Disclaimer: I don't own Resident Evil. I do own an mp3 player that's older than my 6 year old niece but seeing how we're talking about what I don't own, let's talk about that Wesker figure. You know the one. The one that costs as much as owning the real Albert Wesker. I want that shit.

Authors Note: You know, I've never really considered this pairing possible in cannon until very recently. Certain life events have made me change my perspective on life. People don't always act the way they are inside and things aren't always what they seem.

Also, Claire might be a little more timid at first but she's had a rough time of it all lately and it is 2 years from the Raccoon City incident and I can tell you the difference between who I was when I was 17 and who I was when I was 19 was very different indeed…

Wesker's still Wesker mind, and we wouldn't want him any other way amirite!?

July 24 1996. 3.33am.

Claire was sat in the bathtub of her bungalow fully clothed. This fact alone was not unusual, she had spent a lot of time asleep in it, both day and night, wrapped in her duvet like a little nest when her bedroom had felt too much like a prison to her. What was different this time was that the tub was full of warm, frothy water. She had used her special bath bomb her father had bought her for Christmas the year before he had died. 'Save it for a special occasion' he had told her.

This was rather a special occasion.

To reiterate, Claire was sat in a full bathtub of water in her favorite outfit, her pink denim biker gear her brother Chris had made for her back in his Air force days with the 'made in heaven' emblem their mother had designed back when she had been in college stitched onto the back. Chris had a near-matching brown leather one, hers being a vest-like design that was supposed to be worn under her usual black leather jacket, the one with the flame motif.

That brown jacket, his guitar and a loaded gun were the only items of property he had taken with him when he had run away from home after quitting the Air force. He'd essentially jumped before they'd pushed him, but he had still handed them his papers.

Claire understood why he had chosen to run away from his past. He didn't want to be a burden on her life both financially and in her education. Being at his age with his placement in life, getting work for Chris had been impossible. Everyone wanted someone with 'experience' and the only experience he had was flying jets and shooting bad guys, not pumping gas and waiting on tables.

If everyone only ever hired people with experience, nobody would ever get any…

Of course it didn't help that he was notoriously hot tempered. A few too many barstools out the window a few too many times and for some reason nobody will take you on as a loyal employee.

Fancy that.

As for her situation in life, Claire didn't have any friends since the move, and now that Chris was gone, the depression and anxiety she had been feeling since their parents had died was at its peak.

After the bereavement payment had dried up, a forced downscale to a rickety, drafty little bungalow in the countryside several miles outside of Raccoon City had been all they could afford that was one up from homelessness. Raccoon City was itself in the ass end of nowhere, almost impossible to get to or leave due to its remoteness, which was why the city had to be built to be so self-sufficient in the first place.

The town she was in however, had to be pretty self-sufficient too.

Crapwood (twined with Hockley in England (and if you've been to Hockley Woods you'd understand why)) was a small lumber and farming town like something out of the old west and had apparently been named by someone who really didn't want to be there. Right now, Claire completely empathized with whoever they were. Because of its ridiculous name, the resident of Crapwood would shun outsiders to their world, sick to their rotten teeth with the endless jokes and humiliation they faced whenever the towns' unfortunate name came up. However, even though Claire was a resident now, she was still a bold as brass teenage biker babe with long flowing hair and a devil may care attitude. Utterly the opposite of the timid yes-sir-no-sir-three-bags-full-sir types filling the town.

They all utterly hated this decadent little city bitch coming in here with her violent and dangerous brother to mess up their quiet and safe town.

She was sick of the cruel stares and the wicked gossip. The mutters amongst the milk maids, farm hands and lumber jacks that 'she left every morning at 3am on that motorcycle of hers, she must be a prostitute' when she was actually going to school two cities away, unable to get accepted into the much closer and reputable Raccoon U midway through the season like this.

She had stopped going to college because of this, choosing to study at home instead.

She was sick of the way the mothers held onto their children extra tightly around her, how the fathers slammed doors in her face rather than hold them open or even just ignore her when she tried to go to the shops.

She had stopped going to the shops because of this, choosing to have her supplies delivered instead.

A week ago, a ball had come in through a thankfully open at the time window. She picked it up, left her house for the first time in ages and returned it to the child with a beautiful smile. Their mother had immediately run up, snatched the ball away and declared that he couldn't play it with it now because the 'Scarlet Whore', their name for her, a pun of her surname of Redfield, had sullied it with her wicked touch, a touch that must've known the intimate places of dozens, maybe even hundreds of men. Claire had been too horrified by her words to even yell at the woman in outrage, simply standing and starting stupidly at the backs of the retreating pair.

