a/n: wow i wrote 3k words. anyway i think the way the a lot of wesker/claire can be written is interesting and compelling so i just wanted to practice a little writing after not doing it while and this was something old i never finished so why not. disclaimer though, wesker/claire doesn't have a quite healthy dynamic as i opted for a more in-character way to write wesker and took lots of liberties with claire lol.

"I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can."

-Sylvia Plath

"Why don't you date anymore?" Moira asks through a mouthful of muffin, spewing crumbs onto the smooth marble counter top. Claire stares straight ahead, chin resting on her palm.

"I don't know." She drawls, her blue eyes gazing towards Moira. "Your boyfriend ever tried to kill you?" Moira rolls her eyes and wraps the remains of her mangled blueberry muffin in a napkin before stretching her back like cat.

"Come on," She yawns, scrolling through her phone. "I thought we were over Neil. Left all our trauma behind."

Claire doesn't have the heart to call out her lie. It always stays with you, making itself at home in your mind. Grey flesh with snapping jaws, the putrid smell of a corpse, all flashing behind your eyes as you try for some semblance of normalcy.

She sees the way Moira stares off, glassy and absent. The way she starts so violently in her sleep sometimes that she must be shaken awake. The way she holds a gun but her hands still tremble. "Three." Claire says flatly and Moira hums questioningly, still swiping her thumb on the glossy screen. "That's how many boyfriends tried to kill me."

Moira pauses mid-swipe and Claire tries to crack what she hopes is a good-natured smile. Moira has that look in her eyes that Claire despises. The look of "Oh Claire! You've been through so much!" The taste that resides in her mouth is bitter, a reminder. A reminder that she's an object of pity, a symbol of what a viral outbreak survivor looks like.

No one sees her as the hero that her brother is. She can't even convince herself that she's more than that. Every time she wakes at three in the morning, panting and staring into nothing, she knows this. Knows that she is just Claire Redfield, a survivor. The nightmares never cease to remind her.

Always scrabbling and gasping for air, she is alone. She doesn't wake to Jill, to anyone who understands her. The closest she got to that was with an actual psychopath.

"I have terrible taste in men, of course." Claire slips her hand from under her chin to tuck a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "But I would like to think they were all good men, in different ways. Neil was… simple. He was supportive and a good leader. I think he reminded me of my brother." Moira is still staring, something unreadable in her eyes. Most likely interest. Claire typically doesn't share. "Steve on the other hand was in the heat of the moment. We were in a bad situation and only had each other. He died like Neil."

It's drizzling outside, Claire notes, strangely detached from the words spewing out of her mouth like some sort of word vomit. Pausing, she knows her words are brisk and almost confusing. She's almost thankful that Moira interrupts the awkward pause. "What about the last one?" Almost.

Moira's voice is controlled and careful, as if she knew the question would lead to a place in Claire's mind that was off limits. "He wasn't exactly my boyfriend," Claire quirks the corner of her lip up despite the rain pattering on the roof somberly. "But I would like to think he cared about me in his own way even though he was a monster."

Claire can't tell if she's telling a lie or the truth.

Claire had heard all the stories about S.T.A.R.S. Well. Almost. She knows that Barry Burton is a big man, but a softy. That Rebecca Chambers, chemistry whiz-kid, was younger than her and yet a trained field medic. And the list goes on. All in all, Claire decides, she is amazingly proud of her brother.

So when he comes home at two or three in morning, exhaustion clinging to his frame, she can't bring herself to yell. That leads her to where she is now, standing over a pot of steaming coffee at four in the morning in nothing but a large t-shirt as Chris sits half-asleep at the table.

"Stake-out?" She murmurs, pouring the bitter liquid into a coffee cup inscribed with "1# Bro" and a red heart. He groans something about Brad taking his shift but Claire doesn't really hear it. She's too busy looking at his hallowed face, etched with extreme fatigue that even a party girl pities.

"Chris," She says sternly. "Wesker has been working you to death. Why don't you complain?" She brushes some of his unkempt hair from his forehead as she gingerly sets the coffee on the table in front of him.

He rolls his bloodshot eyes before taking a sip, hissing from temperature. "It's my job. I'm not some college kid who doesn't have to worry about anything." Claire stiffens and narrows her eyes into an icy glare.

"Good." She curls her lip. "Then you can be a brother who appreciates that his sister worries about him enough to climb out of bed at ungodly hours to make him coffee." She snatches the mug from him and almost feels guilty at his own ashamed expression.

She stalks off to her room before the anger melts from her face. As she stomps, Chris halfheartedly calls out, "There's an event next week, like an open house. I would really appreciate if you attended." She waves her hand behind her before slamming the door to her room and collapsing back into her bed.

Let's get something straight. Claire enjoys fun, she enjoys parties and the thumping bass that accompanies. She doesn't, however, enjoy events with no music and a whole gaggle of people doting on their family members as they ask innocuous questions like "What is the risk of being an officer around here?"

Eyes practically residing in the back of her head, she swirls her cup of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice. "Chris," She pouts. "This is, for lack of a better word, boring." Chris turns toward her, lips pursed.

