See the World Hanging Upside Down

A/N: Okay, so here's the deal. I've been avoiding posting this for well, a really long time, for a couple of different reasons. The biggest is the fact that there are huge (I mean HUGE) plot holes that take place before this particular piece. I always meant to go back and write a fic that would fill the gap but I never got around to it. So I want to just finish posting what I've written to complete this series so I can move onto another Claire/Wesker idea I have floating around in my mind (time permitting, that is).

I know this probably seems incredibly lazy but I did warn at the very beginning that there were missing pieces and holes in the plot. All you really need to know is that between the last ficlet and this one, Wesker has returned and he's a bit more…human than he was before. No more red eyes, no more super strength, Wesker has nothing left of the life he had before.

So, I'm sorry that I didn't write what has happened to Wesker. I had the best of intentions and in the end, this is about Claire and Albert's relationship, not the color of his eyes or his evil plans and how they went awry. Hopefully this will be okay! There is one more piece to follow after this one.

Claire is not much of a wordsmith. She's never going to write an epic novel, a sappy poem or even a dirty limerick. Hell, she can't even write a note without her fingers cramping up and her mind working overtime to string a series of words together.

It's just a note, written on a piece of flowered stationary she found in a drawer in the kitchen. Pink and yellow daisies frame the slightly crumpled paper and she colors them in with a black Bic, turning the bright pastels into dark, inexplicable blobs. The paper looks like a schoolgirl's bored doodlings instead of the goodbye it's supposed to be.

It's harder to say goodbye than Claire thought it would be. It's just a few words and yet she's stalling. She's tried to write it a couple of times but ended up scratching out each attempted start.

It doesn't really matter what the paper says, nothing could ever explain why she's doing what she's doing short of mental illness. She wants to try though, wants Chris to know she left under her own free will and not with a gun shoved up against her temple.

So she starts again.

To my brother

That sounds too proper.

Dear Chris

That sounds too much like a love letter.

To Whom It May Concern

That one sounds like an angry letter to an editor.

Shit. This is maybe the hardest thing she's ever had to do, harder than shooting the living dead, harder than sleeping with the enemy.

Claire's just wasting time. She still has a few things to do, a few more arrangements to make before she locks up and never comes back. She hasn't packed much, just shoved a few belongings into her pink backpack. A pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, a few pairs of underwear, a toothbrush, a hairbrush. There's nothing here she needs to take with her to the new life that is waiting for her.

The mahogany jewelry box that normally hides at the back of her closet is now sitting next to her on the desk, out in the open. She rifled through it earlier, ran her fingers over each piece of jewelry and carefully selected what she would take with her. She had the world to choose from, every fancy piece of gold and silver a girl could wish for.

She ended up taking her white gold ring, sliding it off the chain it's been on for years and slipped it onto her ring finger, where it belongs. It's the only piece she took. She doesn't need the rest.

Everything she needs to take with her is in her bag, sitting by the front door, waiting patiently for her. She has to tie a few loose odds and ends, has to make a few calls, turn off the water and the electric, call someone to box up the rest of her belongings and take them off to Goodwill. Someone else can use this stuff, someone else will call her apartment home before too much longer.

Claire takes a deep breath, steadies the pen in her hand (and the shine of her ring in the dim lighting of her room blinds her for just a moment) and stares at the paper. This is just another loose end to tie up.

In the end, she can't say goodbye, can't bring herself to write the words next to the black scratches, the blobs of ink that's left her hands smudged and the paper ruined. She turns the paper over, the fresh white staring at her, the black only faintly shining through from the other side. And she writes:

See you later.

It's better than goodbye.

The night air is ridiculously cold for the first week of September. It's freezing and Claire can see her breath, small puffs of air hanging in front of her face like delinquent clouds, expelled from the sky. The bitter wind whips at her bare shins and small goosebumps cover her exposed skin.

Claire shivers, despite the black pea coat she's wearing, the gray wool dress underneath, and the cotton pink gloves covering her fingertips. She almost looks the part tonight, the part she's been playing for so long it's grown on her like a second skin, except for the white Nike sneakers on her feet and the pink backpack strapped across her shoulders. Her hair is messy, pulled back with a clip, and a few loose pieces lash at her face, striping her vision with vibrant auburn streaks.

