Stage Thirteen: Commiseration


Somewhere in the wilderness….


Jill was out there looking for her. Night had fallen. It was cold. So cold. The feeling Claire kept getting was that she….might…be in Baden-Baden. Potentially the Black Forest. The architecture of the mansion she'd fled from felt Bavarian in orientation.

She was trapped in the Black Forest in a ballgown. Evil Jill Valentine was looking for her. A pervert that made human art was looking for her. Wesker had stuck his hand in her and licked it. Some weirdo was talking about making slaves out of people.

This is what Umbrella wrought on the world.

WHERE WAS CHRIS!?

If he showed up at the last second to save her, she was going to KICK HIS ASS. She was huddling down in the dirty below a bridge. She'd lost Jill sometime after night had fallen. Wesker's puppet was smart. She was resourceful.

And Claire had ripped off the bottom two-thirds of her stupid ballgown to make sure she could RUN. Because Jill? Jill was a goddamn RUNNER. She ran like five miles a day. She was a hoss. She was a goddess of running.

Jill, evil or not, was in hella better shape than Claire would ever be. Claire didn't train all the time. She mostly considered it heavy working out if she went to the gym three times a week. She did twelve-ounce curls of Diet Coke at night. That was about it.

She hadn't heard from Jill in hours now. She was hoping that Wesker had called her back. But she couldn't be sure. And Alesio's psycho shit was STILL OUT THERE. How long could she hide beneath this bridge?

There was a snap of a tree limb close by.

Claire froze, terrified.

She listened.

And there was another snap.

Too close.

Just outside the bridge toward the hut on top of the rise. Claire waited, terrified. There was the low sound of boots in dry leaves. Oh god. GOD. Claire readied her butcher knife. She crouched low and hugged the wall.

An assault rifle barrel edged around the wall of the bridge. Claire grabbed it, jerked it hard, and heard a gasp from her attacker. She kept on pulling and a man came with it.

Claire let out a whooping yell like an attacking indian chief and hit him right in the face with the hilt of her knife. The man grunted but held onto his gun. He grabbed her other wrist and jerked her forward.

She spilled against his chest as he swung his assault rifle to his back. She reared back with the knife and he knocked it out of her hand, pushed, and pinned her against the wall of the bridge. He had a little light attached to his headset he was wearing. The dark made it hard to tell what uniform he was wearing.

But he looked…"American!?"

The man asked, quietly, "Claire Redfield?"

Claire stopped fighting and he let her go. She staggered a little bit. Part of it was hunger. She hadn't eaten in…possibly days. The other part was relief from the fear that had made a nest in her guts. He saw her waver and grabbed her arms.

"Whoa. Hey. You alright? You ok? Are you Claire? I'm Piers Nivans. I'm here with Leon Kennedy and Sherry Birkin. We came to find you. Are you Claire?"

Claire could see his face now in the shadowy light of his headset. She felt the roll of it in her gut. He watched her face. She was dirty and scared…and rather beautiful. He blinked a little at her.

And she thought, objectively, that he was incredibly gorgeous. A handsome thing. Almost pretty. Maybe even prettier than Leon. And that was saying something.

She felt the fear and the hunger and the relief spill into her guts and twist her all up. She was kinda afraid she was going to start weeping all over that pretty man who'd come to save her.

She said, "I'm….I'm Claire. I'm Claire."

"Good! I'm glad we found you! I heard stories about your survival skills. I'm glad to see you can hold your own out here."

Sweet kid. He clearly had no idea. Because she staggered, he pulled her in against him as if to pick her up in his arms…

And she barfed all over his boots.

Horrified, she tried to apologize and instead? Well…she feinted.

When she awoke, she realized she was in the little hut at the top of the rise. There was a dim circle of light on a table to one side of where she lay. She was comfortably lying on an emergency sleeping bag on the floor. It was quite plush.

And her savior?

He was bringing her an MRE. The package said Meal-Ready-to-Eat. And whatever it was? She didn't care. She was eating the shit out of it.

She shoveled food into her mouth while he watched her.

She glanced at his face. God damn he was good looking. It kept hitting her right between the eyes. A good face with a strong jaw and beautiful eyes. Those lashes! Like ten feet long and thick. They tried to make the eyes girly and failed because the face surrounding the eyes was just sex on a stick.

She finished eating and wiped her mouth, "Thank you. I'm sorry, you said your name but I don't remember it."

