He didn't know who had started it. Yes, it had been the end of a long week of drudgery at his training facility, and Claire and faithfully completed her third year of school… that alone warranted celebration of some kind.

He could now count the number of new things he learned about Claire Redfield this evening.

Despite most protests at hating "girlie" movies and ridiculous, contrived romance, she had a soft spot for the movie "Ever After." She also admitted to a small crush on Bill Clinton.

She could put away enough tequila to shame a frat boy. What had initially started off as a laid back evening at a small, secluded pub, had escaladed into a night of post tipsy, drunken debauchery.

And he wasn't sure if he wanted to put an end to it.

Certainly, he had matched her shot for shot. He was no lightweight himself, but he had more of a pension for Portland's microbrews. And yet, when he had walked with her to this trendy yet lax establishment, he had expected nothing more than a drink and some conversation.

On the fourth shot, he could feel the heat on his face, and the tequila warming his insides, settling almost comfortably into his stomach. The girl in front of him licked the remainder of the salt off her hand, knocking the empty shot glass on top of the previous three.

"So what about you? What was your 'guilty pleasure' movie?" He was suddenly fascinated by the inordinate amount of freckles peppering her nose. Did she always have so many?

"HEY, you don't have to feel inhibited, Sir Kennedy. I won't let any of your fellow comrades in on your little secret. Come on… is it 'Mean Girls?'" Her words were not slurred, though they seemed to emphasize syllables a great deal more than normal.

"I like all sorts of terrible, ridiculous movies. Movies that never should have been green lighted, really. 'Mean Girls' was okay, but 'Road House' is one of those that needs to be seen in order to get the full sleazy experience." He smiled, remembering how he still had a battered VHS copy floating around somewhere.

"Wait, is that the one with that guy from 'Platoon?'"

"Which one? Wait, no… I don't think so. That movie was too credible to have Patrick Swayze in it."

"Patrick effen' Swayze? Patrick 'Nobody puts baby in the corner' Swayze?"

"The very same." He gestured to their empty glasses. "Do you want a water or something?"

"Thanks. Then we can move on to vodka!" She ended this statement with a vicious slam of a fist on the table. He chuckled, taking their glasses up to the bar.

She had been half-kidding. Following his retreating body with her more-than-buzzed gaze, she inwardly noted just how incredibly attractive her best friend was. Certainly, a superficial glance at the man who answered to Leon Kennedy would confirm this. He was tall and solid, though not heavily muscled. He wore dark denim and a t-shirt that looked three washes away from total disintegration. So much so, that she couldn't make out the writing on the back. His hair was long and streaked with gold… she didn't know if it had come about naturally or by chemical means.

He also didn't proactively talk about the relentless training he was going through. Generic descriptions, and occasional jokes at the expense of his colleagues were about as much as she got from him. Which was fine, she had mused. Hell, most of his job requirements would require the strictest secrecy.

But it was also interesting to see where their lives had taken them. Leon had chosen a career path that involved more bureaucratic jurisdiction. She was currently majoring in criminology after a brief dabbling in both pre-med and philosophy. After Chris and Jill had married, she had moved to a small studio near campus. She liked to emphasize that she hadn't been kicked out or even ill at ease at her brother's new marriage, but she simply needed her own space. Especially if she wanted to graduate in another year.

She was suddenly very glad to remember that she had cleaned the apartment that afternoon. If, by chance, Leon wanted to stop over afterwards, she wanted to make sure that…

What? That there was plenty of space to stage a vigorous sex romp?

She giggled a little, just as he returned with their water.

"What number are you on?" He asked, handing her a glass. It was the familiar rating system that she had come up with when she had first become legal. The basic one to ten scale, rating the level of drunkenness. Now, of course, these numbers varied by the individual. One person's "ten" could be past the realm of rational thought, while another might say that the passing out stage ensured a ten. For Claire, it was between not being able to stand and speaking in tongues.

In this case, she smiled and held up her hand. "I'm definitely in the five range, and I'm sure once that last shot kicks in, I'll be a seven. You?"

"Drivable." That wasn't exactly the truth; he certainly could drive, but then he'd probably wrap his poor Taurus around a telephone pole. But she didn't need to know that. After he had a few waters, and by the time he walked her home, he would be in fit form to drive back. The last thing he needed was a night on that cold hardwood floor of hers. When the hell was she going to invest in some goddamn furniture anyway?

He must have said that last part out loud, because she smiled and shrugged. "It's really too small for anything great… I was thinking a couple of those ginormous beanbag chairs, and just calling it good. If you want another round, you could always stay over." She stood up, digging a few crinkly dollar bills out of her purse. "I'll be right back." Sighing, he took another sip of water, wondering why the hell he had agreed to tequila in the first place.

There had been a moment a few weeks ago when he had come close to kissing that girl. The fucked up part of it was, it was in midst of some out of the blue anxiety she had developed… in BLOCKBUSTER no less. What had initially been a rambunctious hunt for "Evil Dead" turned into a mild revival of trauma, stemming from her involuntary jaunt in Antarctica.