She could have waited inside, with the heater on, sipping a cup of hot chocolate, but she couldn't sit still any longer. Patience is a virtue Claire never learned. She's standing outside of her apartment building, waiting for the rest of her life, and freezing her ass off.

Shoving her hands into her pockets, Claire rocks back onto her heels, the rubber soles of her shoes sliding against the cement sidewalk. She looks off into the distance, hoping to see the faint shine of headlights, the glint of hubcaps coming around the bend. The harder she looks, the more time she spends with her neck craned like an ostrich, the faster her heart begins to beat.

There are thoughts creeping up the sides of her brain, digging their way into the ridges of her mind, fighting their way into the frontal lobe. They nag at her like a housewife, begging for her undivided attention, and she shakes her head, trying to knock the thoughts loose.

He's coming. Claire knows he's coming. Wesker is a man of his word and it's only a matter of time before his car turns the corner and rolls up in front of her. She has blind faith in this man but that doesn't stop the lingering thoughts, the way her blood races through her veins, the way her chest hurts just a little bit like someone's ripped a hole into her ribcage with their fist.

Claire has torn her life apart for this moment. Going back inside, tearing up the note that took her an hour to write, to go back to the way things used to be, is not an option. The only way to move is forward, she can't turn back now. She wouldn't know how to live like that anymore.

Her mind is already on the road, out of this frozen mess she used to call home. The rest of her body just has to join it.

Something brushes against her shoulder and she turns her head, her hair thrashing against her cheek. She turns so fast, she thinks she has whiplash. Her hand instinctively reaches down between her legs only to find bare skin. There's no knife strapped to her thigh, no gun tucked up beneath her armpit. Claire is just a woman on a sidewalk, waiting for her life to begin.

Claire laughs as she sees Wesker standing next to her, his hand still gripping her shoulder tightly. "You scared me," she breathes out, smoothing her dress back down to cover up her legs. Old habits die hard, she hears.

"Nice outfit," Wesker says into her ear, so low she almost doesn't make it out, so quiet she has to strain to catch the words. There's no sarcasm hidden in his tone, no humor laced in with the words. And she's wearing sneakers with a dress. She doesn't get a chance to respond before he starts talking again.

"What are you doing out here?" He looks casual, a word Claire would never have associated with Wesker before, but he looks relaxed, he looks like a man whose had the world lifted from his shoulders for the first time in his life. He's dressed in a black leather jacket, some kind of blue button down shirt beneath it, and dark denim jeans.

Claire leans in, brushes her mouth against Wesker's. He tastes like mint and coffee. "Waiting for you."

Wesker brings up a gloved hand and brushes his leather clad knuckles against her flushed cheek. "Eager?" His lips curl up, just a little bit in the corner, and it's almost a smile. Almost.

"Maybe." She grins and whatever thoughts of doubt that had been rolling around her mind are blissfully gone. Her heart is still pounding against her chest, crashing so hard against muscle and bone that she hears the echo in her ears. "Let's get out of here."

He takes her hand, black leather meeting pink cotton, and leads her away from the past and into the unknown.

A map of Pennsylvania is stretched out across Claire's thighs, Philadelphia resting against her right knee, Pittsburgh pressing against her left thigh. She's not sure where in the state they are, probably somewhere between the two cities. She doesn't really care where they are.

Wesker is at the wheel, bare hands at ten and two, his ring shining like a diamond peaking out of the rough and small beams of light bounce off the gold to create a kaleidoscope of colors on the ceiling of the car. His eyes are hidden behind cheap, dark shades he picked up in a gas station in Ohio.

There's no holster beneath his arm, no gun in the glove compartment (Claire checked). His jacket has been tossed in the back seat, next to Claire's bag and a small black suitcase. The Beatles are playing softly in the background and Claire almost swears she sees his thumb tapping against the wheel.

The whole thing is so normal, so typical, that Claire wants to crawl inside this moment and never come out. She wants to dig her nails into time, stop it from moving, stop it from letting this fall to the wayside. Here, somewhere in Pennsylvania, Claire gathers the wood for her picket fence.

Wesker reaches out, his hand finding Pittsburgh, crinkling the city as his palm grips her thigh gently. "You have that look again."

Claire blinks, shaking her head. She doesn't know what look he's talking about, the one he's always pointing out to her. Whatever it is, she doesn't mind him seeing it. "Pull over," she says, her fingers ghosting over his, the strange warmth of his hand scorching her fingertips.