He smiled and it was a fucking great smile. Gentle. And humble. "Piers. Nivans. I'm honored to meet you, Ms. Redfield. Honestly. I keep hearing stories about what you do. And what your brother is trying to do with his organization. I'm hoping to turn this meeting into good news for both of us."

"You want me to hook you up with my brother?"

"Eventually. Yeah."

Claire took the toothbrush and paste he offered. Sweet kid. He knew she'd want to rinse the taste of vomit from her mouth. She did so and rinsed with a bottle of water he handed her. And when she turned back? He was pulling spare clothes from his pack.

"They might be a little big."

"They'll be great. Perfect. Thank you. Jesus. You said Leon is with you? And Sherry?"

Piers took the bottle she handed back. He turned his back so she could change clothes. He caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window across from him and looked away. She noticed and smiled a little. He was such a gentlemen. "Yes. We separated when we touched down. I had a partner with me, Walsh, but he went back to the chopper to wait when the sun went down. I let him know I found you. And would bring you back to the chopper in the morning. I don't feel it's safe to move anymore at night."

"I agree. But staying here is dangerous, Pierce."

"It's Piers."

"Sorry. Piers…that's a weird name."

Piers laughed a little. "It's greek. And a family name. Eventually the English changed it to Peter…."

She was staring at him.

He coughed. "Sorry. I tend to ramble. Sorry."

Claire shook herself a little. "No. What? I'm sorry. It's me. I haven't…I haven't eaten or slept in days. I'm out of my nugget here. I keep staring at your face. Which isn't an insult. It's a good fucking face. Nice eyebrows. I can see the Greek thing in your eyebrows actually. I spent some time in Mykonos last summer. The Aegean is beautiful isn't? The water there always reminds of Leon Kennedy's eyes ya know? Like three shades of blue and green and beautiful."

He shifted into the shimmering light from his flashlight. And his eyes were dark shot with green and surrounded by all those lashes.

"I'm sorry. I just…I've been alone for a long time. I kinda thought I was gonna be alone forever ya know? I just I'm glad you're here. I like Greece though. The food was outstanding. You have family still there? Or..I…" Her face collapsed and she put it in her hands, "I'm sorry. I just…need a second here."

He tugged on her wrists and pulled her in. He was crouched down and she slid easily between his knees. And the stranger with the long eyelashes hugged her. He held her close and said nothing.

Claire collapsed into him and held. Piers waited for her to cry. But she didn't cry. She just kept holding on. He stroked her hair and said, softly, "Ms. Redfield? You're safe now. I promise. I won't let them take you again. I swear."

Claire gripped his vest and said, against his neck, "It's Claire. Claire. Or you can call me Redfield. But it's Claire."

"….Claire."

She was the strongest thing he'd ever seen. Dirty, frightened, and wounded -she come at him in the dark like a Valkyrie. She might have beaten him too if he'd be a normal man without training. She almost had anyway. With nothing but a butcher knife and a ripped dress and little slippers. Her red hair was all over the place. It was curls and curls and madness. It smelled like flowers. She smelled like something fruity and sweet. Like sweet tarts and bubblegum.

What had Leon Kennedy said to him? Anytime you go out and fight, you could die. Take your joy where you can. Find yourself a nice girl and put that pretty face to work on her. Claire Redfield shifted in his arms.

She moved her face. He turned his. She said, "You have ten foot long eye lashes."

"….do I?"

"You do."

Her eyes were very blue this close. He said, "You have red hair..."

"Like the little mermaid?"

"Like a clown."

And they held gazes. She finally let out a laugh. A good laugh. She laughed and felt it in her bones. He had about as much charm as a fart. Which reminded her of Steve Burnside in a way. And she'd liked Steve. A great deal.

"That's not very flattering, Piers Nivans."

"….shit. Sorry." And he laughed a little bit. "But it took your mind off stuff, right?"

Oh. Clever guy. She glanced at his mouth. And was surprised she could think about kissing considering what had happened to her. But that was the thing about surviving. Sometimes you just did it. And you didn't look back. You just…pulled a Chris Redfield and punched grief right in the face.

She said, "Is there a Mrs. Eyelashes at home making you Dakos?"

Her knowledge of Greek culture was pretty good for a woman who'd spent one summer there. Piers smiled a little. "No. No Mrs. Eyelashes."

"That's good."