"You can always go socialize," He scolds. "Just… do it for me, Claire-Bear." Her resolve crumbles that easily. "I need to go talk to Jill, go make nice for a minute." He kisses her forehead before slipping through the crowd, bumping a few old women in process who don't look very happy.

"Quite the charmer, isn't he?" Claire blanches at the velvety voice of the stranger and turns to inspect the man ghosting around the edge of the room with her. Tilting her head, she takes in the sharp jaw and blonde hair.

"Maybe if you aren't his sister." She quips, taking a sip of her grape juice. The man gives a carefully practiced smile so fake that it makes Claire wonder if he's a public official.

"Does being charming run in the family?" He's clever. And smug.

"I would think so." Claire indulges. "With the amount of times I got into bars as a teenager, I would hope so." The man takes a step back, eyes gleaming in interest. He's tall, Claire realizes. He looms over her own decent height and she can't help but feel trapped by his straight-toothed grin.

He leisurely leans towards her and his presence is setting off bells in her mind. Anticipation? Intimidation? "Ah," His mouth curls again and Claire finds herself tracking the movement. "The younger sister with a penchant for fun and a fierce love for her brother." Drawing her eyes away from his angular face, Claire almost grimaces at the aura of self-satisfaction radiating from him.

He's observant and Claire suddenly feels like a mouse under the cat's paw. His lithe frame is relaxed as he rests more of his body weight onto the wall, leaning closer as if anticipating Claire's answer. Rigidly, she squeezes her plastic cup enough to dent the sides.

"Well, I would assume it's better than being transparent enough to avoid conversations with more important people by speaking to a pretty college student." She jerks her chin toward the older man watching them with disdain from across the room. The man laughs, a rich rumble ripped from his throat in palpable amusement.

"Transparent," He echoes. "That's a first." Claire's face suddenly feels warm with embarrassment and she briefly wonders in mortification if he is a public official. He pauses, looking at her with an intensity that keeps the blush crawling up her neck. "You seem a little naïve." Public official or not, he's grating on her nerves.

"With such a fake smile and insignificant small talk, how am I supposed to come to any other conclusion?" He chuckles and Claire is trying her best not to lose her temper. His pleasant grin from just earlier suddenly seems sharp, voracious.

They stay like that for a while, her eyes locked with his, before Chris reappears from the crowd. It could've been two minutes or ten, but Claire rips her gaze away from the stranger and towards her brother, relieved. Chris's mouth forms an "O" as he looks the stranger up and down. "Captain Wesker?"

Blood rushes from Claire's face and her eyes dart back to Wesker's entertained expression. She had just verbally taunted her brother's boss. Humiliation creeps through her as Wesker spoke. "Redfield, I was just talking to your lovely sister. She's quite the conversationalist."

Chris looks antsy, Claire notes. Intimidated. Wesker must have that effect. "She's always been a social butterfly, she even got more than two words out of you." Chris responds, trying to sound casual. Claire doesn't know if it scares or thrills her that he took a special interest in her.

Wesker hums as watches Claire swirl her drink before dragging his eyes toward the old man that was watching them before Chris returned. "It's a shame that I have to go then. Dr. Marcus has been jealous of my company for a while now." Claire doesn't know how long she's been sweating but she feels exceedingly warm as Wesker finally pushes off of the wall next to her. "You should bring Claire around more often, she's fun."

Chris turns to her once Wesker is out of sight and hisses. "What did you do?" He looks anxious and Claire feels her blood boil at his nerve.

"What did I do?" She keeps herself from screeching. "I had a nice conversation with your boss. Civil." Claire almost bites her tongue at his expression of skepticism. "You should try it sometime." Chris rolls his eyes.

"I don't know what is worse." He grumbles, returning her coat as they start to walk towards the exit. "The fact my boss is interested in my little sister or the fact she seems to return the sentiment." Claire scoffs something on the ride home about how stuck-up Wesker was that seems to please Chris and he prods back that maybe similar people attract each other before she slaps him playfully.

She doesn't have the heart to tell him the she may have been lying because that night she dreams of jagged smiles and sharp grins that threatened to sculpt her into something else.

Claire almost finds in comical that Wesker is a spy for a bioterrorist group. Well, she would've if it wasn't so morbid and he wasn't standing in her kitchen at two in the morning, carefully inspecting her "1# Bro" mug. "This hasn't been used in a long while." He raises a brow and her heart is galloping with pure adrenaline.

Instead of screaming or shooting him as she knows she should, her breath hitches and the hand holding her gun goes limp at her side. "What- What are you doing here?" To her own ears it sounds hoarse and gritty. Too tired from her nightmares of Raccoon City. Under normal circumstances, she would at least attempt bravery but she's just so, so, so exhausted.

There is blood pooling on the sky blue tile of her kitchen and she briefly wonders how to get blood out of grout. He's injured, she blankly puts together, crimson pooling around his left hand that clutches his abdomen. "I was craving some coffee." He gestures toward the dripping coffee maker with his good arm.

