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“Chris, come here please!” His mother calls, voice as light as summer rain. The light blue crayon drops from his hand and he bounds down the hallway to where his parents are sitting in the living room.
“What’s up?” He asks, his toothy smile growing when he sees a black gift bag stuffed with tissue paper on the end table. “Is that for me?”
“It is.” His father nods, eyes crinkling. “We have some news to share with you, but thought this would be a more fun way to tell you.”
“Go ahead.” His mother adds.
Young fists tear through the paper like a storm until they hit something soft, ripping out the item and shaking it until he can see it.
A dark green t-shirt with “World’s Best Big Brother” across the front in block lettering. He turns his head once he reads it, eyes narrowing, and his blue eyes double in size when it clicks.
“You’re having another baby?! When?! A girl or a boy?”
Their soft laughs quell some of the energy as they lift him into their laps, Chris’s mom kissing the side of his head.
“I’m in my first trimester, so it’ll be about seven months. And it’s too soon to know yet— we probably won’t even find out. We didn’t with you, you know?” She says, her arms warm and her perfume sweet like lilies as golden sunlight casts over the trio. Chris’s mouth falls open, eyes flooded with curious wonderment as his gaze flies between his parents, the new shirt clutched in his little hands.
“Really?! But how will you know what to name it? How did you know what to name me?”
“We thought about it, Buddy,” his father laughs, “a lot. You’ll be the first one to know what we decide, okay?”
“Okay! I’ll teach them how to play baseball. And ride a bike! And…”
Above his head, his mother’s eyes meet his father’s and she winks.
“Chris? Buddy?” He’s pulled from his light slumber by his father’s soft voice, his strong hand gently shaking his shoulder. Chris wakes with a yawn and blinks the sleep from his eyes, murmuring.
“Come on,” he takes his father’s hand when it’s offered, sliding off the vinyl chair. “It’s time to meet your little sister.”
Sister.
The word stirs something in Chris’s chest too large and too deep to know what it means. Like something that’s brand new but he’s known forever. A smile spreads across his face, his tongue pink through the hole where his canine is missing, and he hops along the tile until they reach a closed door.
“You have to be calm and quiet, okay?” His father instructs, but his grin is kind. “I know she’s very excited to meet you, too.”
“Okay,” Chris promises with a serious nod. The door hinges squeak, his hand falling back to his side as he approaches his mother cautiously and sees a pink bundle in her arms. She cradles the baby tighter and reaches her other arm out, inviting Chris to kick off his shoes and clamber up next to her.
“Hi, Baby,” his mother says, kissing his head. “This is—”
“Claire.” Chris breathes out, eyes wide as he looks between his mother’s face and the baby’s. “You guys said if it was a girl, you’d name her Claire. You didn’t change it, did you?”
With a soft hum, his mother nuzzles her nose into his hair, holding him close for a long moment.
“Nope, you’re right. This is Claire. Why don’t you introduce yourself and then I can help you hold her?”
Nerves flood his veins as his mother pushes back the swaddle just enough to make out Claire’s entire face. She’s so small, eyes barely opening before she closes them again, and he offers her a tiny wave.
“Hi, Claire. I’m Chris—I’m your big brother.”
She lets loose a gurgling sound that’s quickly drowned out by his mother’s easy laugh and the click of a camera. Looking up to where the noise came from, Chris’s father winks and then gestures his head back to his mother.
“You have to be careful when you hold her,” she explains, carefully passing Claire into Chris’s waiting arms, and then adjusting them. “Support her head with your arm. Good, just like that. There you go, Chris. There she is.”
His mother’s voice and the camera shutter soften as he stares down at Claire. Even in the dim hospital light her eyes are so blue, and he sees the world and a friend in them all at once.
Her crying is annoying, but he can’t help but run into the room every time he hears it.
“That’s a good instinct to have.” His father tells him one night, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t let it fade.”
A gentle breeze floats through the air as ladybugs and butterflies flutter around. Chris stands at the edge of their property lining the woods, searching for a baseball that may well be lost to the wild.
“Chris!” He hears Claire behind him. “Will you come push me on the swing?”
Sighing, he casts one last glance around the woods, accepting defeat. He turns towards Claire and can’t help but smile.
“Sure thing, Bug. C’mon.”
“Chris!” She whines, stomping a foot with far more attitude than should fit in a five year old. “I’m not a bug!”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, smelling fresh summer in the air, his grin growing as he gains ground on her. “You kinda look like a bug. And you bug me all the time.”
Without warning, Chris lifts Claire over his shoulder, her screech turning into giggles once she realizes what he’s doing.
“Put me down!” She demands brightly, wriggling until he tightens his grip to make sure she doesn’t actually fall.
“Or maybe I should call you Worm?” He muses over the wind. “But I don’t know if worms can swing.”
“No! I’m not a worm!” She interjects, making him laugh.
“Alright,” he agrees, and sets her down on the dark green swing. “Bug it is, then. Ready, Bug?”
Claire huffs, scooting back until she’s where she wants to be, then nods.
“Ready!”
Later that night, the pair walks back inside, Claire’s hair windswept and Chris’s knees muddied, baseball in hand.
“Chris?” Claire’s soft whisper wakes him from his fitful sleep. She’s silhouetted in the hallway light, her hair falling around her face and one hand gripping his door frame like she’ll collapse if she lets go. He shifts, wiping some grogginess from his eyes.
