encountered would have been better off without him there in the first place. Claire had scraped by alone just fine without his intervention. their intersections had never been monumental. yes, technically, he'd been her ride into the city, but if he hadn't been there she'd have gotten there on her own, looking for her brother. and if Claire made it there, she'd make it out, and so would Sherry. he wouldn't have been there to distract Ada, maybe she wouldn't have end up injured in the first place. in hindsight, he should have just rolled over and given himself another hangover. instead of driving straight into the storm, trying to be a big damn hero.
he doesn't know how to relay this reality elegantly. that one person probably can't make enough of a difference that it would matter. that there's no point to sticking around in a place rapidly approaching its own self destruction. it doesn't matter if Silent Hill means something to Maria, that won't stop it from folding in on itself. sooner rather than later, if he had to guess. he frowns and stares somewhere beyond the dusty side table, hand that had been limitedly scrubbing the damp off his skin stalling as he gets lost in his head. chews through his thoughts for what he might be able to convince her with. because there's gotta be something. right? why would she want to stick around and burn with this place?
because some guy is looking for her, maybe, apparently. Leon turns back to Maria again, brow furrowed. ) If you don't want to, then why bother? ( a lot of what she's saying doesn't make any sense, but who is he to judge after saying he got a letter from a dead lady he mostly built up in his imagination, since he was only actively in her presence for a couple of hours. as for Ada; at least that answer is easy. ) Sure she does, but not in the way you're making it sound. If I had to guess she needs something and I'm the perfect sucker for the job. ( what she'll wring out of him, exactly, he doesn't know. it doesn't even really matter. seeing her alive, breathing, that smug little look turning up the corner of her mouth that she has him right where she wants him — it'll be worth the annoyance, the danger in getting there, and being wound right around her finger all over again. he would do anything just to know the truth, so she can't be his shrodinger's cat for the rest of his miserable life. even put up with the shambling melting monstrosities of this creepy little town in Maine. ) If she didn't she'd just have stayed gone.
( why does it sound like he's trying to convince her? maybe because he is. if he can convince her, then maybe he'll feel a little bit less like an idiot. already drug under by the idea of Ada Wong, without so much as a faint hint that it's really here. he'd like to believe he isn't a complete moron, despite all the evidence to the contrary. )
So you didn't love her. It's not that kind of connection.
( it's not something that she says with any amount of animosity; it's hard to muster that up for a perfect pretty boy that she's just met, even if the implication does make her stomach turn. a nice person would help. a nice person wouldn't ask questions, wouldn't keep asking questions, wouldn't turn her chin in against her shoulder and look down at leon's hands like she should really divest him of the rest of his clothing. and maybe she's wrong, anyway, and maybe it is love, a kind of love that she can't understand; then again, she can't understand anyone willingly coming to a place like this unless it's for someone that they love. a person whose only importance is being there to boss another person around and tell them what to do? she wouldn't enjoy that kind of person, but then again, those kinds of people are a dime a dozen.
but she doesn't think that fits, either. it's not an accusation, but she imagines that it will get the wheels turning, will get leon's lips moving, his tongue curving, will get more than just the gentle pussyfooting around that she's doing, like a cat sticking its paw in under the shadow of a door.
it's not like she's any better. she doesn't know much about james, she just knows what she feels about him, what feels correct, what her blurry memories seem to imply. a kindness that is sometimes cold, a gentle, deep voice, the kind of person that would probably lay on the ground and let her literally walk all over him to avoid stepping in a puddle. does that make james the perfect sucker, or does that make her it: staying in a town that's rotting away, with no hope for anything except some abstract idea of rescue?
her chin tucks against her shoulder, gaze pinned on leon's profile; if nothing else, he's much nicer to look at than the wallpaper, so she's grateful. )
Shouldn't we both leave, then? If we're just getting dragged through this place for someone else's bidding.
( her eyes soften, a twitch of her mouth into a smile. ) No, you're too good of a man for that. What will it take? Another few days, or a few weeks, here? If you don't find her? Maybe we make a pact.
( a bet she wants to say instead, but that's a little crude. ) Look, and if we don't find it here, then we leave. Do you think you can leave?