"Is it?" He lifted a brow.

"Right now. I think yes. The girl should always kiss the hero, right? So just…stay right there..." And she kissed him.

Oh. He blinked. And then he pressed back against her. And it was a good kiss. Soft. Smooth. And sweet. It resonated. It didn't hurt at all.

And it didn't scare her.

She didn't weep. She didn't run. She just…pressed back. And finally her body slackened against his and went limp.

Piers leaned back to see her face. And he realized she'd fallen asleep…mid kiss.

He'd put Claire Redfield to sleep by kissing her. A reverse of Snow White, he'd literally, bored her to sleep. Awesome. He was the kid that kissed a girl to sleep. Fail.

He settled on the floor with a little chuckle and snuggled her against his side. And he let her sleep. He didn't sleep. Nope. He protected her.

And waited for the sun to rise.


The dream was almost worse than the act of it. Almost. Because the dream never went away.

The dream stayed.

The dream gave him more power. The dream let him use her. The dream made her LOVE IT.

Her red hair wrapped around them. Her red hair blended with the icy blonde. Her red and his red, his red, red, red eyes as the opened and locked on hers. His hands on her body, on her face, his tongue on her body, in her body, on her breasts.

The dream made her love it. She loved it. She loved his smooth skin. She loved the perfect muscle beneath the pale, pale flesh. He'd cupped her and tipped her back and put his mouth to her slick, slick, needy little center. And, the disgusting mortal enemy of her family name, he speared his tongue into her throbbing sheath and swirled, swirled, swirled until she bowed, bowed, and bucked against his face.

She didn't even fight him. In the dreams, she never fought. She just let him. She let him spill his palms over her breasts and play there. She let him whisper in her ear, "What do you dream of, Claire? Do you dream of me inside of you?"

And he'd part her legs. He'd part her legs and push his way into her body. He was huge. He was throbbing. He was a massive cock with no remorse. Her body bowed, her mouth opened in a silent scream. She dreamed of his massive girth splitting, splitting, RIPPING her open as he plummeted there into her heat. And her hands came up to grab his horrible face. Red. RED RED RED eyes on her.

Claire. Claire. CLAIRE.

Do you dream of me inside of you?

...yes. Yes. YES. Her damning answer. Her dream. Her dream that allowed her body to come for him, around him, gasping and giving. She gave him the answers. She gave him anything he wanted. She gave up and let him have her. All of her. All the time.

Her hatred was like an aphrodisiac. The dream coveted him. Coveted and craved and wanted him. It wanted her body to ACHE for his disgusting touch. She slapped and cried and gave up. She just let him pound her into the soft, soft mattress where she lay…she lay…so peacefully letting him fuck her.

The dream was so much worse. Because the dream never went away.

In truth, he hadn't kept her dangling for long. He'd lost interest in that quickly enough. Never a man that lingered when it didn't suit him, he'd shot her full of that drug and made sure she knew how bad it could get. And then he'd let her down from her bonds.

She'd fought back. In the dream she fought back harder. The dream wasn't perfect. It made her stronger than she'd been. She'd bloodied his face. She'd done that. That had actually happened.

He'd kissed her and she'd head butted him. Chris would have been proud of her. And then? Then she'd opened her mouth and let him fill it with his tongue.

Ugh.

He'd touched her, almost gently. He'd touched her belly and her thighs. That had happened.

And the dream swirled around to tell her the worst of it. The worst of it. He'd touched her and she'd been disgusted and horrified and aroused. Aroused. Aroused as he played at her body and played with her body and seemed bored.

Bored.

She knew nothing to tell him. Didn't he understand that? She knew NOTHING to tell him. She didn't know where Sherry was. She knew nothing. She wouldn't tell him if he peeled off her flesh and bones and burned them and filled her with infection.

He had, in a way, he'd filled her with infection. She'd burned. He'd washed her, he'd fed her, he'd seemed to polite, so utterly polite. And he'd shot her full of that drug.

She'd slapped him. She'd spit at him. She'd shivered when he touched her. God. It was awful. It was like being out of control and trapped in your own head. She pushed against him, she pulled at him to touch him. He let her. He let her touch him.

Her hands on his arms. Her hands on his face. Her hands shoving him away as she cursed him. Where is Sherry, Claire? Where is the safety banks located, Claire? Claire…Claire…CLAIRE.