The hand on her knee tightens and the car is already slowing down. "Are you ill?" His eyes are off the road, focused only on her and it doesn't make her feel uncomfortable, scrutinized in a way it would have before.

The car eases to a stop on the shoulder, traffic racing by the windshield like a blink and you'll miss it flash of light. Wesker pulls the parking brake and then turns in his seat to face her, his hand still firmly planted in her lap.

It's the middle of the afternoon and the skies are gray here, wherever they are, but Wesker's hair still shines like there's a halo surrounding his head (and Lord knows there isn't). His lips are pressed tightly together, his jaw stiff like he's grinding on his teeth.

Claire reaches out, a little hesitant at first, her fingers barely grazing his stubbled chin before she rests her palm against his cheek. "I'm better than I've ever been." She leans in and kisses him, her tongue sweeping against his lip, ruining the firm line they'd been set into.

Her fingers wander up his face, bumping into the dark plastic covering his eyes. She pulls back, just for a moment, and removes the frames from his face. She's met with eyes splashed with water from the bluest oceans, saturated with air from the brightest sky, and Claire knows that this is what home feels like.

The map falls to the floor as Wesker pulls her back in. Pittsburgh ends up with a hole in the middle of the city, Harrisburg with a rip, and Philadelphia is missing all together. They don't need to know where they are anyway.

As much as Claire loves a good road trip, she starts to get restless when they cross the New York state line. She finished her last crossword puzzle two hours ago, hasn't been able to find a suitable radio station in at least three. There's nothing to look at but miles and miles of farmland, nothing to distract her from the yellow and black constantly running past her eyes.

Her bare feet are pressed against the dashboard, her toes tapping against the dark wood finish. Wesker places a hand on her knee and stops the antsy movement of her blush pink toes. His hand swallows her thigh and it's hard to see the denim underneath the large expanse of bone and flesh laying against her leg.

"Sorry," she mumbles and her hand finds her way to her mouth, hiding behind her curled fingers like she's a child. Her nails feel cool against her lips and for a moment, she's reminded of the way things used to be, the way kisses used to turn her into a block of ice and freeze her from head to toe. It's odd to think of it as a memory and not a constant.

He takes his hand from her thigh, and she feels the still strange sensation of warm fingers wrapping against her wrist, pulling her hand away from her mouth. "You seem restless. Do you want to pull over?"

She shrugs, looks at her wrist in his clutches. She wonders if he can still crush the tiny bones under his touch. "Sure. I need to stretch my legs."

They stop at the first rest area they can find, some small shack in the middle of the interstate that has a toilet, a vending machine and a picnic table. It's all they really need. Claire walks around, stretching the muscles out in her cramped legs, exploring anything that isn't the inside of the car.

There are families here, mothers taking their kids to the bathroom, fathers taking their dogs for walks. There are brothers and sisters running around, playing tag, yelling and screaming like the world is going to end if they don't win. There are couples, holding hands, sitting quietly at the picnic tables, feeding dollars into vending machines. It's a snapshot of Americana on vacation and for once, Claire feels like she belongs.

She stops by the vending machine and finds a dollar shoved into her back pocket. It's creased down the middle, wrinkled at the edges but she manages to get the machine to take the money and in return, she gets E5. The bag of chips is small, not worth the entire dollar she just lost in the transaction, and the smell of grease nearly knocks her sideways in a completely perfect way. Now she's recharged, refueled, ready to get back on the road.

Wesker is leaning up against the side of the car, his hip pressed against the handle, his back against the driver's side window. He looks good, like he belongs there, waiting for her. It's still cold, always so cold, but he's not wearing his coat, his fingers are bare and shoved into his pockets. He's probably freezing and the idea is hard to comprehend.

Claire walks up to him, her sneakers quietly thumping against the asphalt, her fingers oily, her lips rough with salt. "I'm ready when you are," she says, licking her index finger.

"Let's go then," he says, his hand shooting out and for just a moment, Claire thinks he's going to grab her, like maybe he forgot that she's here willingly, always has been here willingly. Instead, his fingers dig into the bag she's holding and he pops a chip into his mouth.

Working on impulse and rapidly firing neurons, Claire reaches out, fists her hands into his gray cotton t-shirt and pulls him to her. She catches him off guard for maybe the first time ever and as she crushes her mouth over his, tastes the grease and salt in his mouth, she knows that even though normal is overrated, she's managed to find a piece of it anyway.