( he's slow to answer. hell, his jaw knits and his teeth grind and he considers not answering at all. because even all these years later, he can't quite turn off the part of him that Ada managed to twist around her fingers. love is a strong word, isn't it, because how pathetic would it be to love a woman he knew for a few hours at most. it was the idea of her, the situation, he was so stupid and desperate and the world was falling apart around them and that's what made it feel the way it did. that's why. it wasn't real, in hindsight.
even if it was real, it was only real for him. so how can it be real now, when he knows it was all a rouse to get him to do what she wanted. )
No, ( he says, even though the fact he's here, dripping into musty motel carpet with shambling monstrosities just outside the barricaded door, is sort of giving him away. love or not, he's so obsessed with the idea of Ada Wong he will walk right into a nightmare on a chance. that's not exactly a good sign as to the ambivalence of his feelings. still, even if he's not ambivalent about Ada, he sure as shit hasn't forgiven her, either. if he loves her, he hates her too. it doesn't really matter to him what the name on the feeling is — if she's here, he will find her. and he's too fixed on the objective to really contemplate the aftermath just yet.
so Maria is right. he won't leave. does it make him good? stubborn and stupid feels more apt. whatever she'd like to call it, the result is the same. he hasn't looked nearly enough to give up on what brought him here. if it isn't Ada, it's somebody who knows more than he'd like them to, which is plenty of reason to keep looking. no, he's not ready to leave, even if it'd be the smarter, practical thing. )
I don't know. ( what it'll take, that is. an answer? closure? why the hell would that be in Maine. still, he needs more than nothing, and that letter was the only lead he's had in years. Leon is nothing if not determined. he will find it or he will die trying. simply giving up does not occur to him as an option. and after that... )
Deal. ( Leon turns to face Maria, losing the slight advantage of distance to hide his expression. since he's considering the Ada conversation closed with their decision to team up for a scheduled departure, he has less to hide. not that it hasn't rattled him — if anything, it is like he has something to prove. that Ada hasn't been haunting him since Raccoon City, that he isn't in love with the idea of a woman he knows isn't real. which is especially stupid, all things considered. ) Getting naked helped the wet problem. Not so much the cold problem.
( sorry, Maria. Leon flirts back but he turns it off and on with little to no warning. )
( obsession is a dangerous thing, but beautiful, in its own right. it takes strong men, beautiful men, and tears them down to their insincerity; leon says he doesn't know, but he does know, doesn't he? leon says that it's a deal, but she knows that if they agreed to leave together, that if they don't find this ada, that they'll stand on the precipice of the town line and leon will likely say but like there's some stone they didn't overturn at least three times, and they'll circle around again. an endless cycle of endless torture, all to come up with no answers: that's what she's expecting, despite the guidance that james is, supposedly, actually here. and maybe when they turn to leave, she won't be able to leave at all; that's a real possibility.
but it's a deal, anyway, which she answers with a smile, instead of agreement--a shallow lie, maybe, but it means that it could truthfully go either way.
and what does leon see, looking back at her, saying things like that? she writes him off and he comes back again with an addendum; she can't seem to find the right way to color in the lines, but then she's never been good at that to begin with. it's obvious, given the way that she's still seated next to him, given the way that she hasn't offered to find some other room in this hellhole to sleep in, or stay in, or get cleaned up in. the weather likely isn't going to let up for hours; there's no point in getting drenched in blood and rainwater when they can wait for the foggy, early hours of a grey morning.
so she considers it, as she tilts her head the other way, looking at the rest of the bed--and then tilts again, to look at him, smiling. )
Think the sheets are clean? I've heard getting beneath them really gets the blood pumping.
( as if sleeping is a foreign concept. as if she can't really recall it happening at all. as if some muddied memory of a bed and pain and torture are the only things she can dredge up. )
I might be willing to keep a guy warm, but only if he keeps me entertained.
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the place is a ghost town, disheveled at best and destroyed at worst. like there's nobody left here but ghosts of how it used to be, just fingerprints in the dust and forgotten notes left in whatever mass exodus forced everyone out. to be fair, the faceless monsters and giant chasms everywhere you turn, it's not the most accommodating of neighborhoods. but how did it get like this? and more to the point, why has it been allowed to persist when he's one of the only living pieces of evidence that most times it's easier to go scorched earth than invest in fixing anything. all the same, he feels some strange pang of something to drip all over this room like a drowned rat. somebody had cared at some point, when they picked this ugly carpet. painted the doors badly, tucked the sheets just so.
