#cleonfluffweek

Wedding: Reconciliation Pt.1

Prompt by: @madeinheavcnn , @lilyofclaires and @lysa1201

—

It was 2007, only months after the White House incident—the chip, the fallout, and the sharp silence that followed. Leon hadn’t seen Claire since, and honestly, he hadn’t expected to—not so soon, anyway.

Chris knew it. That’s why, when Piers asked him to be best man, Chris had the perfect excuse. He cornered Leon with the request: take Claire to the venue. Leon cursed him for it. Chris was fully aware of the tension. But Leon also knew he couldn’t keep avoiding her forever.

—

Leon found himself at Claire’s house, knocking on her door, the weight of it heavier than he expected.

“Come in!” her voice carried from inside.

He stepped in, and there she was—descending the stairs with the light spilling in behind her. For a second, Leon had to squint. She looked different, and yet… exactly the same.

“Ehem. You look good… still not ready?” His voice cracked just slightly.

“No, I’m just about,” she replied, lowering herself onto the bottom step to slip on her heels.

Silence hung between them, thicker than either wanted to admit. They hadn’t faced each other since she’d confronted him about the chip—since she’d accused him of burying the truth, of choosing orders over people.

“Are you… how are you?” he tried, masking the crack in his voice with a cough.

Claire glanced up, unimpressed, sharp and knowing. “What is it, Leon?” she asked flatly, sensing exactly where he was headed but refusing to open the door for him. She wasn’t going to make it easy.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I… did what I thought was right. I still do.” His voice was low, steady. Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the decision.

She paused, finally meeting his eyes. She knew that stubborn edge in his tone. He was doubling down—same as always. Duty first.

Leon sat beside her on the step. The air tightened between them.

“I know,” she said softly, with the smallest smile. She set her heels down and turned to face him more fully. “You know… I was the one who asked Chris to send you.”

His head tilted, surprise flickering across his face before relief washed over him, softening his expression. “…Redfields,” he muttered with a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. The tension eased just a little, like something heavy had slipped from his shoulders without him realizing. She always had that effect on him.

Now, sitting this close, Leon let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding since that night in D.C.

He started talking—about Wilson, about the cover-up, about why he believed holding the line was the only way forward. Claire listened, arms crossed at first, her expression caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. She didn’t agree. She probably never would.

But she had missed him.

And for tonight, that mattered more than the fight.

—

They arrived at Piers’ wedding venue thirty minutes late. Chris spotted them as they slipped in, Leon awkwardly straightening his tie, Claire brushing her hair back into place. From his place near the altar, Chris smirked knowingly, leaning toward Jill. “Called it.” Jill only shook her head with a sigh, but her smile betrayed her.

While on a visit to Raccoon City, Claire spots the rookie cop she's only met a handful of times hiding from the rain and decides to help him out.

Written for Cleon Fluff Week 2025; prompt: When It Rains

Rating: G | Fandom: Resident Evil | AU: No Zombies | Pairing: Claire/Leon | Read on AO3

---

The warm summer rain pitter-pat-ed against Claire’s umbrella as she walked on the sidewalk to the police station. Her classes were over for the summer, and staying inside Chris’ apartment all day just made her feel cooped up and restless. She was grateful he let her stay with him when classes were out and the dorms were mostly empty, but he didn’t keep much that interested her around. And while the police station didn’t have a whole lot either, it at least had people and leftover architecture from when it was a museum.

Just as she was about to walk up the steps, fat drops splattering the sidewalk, she noticed someone standing underneath the overhang. It was that rookie cop she’d seen around a few times, and he was huddled against the concrete wall and looking up at the sky almost hopefully. She still remembered the first time she met him.

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A quiet night, a warm bed, and one conversation that turns into something neither of them expected.

Prompt by: @madeinheavcnn , @lilyofclaires, @lysa1201

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚?

—

A date is when two people go out together under the assumption that the other is interested—simple enough. But nothing ever felt simple with them.

Leon rarely initiated plans. He was the type to show up when asked, not the one doing the asking. But earlier that day, Carlos had mentioned there was free beer downtown, and for once, Leon found himself sending the invitation. To Claire. Just free drinks, nothing more… at least that’s what he told himself.

When they arrived, the smell of cheap rum and the hum of conversation filled the place. And tucked into one corner, a pool table. Claire’s eyes lit up, that little competitive spark of hers flickering instantly to life. Leon tried to play it cool, chalking up a cue like he’d been doing this for years. But she read him too well—she always had.

It didn’t take long before she was sinking shot after shot with that effortless grin that made it impossible to look away. By the time she won, Leon was brooding. Claire laughed at his expression.

“Oh, don’t pout, Leon. It’s not a good look on you.” Her teasing softened as she nudged his shoulder, the warmth of her touch lingering longer than it should have. “You did good. Just… not good enough.”

She moved closer, just enough for him to feel it, and in that quiet moment between laughter and comfort, Leon wondered—was this more than just two friends sharing free drinks and a game of pool?

So… was it a date?

For Leon, he hoped it was. More than he wanted to admit.

For Claire? It already was.