Claire doesn't often miss the hotel she hid away in once a month. The room was filled deception and blind eyes, occupied by two people who looked away and lied as easily as they told the truth. There is nothing to miss about shutting away a part of herself, playing a game that only ended up in pain.

But considering the current room she's in and the way the dust hangs heavily on the hideously flowered drapes, the way the lumps in the mattress push at her back, throwing off the careful alignment of her vertebrae, she can't help but miss the luxury of three thousand count sheets and room service served on silver carts with roses scattered out beside her plate. At least the floors were made of hardwood there, not shag carpeting, and there were no stains that could be mistaken for blood or brain matter.

Wesker looks horribly out of place, like someone's playing a really awful joke on him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, a loud pattern of yellow and orange stripes under his thighs, his face blank like he's recreating the walls it's taken Claire years to break down. The television blares on in front of him but he doesn't seem to notice.

She takes a seat next to him and rests her hand on his denim clad thigh. Her hand looks small on his leg, like the sea of blue could rise up and swallow her whole and she'd have to live the rest of her life with one less limb. But she likes the way her fingers look resting against him, the way he doesn't tense or brush her away. It's another piece of fence, another plank that she nails into place.

This room is small, consists of nothing more than a bed, a small bathroom with a dirt encrusted toilet and table with one chair although there's space for four. The walls are an unfortunate shade of pink, coral, and the paint is faded, chipping away in the corners. The room is loud and obnoxious, straight out of a retirement home in Boca Raton transplanted to somewhere in rural New Jersey.

They probably could have gotten a better room, could have stayed on the road a little longer, but Claire was tired and antsy and money was a bit tighter than either of them had anticipated. Buying France might be out of the picture at the current moment. Assets must be hard to come by when you're supposed to be dead.

Claire, as alive as she's ever been, rests her head against Wesker's shoulder, her forehead pressed against the hard plane of his arm, her skin resting against cotton softer than the sheets on the bed. "Are you okay?" She doesn't like the look on his face, doesn't like the rigor of his spine, the way his jaw is clenched.

Wesker turns his head to her, the television throwing pale light onto his face. His eyes are a little darker today, don't seem as bright as they have been, and it's like the moon has been ripped out of the sky and deposited into his irises. He leans in and instead of an answer, he offers her a kiss, his lips soft against her chapped, wind kissed flesh.

"Is this what you wanted?" He asks instead, his lips ghosting against hers with each word and it almost feels like she's asking along with him.

This is everything Claire ever wanted and was afraid to ask for. There's no blood on their hands, no shadows stretched between them, no lies slipping easily off thick tongues. Here, there's just the two of them, the slick slide of skin on skin, warmth pressed up against warmth.

She offers no answer either, just slowly moves her hand up his thigh under her fingers are resting against his zipper, the metal cool under her touch. She pulls the zipper apart, tooth by tooth and mashes her lips against his.

He should know her answer anyway. It's obvious.

Claire wakes up with her head pillowed against Wesker's chest, her hair fanned out against pale, once flawless skin that's now marked with angry, burnt tissue and slowly fading scars. Some of the marks are still healing, the flesh still in the process of knitting together, his body still trying to recalculate the sudden changes in his chemistry. These scars will fade over time, into silver strips of memories, and Claire can't believe that something so ugly can make her so happy.

She's tangled up with him, legs and arms and torsos and it's hard to tell where she ends and he begins. If they could stay like this forever, Claire wouldn't have one complaint. She's comfortable, albeit a little cold. The comforter was kicked aside at some point during the night and now the yellow and orange mess is somewhere on the floor, covering up bad carpeting instead of two bodies.

Running her hand up his chest, Claire, fingers a gunshot wound in his shoulder, a scar that's pink, faded around the edges like a forgotten dream. She never thought she would see this but it's in front of her eyes, proof that all of this really is over. It's written in blood on his body, like a permanent testimonial.

There's a hitch in Wesker's rising and falling chest and Claire knows he's awake, watching her. His hand moves up to join hers, their fingers entwining, rings resting against each other, completing the set. "Did you sleep well?" His voice is rough, dry, and the sound sends shivers shooting down Claire's spine, straight into her toes.

She laughs, her breasts pressed up against his side, her ankles laced in with his. Half of her body is asleep, pins and needles shooting through her veins, telling her to move. She's pretty good at ignoring that kind of thing though. "Yeah. I guess I was exhausted."