Maria is back, and he takes the towel. it smells like the inside of a moth-ball ridden closet when he tries to dry his face. the pressure at his back surprises him, he stiffens on instinct. it shouldn't be a surprise, but he's more used to choke holds and maulings at this point. lots of maulings, just a little bit ago, actually! it is obvious and intentional as the strain in his muscle deflates. letting it happen, even though he's more than capable of drying himself off. or, more accurately, they're both equally incapable of it — because nothing he's wearing is going to dry any time soon, and no amount of towels and gentle pressure is bound to change that. )
If that's the case, I think we'll both have bigger problems. ( no point in trying to find things in a world set for biblical destruction, after all. he tries to wring out his shirt. it splatters on his shoes, a cruel cosmic joke. it's truly a hopeless gesture, somehow makes him more cold, now that the fabric isn't plastered directly to his skin and air sneaking in like an icy fire. ) I thought we had plans, but I guess I'll make an exception if you've got Monopoly.
( it's a gentle out, if she wants it — he can strip down somewhere she won't get an eyeful. he doesn't even have to go far! the bathroom has a door. it's not exactly a move, he's just being practical. he'll drip less without the sodden clothes. she's a flirt, that does not mean she's required to tolerate a relative stranger getting close to naked in her presence. )
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( tiny little houses and precious silver pieces and a neat spread of paper money wouldn't have lasted for seconds with whatever happened here, in this place. it feels like--somewhere she should recognize, and maybe that's the real reason that she's holed up here, where an old room at the rundown hospital or any number of abandoned apartments between here and there would have served their purpose. something beautiful and menacing about this hotel, something that feels like it needs protecting and offers protection all the same. pretty memories never last for long, because they catch fire too easily; but surely someone used this room for more than just trying to feebly dry a man from the torrential downpour outside.
the towel, at least, she drops to the bed; a plume of dust pillows and wafts off with even just the weight of it, which might also mean the dampness of the towel is now caked in it, but it doesn't matter. he's right: they had plans, up to a certain point.
which means he shouldn't mind the hands that wander, slow fingertips that feel for the wet hem of his shirt, plastered to his skin. there's a funny little splat of sound when they come apart, and despite his height, it doesn't take much except a lift onto her toes to start to roll the material away from his waist, up his stomach, peeling and tugging towards his ribs. )
You never said what we'd do after you got out of all your clothes.
( it's neat, matter-of-fact: just like he offers her an out, and she doesn't take it, he deserves one all the same. teasing, her gaze lifts, but she's not going to be able to get the shirt off entirely without his arms playing along with the movement; her fists give a pointed tug up to indicate. )
Got any fun, naked games in mind? ( her smile curves, a slow, curious flutter of her lashes, and if he lets her, she'll peel and smack the rest of that rain-soaked shirt right off his head. ) I know a couple we could try if you're up for it.
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it'd be a lie to say part of him isn't following that path, mapping it to remember later, enjoying the barely there hint of her touch. but even if he lets her drag the sodden, clingy fabric over his head, he's not thrown that much caution to the wind. he's being practical more than carnal in his desire to strip down. in another situation, who knows, but with skinless monstrosities roaming the foggy wastes outside their door — not a great time to get caught with his pants down.
unfair how it's colder now with the shirt off than it was with it on. his skin pebbles in protest. hopefully the dim light hides the worst of silvery scars, somewhat marring the otherwise enjoyable picture of a half naked, handsome, and unbelievably fit. he doesn't do much to hide, and if Maria wants to look she can, though he does try to reclaim one of the towels to chase off some of the damp clinging to his skin. ) Huh. All the games I know are about stripping. ( by the time the clothes are gone feels like a good time to drop the pretense and get to the point, as far as he's concerned. )
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besides, why leave when there are such nice things to look at? her wet hands curve in against her folded arms, twisting a step back towards him, and another still--unabashed, which he surely expects, her gaze goes down his chest, down his arms, dropped down to the waist of his pants before sliding back up again. )
Good thing I'm great at stripping.
