Claire already knows that the college version of herself would be morbidly embarrassed at such a display from her older self, but that’s the fun of it, really. Conor doesn’t judge her, just wanted to see what he missed out on by the two of them not having met earlier, and there’s a heaviness to that in itself. Umbrella really fucked shit up, and the versions of themselves that died in that outbreak can never truly be retrieved. Not even through nostalgia and memory and an attempt at capturing the way she would’ve hit on someone twenty years ago.
“Yeah, me too.” Who knows what she would’ve become without Raccoon City happening. In truth, she hadn’t really settled on a major yet, was going to college for the credits and the general ed and the financial aid to live somewhere on her own in an attempt to show Chris that she was fine on her own. Maybe she would’ve gone into a similar line of work as this, or maybe she’d be racing for a living, or some in-between she hasn’t had the luxury of imagining before. “But, for what it’s worth, we’ve really made something of ourselves.”
She turns her head to smile at him, ready to combat whatever self-deprecation he’d toss her way about his past and his fuck-ups, but he startles her instead with a confession. Not one she feels overly surprised by, they’ve been flirting far too much for her to think it was just friendly banter, but having it put to words is unexpected regardless.
It feels strange, the way her smile threatens to grow past her trying to contain it, the way her cheeks flush a bit again and she averts her eyes for just a moment. Almost like she’s a teenager all over again, and she’s left flustered in a way nineteen-year-old Claire would’ve refused to admit. But right now, she doesn’t care about trying to play it cool or whatever. If she’s learned anything from the world, it’s that tomorrow isn’t a promise.
“Finally,” she says as if she’s been waiting for this forever, allowing that grin to overtake her face as she moves to stand in front of him. “I was starting to feel like my advances were going directly over your head.” A tease, of course; he delivered his own flirtations like the best of them. Before now, she just hadn’t been sure if this would be something fun that they’d drop or that he’d move on from, or if one of them would finally just do something about it.
Thank god for the latter.
Reaching her hand up, she curls her fingers around the back of his neck and pulls him down as she lifts herself onto her toes, and kisses him, nearly releasing a sigh of relief at this actually happening. To say she hadn’t imagined what it’d be like to be intimate with him in all sorts of variations of the word would be a lie, and, like him, she’s not interested in lying anymore.
she’s bold in so many ways he is unexpecting but not a bit unfavorable towards. the starchiness of their clothes, skin prickling as his hairs stands on end. gooseflesh rushing down the entirety of his body and tingling along his lips and fingertips. he feels lightheaded. it had been so long since he’d had any kind intimacy with someone. his mind is pulled towards the past like a bit of driftwood caught in a riptide. he hated that she could creep into his mind at such a good moment. a stain. a gash across his heart the color of betrayal.
some part of him bitterly holds on to it. it’s what i deserve, a voice that is not completely his own states, loud and clear in his mind. i’ve been a monster that fell in love with a woman that was a monster herself. as it some grand greek tragedy written by bored poets, scratching away at parchment with blackened quills.
but claire feels like a prayer on his lips and everything melts away. a taper candle tossed into a roaring flame. she feels right against him and he finds he is suddenly starving for her. his hands cup her jawline, ravenous to keep contact with her. skin to skin, he devours her. from her luscious mouth to her neck, he plants his kiss like sewing seeds in a garden. conor’s hands drops from her face to her arms to finally wrapping around her back, holding on to her. ensuring she is real and not some tortuous daydream that will slip, vapor-like, from his grasp the moment he blinks.
“ sometimes i’m a bit slow. haven’t been as sharp as i used to be before i drowned. “ his rumbling voice vibrates through his chest, words chased with sour laughter. the memory of the darkness closing in on him, the sandpaper brine in his throat and poured into his lungs as the waves continued to push him down-- it used to be the worst of his past. now replaced with twisted flesh and the gold band he’d pulled from a severed arm. “ i’m sorry claire. i’m sorry for everything that happened to you. i’m sorry for anything i may have done. i’m just... sorry in general. “ he rests his chin on her shoulder, body slumping slightly onto her, as if handing over the weight of his sins. asking her to balance the scales, to make his soul worth something in the end.
“ i want to give you the best version of me that i can-- even if he does smell like industrial cleaner and is incredibly itchy in these ugly scrubs. “ he smiles against her neck, drinking in her scent. “ anything you ask of me, i’ll give you the truth. the whole thing. not the redacted version jill gave you, everything. i want you to make an informed decision before you get tangled up with me. “
conor pulls back, hazel eyes searching hers.
“ that is not a euphemism-- ok, well.... it isn’t just an euphemism. “ a smirk pinches his smile, the flash of a shallow dimple.
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