She had stopped going out altogether because of this, favoring her own company instead.

And now she was sick.

Sick of life, sick of them, sick of everything, really. She'd never felt this resounding, all consuming sense of complete hopelessness for her situation. It was like being utterly exhausted after a marathon, but the exhaustion was of the soul rather than the body. She wasn't actively in any really physical pain but she wasn't feeling much of anything other than misery lately…

Claire could see no evidence of there ever being a light at the end of the tunnel or silver lining at the end of the cloud. Just clouds for days… she could see no way out.

Well, one way.

To this end, she had decided to finally actually do something about her situation. She had dressed up in her favorite outfit, dolled herself up, run a bath and strung up her boom box over it with a rather complex system of yarn suspension over said bath. She had then surrounded the tub with all her action figures of video game characters that she loved, feeling it was only fair that they'd be here for her final moments.

Getting the extension chord to go from the plug socket in her bedroom, through the hallway and into the bathroom so she could plug in the boom box into the mains had been a pain in the ass, and finding a way to dangle the giant brick-like object over the tub had almost been enough of a hassle to get her to reconsider.

Almost.

Then, she climbed in the tub and put on her favorite song; Superunknown by Soundgarden. She loved that noisy bullcrap. The vaunted sweeping sounds of the electric guitar ostinato throughout the song, the contrary nature of the notes appealing to her. She also loved the way it rang out triumphantly during the choruses as the vocalist sang with such unbridled passion that even to this day still moved her.

She didn't really know why she liked the lyrics, though. Just a lot of meta-philosophical namby-pamby hippy nonsense.

For example the last chorus goes a little something like this:

If this doesn't make you smile
You don't have to cry
If this isn't making sense
It doesn't make it lies

What the hell does all that mean?

Then was the powerful and energetic guitar solo at the end. That was when she was going to cut the chord with the combat knife Chris had given her for her birthday. It had been his Air force issue one. It had no logos on whatsoever, (at least not yet if you understand my meaning…) so you couldn't tell from looking at it.

Chris said he didn't need it anymore so she may as well have it. Claire had told him no and that it represented an important chapter in his life. He had insisted. So she accepted it, telling him that it'll always be his to her and that she was simply borrowing it.

That had pleased him.

The memory of that pleased her.

… … …

…The final guitar solo had begun.

"Any last words, Claire?" She asked herself as she took the knife out of the sheath on her left shoulder and held it so that the blade was touching the pink yarn that held the thing that would kill her. She sighed in annoyance at the notion of the cliché as her response.

Her hands were oddly steady. She wasn't really afraid or nervous about what she was about to do, just…. Tired…

…And a little relieved that she was about to escape her situation. She moved to cut the yarn-

-There was a knock at the door. Three strong raps in the first half of the 'shave-and-a-hair-cut' ditty. She sighed angrily at the interruption.

"Two bits." She replied sarcastically out loud so the person on the other side of the flimsy wooden door could hear her. She wasn't looking away from her hands, still in place to perform the deed but stopped for now. "Go away, I'm in the middle of something."

"Claire Redfield I presume?" Came a voice at the door. Odd. Nobody here was ever polite enough to call her by name. Or with a dark, silky, faintly British accent.

And wait, wasn't it –like- half three in the morning!?

Something was happening.

It couldn't have been about her, no one cared…. Then that must mean…

"Oh shit! Chris! Is it about Chris!?" She called out to the voice, climbing out of the tub and rushing to the door, her situation entirely forgotten. Claire threw open the door.

The first thing Claire thought about the man standing there before her in the pitch black of the early morning was just how startled he appeared to be by her sudden arrival, hands raised partially up as if to defend himself from her and his eyes –only partially visible from behind his shades, drawn –fearfully? - to something in her right hand. Claire supposed this man had every right to be rattled. She was fully clothed yet sopping wet and dripping all over the carpet, smelling like cherries and spice from the bath bomb.

And still holding the knife.

Claire looked at the threatening weapon she was still wielding and then threw it to one side, embarrassed and more than a little panicked that the man had probably thought she was brandishing it at him.

"How did that get there?" She said meekly, unwilling to meet the man's gaze and started playing with her ponytail. She often did this when she was nervous.