( with a ghost of a smile, but rather than start to shed her own clothes, she only steps close enough to get another hold on his. her hands land on his hips, featherlight, wandering across the width of his belt to the buckle at the front.
he doesn't need the help, but it's polite to offer, isn't it? )
You probably have girls begging to do this all the time. ( a point for his natural, handsome features--but it doesn't sound jealous, or agitated, just amused; her fingers work the buckle loose, starting for the button of his pants beyond it. ) You were looking for a girl, is that right?
( she remembers, of course, but it's better to feign the foggy details; he might reveal a little more, that way, in explanation. )
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to that end, it might be to Maria's benefit that she's so direct. hard to not notice the lingering glances, her hands bearing on his hips. the way she walks her fingers cross wet fabric and damp skin to pluck at the his buckle. Leon is not shy, he doesn't really have room for it, but part of him does wonder how wise it is to let himself get too comfortable around here. it'd probably be better to be half wet and half dry than all the way naked.
but he doesn't actually do anything about her plucking at his belt until it's already mostly over. the reminder of what he's doing here is like being back in the frigid rain, and sobers him up fast. )
Not a girl. ( Ada is a whole lot of things, but she's never been a girl to him. not even when they met. she'd been older, a woman through in through, in a way that had been tantalizing and intimidating all at once. it's been six years and he's grown up since but the picture of her in his head is still the same. maybe that's because she's supposed to be dead?
he pulls away, trying to regain some distance and some common sense. sits down on the bed and tries to ruffle the wet from his hair like a dog after being groomed. ) She's supposed to be dead. I know that sounds crazy, but if you met her you'd get it. ( Ada just wasn't the type to roll over and die. Leon doesn't know what she'd be doing in a place like this, but that's nothing new because he never really knows what she's after until she wants him to. )
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no, she hadn't been jealous. hadn't cared, really: she would help him look for the woman, of course, this ada, but then anyone with a heart would do something like that. it's expected out of a good person. the way that he talks about her, though, and speaks of her death: well, that gets under her skin a little, enough that she offers a slow nod, a twisting step back towards the bed.
the wet towel is between them, a barrier she puts there purposefully, as she sinks down onto the side of the mattress, near the end of the bed; another puff of dust jumps up into the air, starting to settle back down again. )
Not a girl. ( she agrees--her form of a wordless apology. ) But then...
Would she not be dead again, in a place like this? With monsters around, like this?
( she thinks she knows the answer to this one, too, but she's more focused on watching leon's profile, her palms behind her on the bed to lean her weight into them.
what would it feel like, to have someone be so desperate to find her that they would go to a place like this and weather all kinds of storms in search of her? feels like it would be nice. feels like it would be some kind of love. )
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but nobody said he couldn't mourn the loss.
if he feels the eyes on him, Leon doesn't feel the need to try and evade. he doesn't look in Maria's direction, either, at least — not yet. the storm has found its way to his face, and he'd rather keep that to himself. because Ada, oh, she's complicated. there's a reason he'd avoided the question about being in love. because if he was, if he is, does it even count? when he's the only one that ever felt it?
because on paper, he knows how stupid it is. Ada played him like a fiddle. no, one of those party kazoos, all you gotta do is blow. he'd been young and dumb. it was the end of the world. he thought she was beautiful. that he could help her. that they were doing something good, something important, in all the ugly of Raccoon City. maybe that's why it stung so bad, that the kiss didn't mean anything and she was just using him to finish some job for some shady client. in the end, all of it, all of it, every failed attempt to save someone, watching the city cave in — it really was useless. nothing came from it all but blood and bitterness. ghosts and guilt.
Leon has never entirely believed Ada was one of those ghosts. she was too strong. too resilient. he doesn't know how she could have survived a fall like that, but it makes more sense than the alternative. and she didn't shoot him, in the end. she could have, and she didn't. and she's reaching out now, calling him to this shit hole haunted place. maybe it means something. even now, even all this time later — he's desperate for it to mean something. )
She's survived worse. ( Leon grimaces slightly, at his own words. because when he puts it that way, he's the monster Ada couldn't quite fight past. but he's not. she's alive. she's gotta be. he finally turns to look at Maria, pushing back thoughts of his woman in red to focus on the one next to him again. ) Why are you still here? Don't tell me you're a fan of the neighborhood.