Harvardville, 2005 | During RE: Degeneration Prompt by: @madeinheavcnn, @lilyofclaires, @lysa1201

150 Horizon Parkway, Harvardville, MA 01752 ✈️ (5 minutes from Harvardville Regional Airport terminal)

—

The suite was bigger than most apartments, all clean lines and quiet luxury. Hardwood floors, full kitchen, a wall of glass looking out toward the runway. The kind of place you paid too much for, but neither of them had argued when the front desk handed over the keys.

Morning light spilled across the kitchen table, catching on two mismatched bowls of cereal between them. Leon was still in a mood from yesterday, hunched over his spoon, eyes fixed on the counter like it had done him wrong.

“You’re still sulking,” she said, teasing lilt in her voice. “What, did your cereal offend you?”

Leon didn’t look up. He just kept chewing.

She smirked. “Guess so.”

That was all it took. He set his spoon down, pushed back his chair, and stepped around the table. Before she could move, his hands were braced on either side of her, caging her against the edge of the table.

“Stop that,” he said, low and sharp, enough to thicken the air.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then he kissed her—quick, rough, no hesitation.

Claire blinked, startled, then melted into it, her hands digging into his hair. When they parted, she was already grinning.

“Still funny,” she murmured.

His lips twitched—and he kissed her again.

[Present Day] Why They Never Talk About It... It wasn’t planned, and it wasn’t a confession—just an impulse sparked by exhaustion, adrenaline, and the strange comfort of surviving with someone who understood. For Leon, it was easier to file it away in the same locked mental box as every other fleeting moment he can’t afford to dwell on. For Claire, it was just them, no need to complicate something that didn’t have to be defined. So they left it there, unspoken, and moved on.

Part II: Sunset 🌇 Prompt by: @madeinheavcnn , @lilyofclaires, @lysa1201

—

Leon S. Kennedy | Monologue

The sunset wasn’t anything special. Just another day ending, the sky bleeding out like it always does. We were on her balcony, leaning on that rusted railing she swears isn’t going to give out. I could hear the faint hum of traffic a few blocks away, but here it was quiet, just the wind pushing at the loose strands of her hair.

Then she left. No warning, just slipped inside, the door sliding shut with that grating scrape it makes. I figured she was grabbing a drink or answering her phone. But she came back with this old, clunky Polaroid camera dangling from her fingers. The same one she used during my birthday.

Before I could tell her I’m not much for pictures, she was already raising it as she pressed herself next to me.

“Hold still,” she said, didn’t even give me a chance to tell her no.

The shutter went off, loud and abrupt. I blinked against it, annoyed. The square photo slid out, pale and lifeless. She shook the picture like people think you’re supposed to. Bit by bit, the shapes appeared—her eyes and mine, caught in the same frame.

She looked at it, just for a moment, then handed it to me without a second thought.

“For you,” she said, like it was nothing at all.

I took it and slid it into my jacket pocket, not saying a word figuring it’d end up in the trash later.

It’s still there. Has been ever since. The edges are curled now, the surface scuffed to hell from rubbing against loose change, debris, and crumpled receipts. The colors have faded, but the shapes remain: her eyes, the way they glistened under the sun, her cheeks pressed against mine, the light hitting her just right.

I don’t pull it out much. Can’t, really. I don’t want to look at it for too long. But I can’t put it away either. So it stays there, caught between being kept and being forgotten.

Every time I put on that jacket, my fingers find the photo before anything else—the edges brushing against my skin through the lining, like I’m checking to make sure it’s still there.

—

Raw photo below

Part I: Sunrise 🌄 Prompt by: @madeinheavcnn, @lilyofclaires, @lysa1201

When He Wakes Up

Sunlight cuts across the room before I’m ready for it—slipping past the blinds, laying that soft gold over everything it touches. Claire’s still asleep beside me, one arm folded under her head, the other drawn close like she’s holding onto something in her dreams.

We’ve done this before. Same bed. Same rules we don’t bother saying out loud. And we stick to them. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

I let my eyes stay on her. Her hair’s fallen over her face again, and before I think twice, I brush it back. She doesn’t stir. My hand lingers longer than it should, the warmth of her skin seeping into my palm.

It’s a habit now—one I never talk about. When I wake up first, I take these moments like they belong to me. She’s not around often, and when she is, I’m not stupid enough to waste the chance to be this close.

The sunlight creeps higher, catching the tips of her lashes, and I’m dragged back to another morning. Years ago. Different place. Different reasons. It wasn’t about the kiss—we’ve never made it about that—but the way the light fell that day… it’s the same.

So I stay here, holding onto the memory until it blurs into the present, letting myself keep it just a little longer before reality steps in and takes it away.

—

When She Wakes Up

She stirs eventually, a soft inhale breaking the stillness. Her eyes blink open, hazy with sleep, and she catches him watching.

“What?” her voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

“Nothing,” he says, leaning back just enough to give her space.

She hums, unconvinced, and stretches, arm brushing his before she rolls onto her back. For a moment, she studies the ceiling like it has the answers to whatever she’s dreaming about. Then she glances at him again, a faint, sleepy smile tugging at her mouth.

“Sun’s too bright,” she mutters, and pulls the blanket higher over her head.