She hated her name. She hated the way he said it. She hated him. Hated him. As he climbed on top of her and used her body. The dream let him do it. The dream let him climb on top of her. The dream let him pull her into his muscled grip and touch her. The dream made him go beyond the bored, thoughtless, playing he'd done at her body. It let him fuck her. It let him part her thighs and pull her atop his enormous cock and ride. Ride. Ride and die.

The dream let him part her pert, bubbly little bottom and slide her slick, soaking, dripping center all over his hungry dick. And then? The dream let her rise up on that pumping body and kill him.

The dream let her rear back and slit his throat and watch the light die…finally…finally…finally..in that red, red, red dead gaze.

The dream let Albert Wesker fuck her. And it let Albert Wesker die at her hand.

The dream was the ying-yang torture of her soul.

The dream reminded her that she'd laid beneath him and opened for him. It reminded her that she'd opened her legs to him. It reminded her that she was human, and lost, and drowning.

It reminded her that she'd watched the injection bobble on a table by her bed and never once, never once, reached for itself. She just...took him and let him take her...and submitted.

The dream punished her for submitting. It wouldn't let her rest.


She hadn't slept in days. Maybe years. Maybe a hundred years. It felt longer. It felt like she hadn't slept since the DAWN OF TIME. But she slept like a baby curled up against a stranger.

When her eyes drifted open, she had one hand curled into his vest and her mouth pressed, so so softly, against the place where his neck and chin met. She'd not only slept on him; she'd cuddled him, like a teddy bear, in sleep. She was so NOT a snuggler…but, in this moment, she wasn't inclined to shift away.

The early morning light showed his face to perfection. He was young. She hadn't realized how young. She wondered how much younger he was then her. Or was he even? Age was so hard to guesstimate with people. She wasn't yet thirty herself but she was betting he was going to be barely in his twenties…barely.

She could feel the roll of muscle under her hand as she shifted. He made a little sigh and rolled his head toward her. And there it was, all ten feet of those eyelashes, looking soft and perfect on his cheeks. In the daylight, that face wasn't just pretty – it was killer. He had a good strong jaw and a broad forehead and thick, dark brows. It was hard to discern his build under all his combat gear, but he seemed lithe and athletic. Judging him to be sleeping soundly, Claire edged up his vest, just a little, to see the perfect suggestion of a six pack under it.

Yep.

Athletic.

She lowered his vest, trying to be quiet, and froze.

Because he was watching her.

And he said, "Looking for a wire under there?"

Claire held that amused gaze, realized his eyes were a strong whiskey gold, and finally laughed. Oh it felt so good to laugh. She'd been afraid she'd never laugh again.

"You caught me being a peeping tom."

"So it seems." He shifted a little and his butt was asleep. "I usually ask a girl to buy me dinner before I let her peep on my junk."

Claire felt a little warm in the face. Oh, wonderful. WONDERFUL. She was embarrassed. Just great. What a way to start out her morning.

"…I'm at a loss for words here."

Piers chuckled, highly amused. "We can pretend it's hostage PTSD."

Claire was blushing. Blushing. And he found it utterly charming. He thought she was, without a doubt, probably the prettiest girl he'd seen in a long time. And the blushing? It was the clencher.

She shifted to brush her teeth. Piers, sitting on the floor still, watched her. In the daylight, her skin was porcelain. It was smooth and pale and freckled, just a little, across that pert little nose. She bent over to spit and it brought your attention to the fact that she had, without a doubt, the curviest little butt he'd ever seen. Like a bubble.

Shaking himself, Piers rose from the floor. He had not been asked, directly, by the IMMORTAL to come on this mission and make googoo eyes at the subject. Terrible. And not at all like him. He was a dedicated man, driven, and looking to make a name for himself in the world of bioterrorism defense. That wasn't done by chasing after the sister of CHRIS REDFIELD and the best friend of LEON KENNEDY.

The idea was almost painfully comic.

He said, "Claire? We should move out. We have a rendezvous point on the west side of the forest where the town is. If we move, we can be there in about an hour."

Claire nodded and watched him while he brushed his teeth, while they split a meal, and geared up. She took his spare handgun and he carried his assault rifle. He had an ENORMOUS sniper rifle of some kind strapped to his back.

She queried, "Where are we?"

And Piers answered, prepping his pack, "The Black Forest. Germany."