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it's turbulent, seeking, frustrated, worried. it's knowing that she has other things to do here, other things she should do here, than sitting next to leon in a bed that's caked with the memories and mistakes of someone else. but james isn't here, james hasn't been here, and she doesn't know where to find him--even though her memories, scattered as they are, tell her where to check.
is it wrong, to seek a certain level of solace from someone who truly seems like a good man? not that james isn't a good man. but this feels--different. she hadn't been told that leon had been looking for her, for one. )
Me? ( she plays at a smile, easy and warm, though it doesn't quite meet her eyes. ) I was born here. Don't think I could leave if I wanted to. You get caught up and tied to a place when it means something to you, you know?
( her smile falters a little, looking towards the one window in the room--the shutters crack against it, rattling with the wind and rain outside, which means that leon is still a captive for now. )
Someone is looking for me. Well, maybe not me. A me that isn't me, whatever that means. So I should find him, too, but it's been hard to know how to do that. Or if I really want to. Do you think Ada wants to find you, too...?
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he was wrong, though. he sees that now. he had made a nominal difference, perhaps more actively detrimental than helpful. sometimes when he picks apart that night, all the things he did or didn't do, the things he should have done better, he's certain that everyone he encountered would have been better off without him there in the first place. Claire had scraped by alone just fine without his intervention. their intersections had never been monumental. yes, technically, he'd been her ride into the city, but if he hadn't been there she'd have gotten there on her own, looking for her brother. and if Claire made it there, she'd make it out, and so would Sherry. he wouldn't have been there to distract Ada, maybe she wouldn't have end up injured in the first place. in hindsight, he should have just rolled over and given himself another hangover. instead of driving straight into the storm, trying to be a big damn hero.
he doesn't know how to relay this reality elegantly. that one person probably can't make enough of a difference that it would matter. that there's no point to sticking around in a place rapidly approaching its own self destruction. it doesn't matter if Silent Hill means something to Maria, that won't stop it from folding in on itself. sooner rather than later, if he had to guess. he frowns and stares somewhere beyond the dusty side table, hand that had been limitedly scrubbing the damp off his skin stalling as he gets lost in his head. chews through his thoughts for what he might be able to convince her with. because there's gotta be something. right? why would she want to stick around and burn with this place?
because some guy is looking for her, maybe, apparently. Leon turns back to Maria again, brow furrowed. ) If you don't want to, then why bother? ( a lot of what she's saying doesn't make any sense, but who is he to judge after saying he got a letter from a dead lady he mostly built up in his imagination, since he was only actively in her presence for a couple of hours. as for Ada; at least that answer is easy. ) Sure she does, but not in the way you're making it sound. If I had to guess she needs something and I'm the perfect sucker for the job. ( what she'll wring out of him, exactly, he doesn't know. it doesn't even really matter. seeing her alive, breathing, that smug little look turning up the corner of her mouth that she has him right where she wants him — it'll be worth the annoyance, the danger in getting there, and being wound right around her finger all over again. he would do anything just to know the truth, so she can't be his shrodinger's cat for the rest of his miserable life. even put up with the shambling melting monstrosities of this creepy little town in Maine. ) If she didn't she'd just have stayed gone.
( why does it sound like he's trying to convince her? maybe because he is. if he can convince her, then maybe he'll feel a little bit less like an idiot. already drug under by the idea of Ada Wong, without so much as a faint hint that it's really here. he'd like to believe he isn't a complete moron, despite all the evidence to the contrary. )
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( it's not something that she says with any amount of animosity; it's hard to muster that up for a perfect pretty boy that she's just met, even if the implication does make her stomach turn. a nice person would help. a nice person wouldn't ask questions, wouldn't keep asking questions, wouldn't turn her chin in against her shoulder and look down at leon's hands like she should really divest him of the rest of his clothing. and maybe she's wrong, anyway, and maybe it is love, a kind of love that she can't understand; then again, she can't understand anyone willingly coming to a place like this unless it's for someone that they love. a person whose only importance is being there to boss another person around and tell them what to do? she wouldn't enjoy that kind of person, but then again, those kinds of people are a dime a dozen.
