ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: June 2023
NOTES: A gift for Tumblr user elana-fishr as part of sstewyhosseini / bbrocklesnar 's Resident Evil Gift Exchange event!
Downtime between missions was a blessing and a curse for the Redfield siblings.
On the one hand, it provided the pair an opportunity to actually connect. To meet up and make sure the other was okay. To kick back and let the weight of the world slip off of their shoulders for that brief moment in time. It provided the pair a small chance at normalcy, or as close as they could get to it. On the other, it was too quiet for the both of them. Chris was more than used to the sound of constant gunfire. The feeling of ammo packs and aid hanging from his torso. The stench of blood and ruin. Claire had, much to his disappointment, gotten used to it all as well, though there was some solace in the fact her work with TerraSave handled more civilian matters. She’d been there in Raccoon City when it went to Hell, and part of him still felt angered that he’d left her. If Leon hadn’t found her—
No—today wasn’t the day to be thinking of such things.
Thankfully, Claire bounding over with a pair of beers was enough to draw his attention back to the hot summer sun. She smiled, tilting her head as she noted the delay in his acceptance of the offered drink. Try as she might have to hide the worry that crept up her spine, her expression faltered as she sat beside him on the hood of his truck.
“Everything alright?”
“Mhm.” He nodded curtly, popping open the top to lazily sip at the chilled drink. “Just… Thinking about work again.”
Claire shook her head, nudging his arm with her elbow. “You just don’t shut off, do ya?”
It was Chris’ turn to nudge, the bulk of his arm bumping against hers as she went to nurse her own bottle. She paused, snickering and giving him an all too familiar look that said well enough: ’Don’t start anything you can’t finish’. He seceded, at least for the moment, letting a quiet laugh slip as he held up his hand. His smile lingered on his lips, slowly slipping away from his eyes as he looked out toward the road.
“Guess not.”
“Well…” Claire’s voice trailed off, head turning every which way as she looked around the garage. Her wheels were turning, that much was clear by the determined glint in her eyes, but what was it she was trying to do? “Why don’t we channel your energy somewhere else? Forget the BSAA for now, let’s do some work here. How long’s it been since you cleaned the garage?”
Too long, if the misplaced tools and gathering dust was anything to go by. And his silence said the same. Claire rolled her eyes and pushed herself off of the truck’s hood, landing firmly on her feet with a little hop. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she was already off to examine the mess of racks and shelves off to the side. She wiped a clear spot with the back of her hand, huffing at the gray cast that now coated her skin, and set her drink down. Chris followed, peering over her head to watch as she eagerly dug through the pile of goodies awaiting them. He opted to step around her, careful in lifting a worse-for-wear box off the shelf. She paused briefly to watch the dirtied packing tape hold just long enough to make it over her head and finally give up just a few mere inches from the cold concrete. A quiet string of curses escaped Chris as he crouched down, hand pressed against his thigh as he rode out the aches the gesture had brought about. He was getting too old for this, especially after that nasty binge he went on in Eastern Europe. Claire watched a moment before turning her attention back to the pile before her. She took a breath in an attempt to swallow the urge to point it out. To ask once more if he was okay. She knew he was. Or, at the very least, that he would be. Deep down, she knew he wouldn’t want to talk about any of it. He never did, even back before the city was destroyed. Everything he did with S.T.A.R.S was top secret. Wasn’t any of her concern. She knew the red tape was worse now. Trying to get any information from Capitol Hill was a nightmare in of itself, but an organization like the BSAA?
It was a sour realization. One that, thankfully, was washed away as a few familiar notes cut through the air. Chris had, at some point while she was lost in her thoughts, gotten up and found his way back to the truck. He was half in it now, fidgeting with the radio until the volume was just right for the two of them.
“Queen?”
“Course. Found my some of my CDs in that box.” He stepped back, humming to himself as he made his way back over to tidy up the controlled mess he’d made.
“Wow, you still haven’t outgrown that, have you?” Her voice was light. She was just teasing him, after all. She was more than happy to bob her head and sway along to the fast-paced riffs. And she was very happy to hear the warm laugh that followed the scoff that’d come from behind her.
“Says the one who’s always wearing that ‘Made in Heaven’ jacket I gave you, what, almost 20 years ago?”
“Hey! It’s not my fault it still fits. Besides, you’d do the same thing. You do the same thing. How long ago was it that Jill gave you that watch for your birthday?”
“Now hold on—”
Claire peeked over her shoulder and grinned, mischief in her eyes as she watched Chris try to think over his justifications. He had none. She’d gotten him that time.
“That’s what I thought,” she teased. “Now, are we going to get cleaning, or see who has the better jokes?”
“Yeah, yeah, alright. Split the room and work in?”
“Sounds good.”
With that, the pair’s chatter simmered to an idle broil as they navigated the mess. Here and there, they’d chime in about things they’ve found. Simple inquiries of what to do with a stray set of wrenches, or if they’d still needed an older set when they had newer pieces lying around. That, or they’d talk about memories that came into the forefront of their discoveries. How Death on Two Legs could fit a few less than favorable coworkers the two have shared over the years. How a dent in one of the tool boxes was the result of Chris’ clumsy self getting caught up in his own boot laces. How Claire could staunchly remember the time she’d banged her head on the tank of her bike’s tank when he’d surprised her coming back from one of his first missions with the feds.
And, before they knew it, the garage looked almost brand new. Of course, there was nothing they could do about the oil stains that’d settled in over the years, or the few and far between cracks in the cement that’d come as a result of natural wear or tear. But it was better. It was home.
Or as close as they’d get to it.