"What's stopping me from shooting you right now?" There's no conviction in her voice and he may be standing here with one bullet wound but two will surely kill him. Her grip on the gun is loose and clammy as she holds it, her frame screaming of fatigue.

"Oh Claire," He admonishes, face gaunt from blood loss and yet still amused. "We both know you won't." A wave of frustration rears so strong in her that Claire wants to cry but she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. She knows she will not pull the trigger and she almost makes amends with that. However, he knows she won't too, and that makes Claire more sick to her stomach than any nightmare could.

She feels hollow somehow, as if waiting for someone to pour something into her so she can just function like Claire again. He clicks his tongue as he gently pries the gun from her hand, brushing over the pad of her fingers deliberately. "If this is all it takes to demoralize Redfields, then your brother must have a will of steel." She wants to vomit but she's not quite sure when she ate last anyway. He's goading her, teasing, toying with the pistol in his hand.

She doesn't remember the old Claire but here Wesker is, at two in the morning staring at her like she's supposed to be full of passion and life. Not one the approximate twenty-nine Raccoon City survivors who all suffer some sort of trauma disorder.

"I hate you." The words roll around in her mouth for a good minute before she actually says them. Wesker nods and sips his coffee, still cupping his wound. "You ruined my life." She continues, voice elevating despite the scratchiness of her throat. He throws her an unimpressed look. "I wish you died back in that mansion." She almost screeches and Wesker almost looks pleased at the nearly feral display.

"You always have loved your brother." He murmurs. "Although," He sounds venomous. "Just remember, dear heart, that you only have one side of the story." There's a lump in Claire's throat that she doesn't dare try to swallow. There is no other side, she knows. He is manipulative and conniving, leading all of his squad to their deaths possibly her to her own. Although, Claire can't help but wonder if she wants to sympathize with him, if the way her heart squeezes is out of fear or empathy. If she is looking for someone who will not treat her as if she will break.

"It's just a graze," He all but croons into the still air around them and Claire is as still has a statue. "I just thought I'd pay my favorite Redfield a visit while I wait for the bleeding to stop." Her eyes try to focus on anything that isn't his face and she zeroes in on the now lightly bleeding wound. The way his chest rises up and down rhythmically, a lull of calmness washing over her.

Slowly, she turns on her heel. Feet dragging on sandy colored carpet as she heads straight back to her room. Closing the door tightly and locking it as if it were a shield against the monster in the other room, she exhales shakily before draping herself over the twin-sized bed. Her descent into sleep is slow and hazy but she has no more nightmares that night.

She has never felt more normal in months.

The last time Claire sees Albert Wesker, he beats her to a pulp and asks about her brother. So with blood in her mouth and a boot grinding against her neck, she laughs. "I thought I was your favorite Redfield." Her boldness is short lived and childish, she realizes as his boot digs deeper into her windpipe. Steve is dead and she will join him. The thought gives her some sort of closure.

"We've been over this, dear heart," He lectures, releasing her throat and watching expressionlessly as she gasps for air. Claire feels somewhat numb as lays there on the concrete, fingers tingling and arms freezing. He is so strong now she doesn't quite believe two bullets will kill him like they would've that night in her kitchen. "Not everything is based on your naïve perceptions of the world."

She should have shot him. He is right, she is naïve, childish enough to think that she could let him walk away and she wouldn't have to see him again. She almost lets tears prick at her eyes as she thinks about Steve. His death. It would never have happened if he didn't meet her. Love her. Claire Redfield is a ticking time bomb of trauma and bioterrorism while simultaneously being chased by a psychopath.

She refuses to cry, not in front of Wesker, not in front of this man that holds some sick fascination with controlling her. Who can open her like a machine and move a few parts around, leaving her still the same inside but not quite as explosive.

"What makes it worse Claire?" He asks, tilting his head down. "Having the man who ruined your precious brother's life be the only one who still sees Claire inside that shell of yours? Or the fact that didn't kill me that night?" Claire croaks and shivers as a cold air blows over her. Everything is blurry and feels like a trance. Will Steve forgive her is she dies here? Will she forgive herself for wanting to die here? Claire curls in on herself, wishing for Chris to arrive and just help.

He doesn't, however, until hours later. He finds her covered in Wesker's black coat, trembling and hyperventilating. Claire clutches him for warmth as he kisses her hair, whispering apologies. Claire still feels alone.

"Claire." Moira gently taps her fingers against the counter to get her attention and Claire flinches. Moira doesn't hold a look of pity but rather concern.

"Sorry," Claire gives a chuckle. "I haven't really thought about him in a while. I was… reminiscing." Moira looks like she doesn't quite believe it but just like the way Claire pretends not to see her hands shake with a gun, Moira pretends she isn't lying. It's an unspoken rule between them.

"Well," Moira hops from the counter and stretches languidly, playing off the awkwardly tense conversation. "We'll be killed if we're late for lunch again, last time Jill was close to decapitating us."

"Yeah," Claire mumbles, staring at long-faded stain on the grout below her cupboard that holds the coffee creamer. "We should go."

Claire may be alone but she is no longer a naïve girl lost in self-pity and that is enough for her.