She decided a change of subject was in order.

"Chris is in trouble, I'm sure of it, he's always in freakin' trouble..." She blurted out quickly, still not meeting the man's eyes. "Oh gosh, is he in jail or on the run from the cops or…." Suddenly she looked up at him, blue eyes filled with a new terror. "He's dead, isn't he?" The man, who was tall, blonde and clad in a black turtleneck as she now saw, and who was also still stuck in his defensive stance, raised an eyebrow.

Claire continued at road-runner pace, never stopping for air. "You've-found-him-dead-in-a-ditch somewhere-or-chopped-up-and-disposed-of-in-several-bin-liners-after-another-one-of-his-bar-room-brawls-he's-always-getting-into-and-his-face-was-so-smashed-up-you-couldn't-identify-him-from-dental-records-and-so-you-had-to-contact-Barry-Burton-in-order-to-identify-the-body-by-that-birthmark-in-the-shape-of-something-suggestive-on-his-left-butt-cheek-only-no-one-can-pay-the-fee-for-autopsy-and-burial-so-now-you've-come-to-reposes-everything-we-own-only-it-doesn't-cover-it-and-i-have-to-let-you-have-your-wicked-way-with-me-to-cover-it-only-you've-filmed-it-secretly-and-use-the-tape-to-blackmail-me-into-sleeping-with-you-and-I-go-mad-and-shoot-up-some-elementary-school-before-turning-the-gun-on-myself!?" She took in a huge gasp of air after that long winded and terrified rambling about the possibilities. "It that what's happening?! Because I don't want that to happen!"

The man was utterly flabbergasted and still with arms raised defensively. Slowly he looked her up and then down, before answering.

"You're wet…."

That statement pissed Claire off immensely.

"Yeah, well you're a pussy too, pal!" She hated it when people assumed she was weak because she was female and they often almost always did.

-Then she remembered she really was wet. As in water.

"Oh! I'm sorry, you meant…"- She stammered and went back to looking down at her feet. "I'm sorry… Really, I'm really, really sorry."

"Stop apologizing. It was an honest mistake." He replied, finally allowing his arms to leave their wary position and folded them slowly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll stop apologizing so much." Claire apologized to the man for apologizing. This made the man smile, though she couldn't see this as she still had her gaze firmly placed on the ground in front of her. "Chris tells me, well told me, all the time that I should stop being so self-deprecating." She sighed and shook her head. "I'm such a burden on him, that's why I"- Claire stopped herself just in time. She had almost confessed to this utter stranger that had turned up at her door in the middle of the night that she was just about to kill herself.

That could make the situation problematic…

"Why you were what?" Asked the man. He looked at her wet clothes, then looking past her saw the power cable coming from her bedroom and leading into the bathroom. "Isn't that…" He had raised his index finger and furrowed his eyebrows and was about to say 'incredibly dangerous' when he showed signs upon his face that he was starting to put two and two together. His visage became that of horror and epiphany.

His logic was as follows: The girl was wet from the waist down but her head remained dry. There was a trail of water leading from the bathroom to her feet at the door: She must've come from a bath. Yet she was fully clothed…. If she had tripped and fallen in by accident, the lowered position of the bathtub would mean she would have fallen in head first, yet and I'm going to repeat myself here, her upper half was dry. There was a power cable leading directly into said bathroom. There are no plug sockets generally in bathrooms because of the risk of electrocution.

….And when you put all these facts together, it follows….

The man suddenly and without warning shoved Claire out of the way, striding with steely determination past her into her messy house heading straight for the bathroom.

"Hey! You can't do that!"

As it turns out he could.

When Claire rushed back in and finally caught up with the man, he was standing over the whole convoluted scene she had cooked up for herself with his arms slack by his side, legs akimbo and jaw dropped in utter disbelief at what he was seeing.

In the soap dish between the taps was not a bar of soap but an envelope with the words 'For my beloved brother Christopher Redfield' written upon it. From the foamy and hot bathwater rose a perfume that caused the whole room to reek of Cherry and Cinnamon. Over the tub dangled a rather large sound system by a single thread of pink yarn quietly singing a rock tune of some kind.

As for the actual tub itself, it was surrounded by figures and candles all pointed towards where the self-destroyer was supposed to take throne, a trail of water leading from that place back out into the hallway.

Claire sheepishly peeked around him to look at the tub.