"I can't imagine why," he responds, his free hand lost in her hair, twirling the strands between his fingers. The same hands that ended lives, that drove a wedge between them, now hold her gently, reassure her and make her feel safe. It's a strange twist of fate.

Claire tilts her chin up, catches a glimpse of his hooded eyes and the sight still takes her breath away. They're a bit darker today, like the midnight sky has fallen into his eyes, with sleep crusted into the corners. It's so different than the inferno that used to burn there. "Can we stay here today?"

Wesker nods, his fingers tightening around hers, metal pressed against metal and everything is right in the world. "If that is what you want." He presses a kiss into her hair and if she hadn't been looking up, hadn't been watching him like a hawk, she wouldn't have noticed at all.

"Yeah," she says and it comes out softer than she means, ends up slipping from her tongue like a secret she never meant to tell. "It is."

They spend the day in bed, wrapped up in each other like the world has stopped turning, the days have stopped changing. There is nothing but this moment, nothing that matters anyway.

They drive until they hit the ocean and there's nowhere else to go. It feels like they've made it to the end of the world and are holding on with their toes, trying not to fall off the side.

The town, whatever town this is, is deserted, looks like it has been for decades. The stores are boarded up, large planks nailed into place over doors and windows. The sidewalks are empty save for a random drunk. The boardwalk looks worn, like you'd get splinters from walking across it with bare feet. This town has seen better days and Claire thinks it's a shame that they weren't around to see it.

Wesker parks the car and they sit there quietly, watching the waves lap up onto the sand, washing away the shore little by little until one day they'll be nothing left. The silence is a bit uncomfortable because there are things that need to be said, plans that need to be discussed but neither of them say anything.

Finally, Claire turns to look at Wesker, opens her mouth to break the bubble that's settled over the car, but snaps her lips shut at the last second. His eyes are firmly set on the horizon, his face a carefully controlled blank. She can't tell what he's thinking and somehow she doesn't think a penny will buy his thoughts right now.

She waits a moment or two, waiting for him to turn and look at her, for him to say something. But when nothing happens, when the silence stretches across her body and starts to suffocate her, she gets out of the car and walks down to the beach where at least the sound of crashing waves can keep her company.

The sand is cold against her bare feet, nothing like the searing summertime she's used to feeling beneath her toes. The wind is stiff against her back and she wishes she had pulled her hair up, to keep it from lashing at her face. She thinks she'll have red marks on her skin later, where the locks have whipped her, punished her for something she's not quite clear on.

It's peaceful here though. It's just Claire, the ocean and a few seagulls lurking above her head. She can breathe out here, can feel the air saturating her lungs, the salt in the air crusting her blood vessels. There's no strain, no tension, and she feels warm despite the freezing weather.

She stands there, the gray clouds rolling through the sky, the sun hidden for the day, for what feels like forever. It's more like a few minutes but time seems to be standing still and there's no watch on her wrist telling her otherwise. There are a million thoughts running through her head, those annoying, niggling thoughts that dig into her brain, latch onto the gray matter and never let go. She tries to ignore them because her picket fence is under construction and it's too late to knock it down.

Somewhere behind her, over the roar of the waves and the squawking of the seagulls, Claire hears a car door slam. She feels her heart beat just a little slower and she hadn't been aware that she was nervous, that her blood was racing in the first place.

Wesker comes up next to her and drapes his heavy, leather coat across her shoulders. It warms her through and through, her bones heating quickly, her skin flushing like she's suddenly in an oven. It almost feels like summer now, even though her toes are still frozen.

They stand, side by side, not touching, not talking. Wesker towers over her like a giant and as the sun sets in the murky sky, their shadows merge in the sand until they lose themselves and become one person.

Eventually, the silence shatters. It has to, this can't go on forever. As dusk settles upon the horizon, Wesker clears his throat, his eyes everywhere but on hers. "Where to?"

Claire reaches down, her fingers poking out at the bottom of the jacket's sleeves, and takes his hand. His hand is cold compared to hers and this is what feels heart shatteringly normal even though it's anything but now.

"I hear France is nice this time of year," she says, her voice almost lost in the waves.

Wesker squeezes her hand, his eyes finally settling on hers and Claire wonders if her eyes look like his, a little off, a little sad. "We'll leave in the morning."

Claire nods and holds on tight.