He had found her staring blankly at the window, eyes wide, and her hands shaking. He had done the whole jerk off questionnaire; Are you all right? What happened? What did you see? She was so unresponsive that he had to drag her outside as to not alarm customers.

They both sat on the curb, her hands in his lap, and his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. Just as suddenly, she seemed to shake it off, insisting that she was okay, that she was just freaking herself out. By this time, he was biting his tongue in order to keep his patience. Instead, he asked again.

"What did you see?"

"I… I saw a kid who reminded me of Steve Burnside." Leon exhaled sharply, definitely not expecting that. Instead of saying anything, he tried to be as soothing as possible, moving the arm from her shoulders to her back. "It wasn't him… he was too young, but it was enough to shake me up a bit…"

She seemed to be recovering, perhaps self-conscious of having overreacted. But he certainly could relate to being occasionally shaken up by the familiar faces of Raccoon City… When they had initially returned from that whole ordeal, the face and voice of one Ada Wong had seemed permanently etched in his mind. Now, he was struggling with the features of her face, or the timbre of her voice. Christ, he had been so sick with infatuation.

"God, I feel like a tool…" She exhaled slowly.

"What, like a hoe?" She punched him in the meat of his shoulder, smirking at the terrible pun. He put his hands up, lifting his eyebrows in feigned innocence.

"It was just… very…odd."

"Uh huh… Redheads usually are…" She looked at him as if he had just recited the serenity prayer in klingon.

"Shut up… that's not what I meant… and besides, you had your fair share of red, buster!"

"Well, what can I say? That phase is long past." He tentatively placed a strand of her disheveled hair behind her ear, seemingly reflective. "Claire, even if that had been Steve, how would you have reacted? Would you have been afraid?"

She sighed, shifting her sneakered feet closer in. "No… not afraid. I think I just would have felt…I don't know. Guilty."

"Guilty?" He couldn't hide the incredulous tone from his voice.

"Well, I'd obviously be ecstatic that he was alive and well, and I would have certainly bum-rushed him to get the last four years' worth of information out of him. But, yeah… I would have felt guilty at him SEEING me here, being normal, doing everyday things as if I were unaffected. I don't know, maybe it's residual survivor's guilt or something."

That was when he had leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, wrapping his arms over this crazy girl for feeling guilty for having coming out of that insanity alive. She had smelled like artificial peaches and clean laundry.

Which, as he smirked with mild humor, was very much the same, though now mixed with the familiar odor of booze overindulgence and the second hand smoke from the bar. After they had finished that shot, they were taking last calls. That was their cue to slowly meander away, feeling the full brunt of their friend Jose Cuervo upon their bodies.

Claire smiled at him from the crisp, moist pavement outside. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arm around his jacketed waist, determined to lead the pace. From what he could tell, the girl was now well lit, though whether she was clutching him for balance or drunken affection was something he could not decipher.

She leaned her head along his shoulder. "Leon, you're so great."

Okay, so now he knew.

He chuckled, gently guiding her away from the distracting water fountains. "Yeah, I know. I'm just one helluva guy." He ran his own arm over her shoulders, reflecting not for the first time on how small the kid was.

Thankfully, they made it back to her place without incident. He congratulated himself on how upstanding and seemingly sober he carried himself, seeing as that he could barely walk in a straight line himself. Claire led the way; luckily, she had had the foresight of acquiring an apartment on the ground level. Any stairwell mishaps could mercifully be avoided.

Flipping through her ridiculous assortment of keys, Claire finally unlocked the door, turning to face him with a smirk.

"This is the part where one is accustomed to being offered 'coffee.' I, however, have no intention of putting forth the effort, seeing as that there isn't a coffeemaker to be had." She leaned against the frame of the door, seemingly unaware of how her hips jutted out becomingly.

This was it. This was invitation enough. He could not pretend to be ignorant of what she was alluding to. His gaze shifted from her stance, to the wide-eyed, almost liquid gaze she was sending his way. He felt a tug from below; her hands had somehow found both sides of his hips, lightly hooking his belt loops.

He couldn't help himself. His hand cradled her face, tracing the hairline and finally running through the thick folds that ended at her shoulders. Sighing deeply, he pressed her forehead against his own, praying to the gods of sexual tension that he could do this.

"Claire, I want to. There isn't a bone in my body that wouldn't leap at the chance to spend the night with you." He leaned back, keeping her face that crucial few inches apart. "But we're not in the most… sober of mindsets. And I can't promise that I'm going to be able to have a relationship with you. After training, they're going to send me packing to god knows where. The last thing I want is to have some sort of residual bitterness between us." She smiled somewhat bitterly, forcing his hips to meet her own.

"And the last thing we need is a whole fuck buddy mentality," she murmured, finally wrapping her arms around him. She was resigned, but still a little disappointed. It wasn't every day that she could converse in an adult manner while somewhat intoxicated.

Releasing her hold on him, she kissed him on the cheek, in true friend-like manner.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he stated, rumbling her hair one final time.

"Fine. You can buy me breakfast."