"Wow," She said. "I didn't realize how incredibly creepy it would've been to find my body like this…"

"It was I who would have found your body like this!" Cried out the man, spinning around to look at her, his face creased in anger.

"I'm sorry!" Claire cried back, skittering away from him, now fiercely fondling her ponytail and regarding the man in fright. "No wait," She felt herself becoming angry. She had been fearful but then that fear had turned into humiliation. And then rage, rage that this man had made her feel that way.

"I'm not sorry!" All of a sudden her stance changed from that of a shrinking violet to that of a fierce warrior, chest pushed out and fists balled by her side. "This is what I want! I was finally going to escape! And then you come along with your, your…"She made a winding gesture at him with her right hand as she looked him up and down in contempt. "Stupid haircut and ridiculously crazy-expensive turtleneck and loafers and"- She looked up at his surprised face, her voice becoming high pitched and incredulous. "And are you wearing shades in the middle of the night? I'll bet you've probably been driving around like that out there and putting the lives of people on the road in danger!"

Claire marched up to the completely rattled man and jabbed him repeatedly in the chest with her pointer finger.

"I drive a motorbike, you… you… Blonde bastard" Both his brows raised at that comment. "and it's reckless, selfish guys like you that put girls like me in the hospital!" She folded her arms. "So what do you care if I kill myself? You probably would have done it for me if I'd decided to go out for a spin instead!"

The man was speechless. He clearly hadn't anticipated he would have had to bear through a lecture on road-safety by a 17 year old girl for coming here. Slowly he regained his composure and removed his glasses. Something about the appearance of his eyes made Claire gasp, though she wouldn't (and not couldn't, reader; did you notice that?) say why.

The man offered Claire his glasses and she took them up. The first instinct anyone has when receiving a pair of glasses it to take them on a test drive and Claire did just that.

The tinting was invisible from the wearers perspective but what was odd about her vision through his shades was that everything was now blurred, like looking through a mildly frosted pain of glass.

"They utilize the same technology as two way mirrors in interrogation rooms." The man explained as she gazed around the room holding the sides of the glasses in either hand, not fully putting them on out of respect for another's property. The man was regarding her fascinated expression with a look that appeared completely emotionless. In truth he was mildly amused by her inquisitive behavior. "As you can see, my vision is compromised without them." He then snatched his specs rudely out of her hand and replaced them on his face, smirking arrogantly down at her. "So you see, Dear Heart, I'd be quite the 'blonde bastard' if I drove here without them."

Claire marched intimidatingly up to him, or as intimidatingly as someone a whole foot shorter could muster. There wasn't much of a gap between them after her little jabbing of him earlier but now their chests were almost touching. Claire had to crane her neck back to a painful degree in order to maintain eye contact with him, however. The man chose not to continue grinning down at her, as that patronizing behavior might antagonize her further and he didn't fancy getting shoved backwards into the deathtrap of a bathtub setup that was behind him.

"Don't call me that!" She spat. "My Dad used to call me that and it's creepy hearing it from you."

The man nodded his head to the side. "As you wish, Claire Redfield." He then moved round and past her. "Come with me." He demanded in a neutral tone.

"No!" She replied, turning around. "Why should I?"

The man stopped dead and turned his head ever so slight back to her. He clearly wasn't used to being questioned even when he hadn't explained the reason behind his orders. Reaching into his pant pocket, he produced a rather bulky letter and threw it back towards her. She didn't have time to react and catch it and it bounced off of her head and fell to the ground. This made the man make a strange huffing noise and continue out of the corridor and out of her house.

Picking up the letter, Claire saw her brother's name on the front in his own messy, disjointed handwriting.

His name and not hers.

The gaff on his part brought back warm and fuzzy feelings of nostalgia for Claire's darling big brother and she smiled warmly down at the paper.

Chris could never quite get his head around the idea that you were supposed to put the recipient's name on the envelope, not your own. His reasoning behind this was that it helped the person it was meant for know who had sent it and would get frustrated when he occasionally got his own notes sent back to himself from time to time by people who didn't understand his odd little quirk.

Chris's handwriting, with its up and down-y sentences that occasionally crashed into each other and that thing he does where he starts a word at the very end of the page and continues on in the next line something like th-

-is really pissed Claire off whenever she was forced to have to read it. But now, she was just glad to hear from him once more before she...

… Died? Killed herself? She wasn't feeling much like doing either of these things right now, not with the prospect of seeing her brother again…