AWESOME, Claire thought sarcastically, EUROPE. Why was she always in Europe running around in mansions and hiding from monsters!? WHY!?

Holding up a hand, Piers had her wait while he cleared the area outside of the hut. He was smooth and efficient. The badge on his arm said Special Forces. He cleared and came back, gesturing with his head.

Claire took up position behind him and they started out into the woods. They walked in silence for a little while, listening to birds chirping and feeling the breeze and the cool morning sunlight that dappled in shadows where it fell. The boots she wore were perfectly sized. The clothes were a little big at the waist but snug at the top. She was, in one shining moment, her brother…wearing a shirt that was too tight for her.

But it made her chest look obscenely big. She'd always been chesty. Even as a girl, she'd had a good rack on her. She'd been teased in highschool for being part of the "big titty committee". It had horrified and shamed her then. Now? It was something she simply shrugged off and dealt with. Like having a squeaky voice or two left feet, it was just part of who she was.

She'd always been the "stocky" girl of her friends. A little broader of shoulder, a little wider of hip. She'd never been slim and bright and willowy. She'd been a little chunky in grade school and had dieted and worked her ass off ever since to maintain her hourglass shape.

Now she was a svelte one-twenty, sometimes less depending, and maybe A LOT less these days since she'd been STARVING for days and made her peace with not being the Hollywood standard of pretty that seemed to permeate the media. She was all kinds of red hair and big eyes and freckles. She was curvy and average height and…hell on WHEELS in a fist fight. That came from having an older brother that was CONSTANTLY fucking with her his whole life.

As kids, he'd been a real pain in the ass about it. As a teenager, he'd taught her to stand on her own and fight her own battles. After their parents death, he'd raised her, he'd guided her, he'd taught her to drive a car, drive a punch, and drive away unwanted male suitors. Chris didn't insert himself into her business. He let her do her own thing. He wasn't a bossy pain in the ass…most of the time.

And the boy escorting her to safety wanted to meet him.

Claire said, "He's on a mission, my brother, he's on a mission. But when he gets back…I'll introduce you."

Piers, surprised, glanced at her face. "Really? You don't even know me."

"You didn't kill me under that bridge," They stopped and Piers secured the strap on his pack that had shaken loose, "You didn't kill me in the hut where, I'm pretty sure, you stayed awake almost all night protecting me. You brought me clothes, you fed me, you carried me at some point…."

"That's just my job, Claire. It doesn't make me a hero." He was AWARE of the area they were in too. She could see the Leon Kennedy level of intelligence on his face. He just KNEW they weren't safe here. Or were safe. Or had never been safe. He just knew.

"No. But it gives you integrity. And Chris likes dedication and integrity. You let me peep on you this morning and laughed about it. So, you're also relaxed enough to appreciate humor. Fair warning, my brother has a stick up his ass. A BIG ONE. But underneath that?" They paused again and Piers shifted to grab her arm. Because she wavered. "Underneath the professional façade? BIG on humor. He likes jokes. Be funny, you'll be his favorite person earth."

He was watching her face…so he didn't it when it came out from behind the tree. But she saw it. She pointed the gun right beside his startled face and pulled the trigger. The echo of it was SO LOUD in the quiet forest. But the guy with the hatchet in his hand that had been about to cleave Piers' head from his handsome shoulders was now sporting a very blood, very ugly, very permanent third eye.

Piers spun and the body dropped into the dead leaves, twitching.

Claire stumbled a little. But she was a Redfield…her aim hadn't failed her under pressure.

She said, softly, "We need to hurry, Piers. Now. He's released Ganado. He must have pulled Jill for some reason. He's sent the B-Team. That's better. It's better…and worse. WORSE. Because the B-Team didn't use to bone my brother and they can't be reached to feel sorry for us. Do you know about Ganados?"

Piers grabbed her elbow to help her steady and then they started moving; quickly. She stayed at his six, which impressed him. A philanthropist or not, she'd put a clean shot right between that hostile's eyes without blinking. She wasn't just a normal girl.

He said, "I read the Kennedy Report. I was briefed by the man himself when we flew out here."

"Yeah. You said that. Leon's here? Where?"

"He and Sherry set out apart to cover the four points. I took Walsh and went this way. My guess? He's near the village."

Claire had to laugh. She had to. Poor Leon. He SOOOO hated rural little European villages. "Great. GREAT. He's gonna be fucking THRILLED to discover another village full of Ganado."