but she doesn't think that fits, either. it's not an accusation, but she imagines that it will get the wheels turning, will get leon's lips moving, his tongue curving, will get more than just the gentle pussyfooting around that she's doing, like a cat sticking its paw in under the shadow of a door.
it's not like she's any better. she doesn't know much about james, she just knows what she feels about him, what feels correct, what her blurry memories seem to imply. a kindness that is sometimes cold, a gentle, deep voice, the kind of person that would probably lay on the ground and let her literally walk all over him to avoid stepping in a puddle. does that make james the perfect sucker, or does that make her it: staying in a town that's rotting away, with no hope for anything except some abstract idea of rescue?
her chin tucks against her shoulder, gaze pinned on leon's profile; if nothing else, he's much nicer to look at than the wallpaper, so she's grateful. )
Shouldn't we both leave, then? If we're just getting dragged through this place for someone else's bidding.
( her eyes soften, a twitch of her mouth into a smile. ) No, you're too good of a man for that. What will it take? Another few days, or a few weeks, here? If you don't find her? Maybe we make a pact.
( a bet she wants to say instead, but that's a little crude. ) Look, and if we don't find it here, then we leave. Do you think you can leave?
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even if it was real, it was only real for him. so how can it be real now, when he knows it was all a rouse to get him to do what she wanted. )
No, ( he says, even though the fact he's here, dripping into musty motel carpet with shambling monstrosities just outside the barricaded door, is sort of giving him away. love or not, he's so obsessed with the idea of Ada Wong he will walk right into a nightmare on a chance. that's not exactly a good sign as to the ambivalence of his feelings. still, even if he's not ambivalent about Ada, he sure as shit hasn't forgiven her, either. if he loves her, he hates her too. it doesn't really matter to him what the name on the feeling is — if she's here, he will find her. and he's too fixed on the objective to really contemplate the aftermath just yet.
so Maria is right. he won't leave. does it make him good? stubborn and stupid feels more apt. whatever she'd like to call it, the result is the same. he hasn't looked nearly enough to give up on what brought him here. if it isn't Ada, it's somebody who knows more than he'd like them to, which is plenty of reason to keep looking. no, he's not ready to leave, even if it'd be the smarter, practical thing. )
I don't know. ( what it'll take, that is. an answer? closure? why the hell would that be in Maine. still, he needs more than nothing, and that letter was the only lead he's had in years. Leon is nothing if not determined. he will find it or he will die trying. simply giving up does not occur to him as an option. and after that... )
Deal. ( Leon turns to face Maria, losing the slight advantage of distance to hide his expression. since he's considering the Ada conversation closed with their decision to team up for a scheduled departure, he has less to hide. not that it hasn't rattled him — if anything, it is like he has something to prove. that Ada hasn't been haunting him since Raccoon City, that he isn't in love with the idea of a woman he knows isn't real. which is especially stupid, all things considered. ) Getting naked helped the wet problem. Not so much the cold problem.
( sorry, Maria. Leon flirts back but he turns it off and on with little to no warning. )
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but it's a deal, anyway, which she answers with a smile, instead of agreement--a shallow lie, maybe, but it means that it could truthfully go either way.
and what does leon see, looking back at her, saying things like that? she writes him off and he comes back again with an addendum; she can't seem to find the right way to color in the lines, but then she's never been good at that to begin with. it's obvious, given the way that she's still seated next to him, given the way that she hasn't offered to find some other room in this hellhole to sleep in, or stay in, or get cleaned up in. the weather likely isn't going to let up for hours; there's no point in getting drenched in blood and rainwater when they can wait for the foggy, early hours of a grey morning.
so she considers it, as she tilts her head the other way, looking at the rest of the bed--and then tilts again, to look at him, smiling. )
Think the sheets are clean? I've heard getting beneath them really gets the blood pumping.
( as if sleeping is a foreign concept. as if she can't really recall it happening at all. as if some muddied memory of a bed and pain and torture are the only things she can dredge up. )
I might be willing to keep a guy warm, but only if he keeps me entertained.