“You okay, Claire?”
“I can’t sleep.” She says, voice shaken and wet, the ache in her chest leaking out. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Scooting over and patting the pillow next to him, he waits as she closes the door and then he feels the bed dip under her weight. A sniffle escapes as she pulls her knees to her chest, her hands resting on top, the skin around her nails red from where she’s picked at it; she still is.
Fragile silence falls between them, the kind that’s haunted their house for two days now. It’s all getting to him just as much: the paperwork on the table, the food untouched in the fridge, their parents’ bedroom door, closed, waiting for them like a wildfire. But he looks over at Claire and sees the only person he’s got left, his reason to keep it together even as the sinking feeling in his bones grows deeper and wider.
“I—” She starts a few minutes later, her words tissue paper thin, eyes fixed on the distance. “I don’t understand why this happened.”
He sees her hands start to shake despite herself, how her teeth capture her bottom lip as she looks down again and whimpers. Her eyes catch the slivers of light in the otherwise dark room when she glances at him, the usual fire replaced with heartbreak and saltwater.
“Why did this happen?”
It’s a rip current that drags him under quickly and mercilessly. He can’t breathe, can’t think, just sits and stares at her with his mouth half open until instinct takes over and he pulls her to him.
“I… I don’t know, Claire.” He finally manages to choke out, tears flooding his eyes when he feels hers begin to soak hot into his shirt. She sobs once, loud, raw, and he bites his lip to keep from doing the same.
His thoughts are racing like a storm but he chooses to stay quiet, holding onto Claire as tightly as he can, like the wind will take her too if he lets go. Salt stings his lips before drying in her hair, and she grips his arm back as she cries, all the feelings she’s tried to keep a hold on crashing down in his arms. He doesn’t know how long has passed when she quiets, her body limp in his arms but he can tell by her breathing that she’s still awake.
“I think,” he starts, struggling through a deep breath, to keep his words steady underneath the weight of reality. He wants to give her the truth, as much of it as he knows—she deserves it. “I think there’s no reason why this happened.”
Her whimper is glass, body shivering so he runs his hand up and down her arm, desperate for them to wake up and realize this is all one terrible nightmare. But he knows better, so he shushes her gently, holding her closer.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her hair, and then pivots to the truth he is confident in. The one he’ll bend the world to his will to make it true if he has to. “But I won’t leave you, Claire, no matter what. We’re going to get through this together. We’ll—” his voice cracks, “we’ll stick together, and we’ll make them proud.”
He has no plan beyond that but he hopes it’s enough to give her something to hold onto. She nods once, burrowing further into him, and they stay as they are until the sun rises again.
The phone ringing is too sharp and too loud. Chris has half a mind not to answer, let whoever it is leave a voicemail, until something stirs in the back of his stomach like a string tugging at him incessantly. All of a sudden the receiver is on his ear.
“Chris?” Claire sounds out of breath, like the bubbles that carry her everywhere are rapidly popping underneath her. “Will you come get me? I’m at Nell’s party, and I know you told me not to go but I did and I—there’s this guy and I yelled and I shoved him like you said, but he won’t fucking leave me alone. I locked myself in the downstairs bathroom but I think he’s waiting and everyone else went back outside.”
A piece of the phone’s plastic cracks underneath his white-knuckled grip. This is an old argument for them at this point; there’s no chance Claire would call unless she felt like she had no other choice—and he’s the only one who can hear that the irritation she projects so easily is cut with fear. All of his emotions channel into one blazing mission at the front of his mind. The receiver between his ear and shoulder, he pulls on jeans and grabs his keys like they owe him something.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
“Okay,” she whispers, breath hitching once. “It’s off—”
“Off Maple Street, I know. I’ll see you soon.”
He tosses the phone behind him without a care for where it lands and slams the front door. The engine of his truck is barely turned over before he’s peeling onto the slick road, and his jaw aches as he takes every turn too fast. Despite that, he gets there in one piece and parks at the end of the long line of cars covering the road.
“Chris!” Nell sees him through the back gate, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed as she squeezes through to the front walkway. He takes the solo cup from her sticky fingers and dumps it—ignoring her pout.
“Where’s your downstairs bathroom?”
“Chris, what—?” She questions, but his mind has already turned to Claire.
“Where is it?” If it were anything else, if it were anyone else, he’d be happy to make sure the mess is contained before leaving, but all he can think about is making sure she’s safe. Years worth of his parents’ words echo in his head, and he blows out an impatient breath.
“Second door on the right but what’s—”
The end of the sentence fades into chatter and bad music before all the noise stops completely, abandoned by a thick oak door. He takes the stairs two at a time, and sees the ripped jeans and oversized hoodie first.
“Hey!” He barks, fists clenched. “They want you outside.”
The boy looks at him, dark eyes and smirking like he’s too good for the world. His fingers slip easily into his pockets, shoulders low as he projects smug nonchalance.
“All good, Dude, just waiting for my girlfriend.”
Don’t break his teeth, Chris thinks, despite the overwhelming urge to. His eyes slide to the door and the boy leans against it possessively.
“She’s not your anything,” Chris snarls. “She’s my sister. Move or I’ll move you.”
He looks like he wants to argue but Chris takes another step forward, towering over the kid, red coming off him in waves, but he doesn’t even blink as the smirk turns to concern and the kid fucks off., murmuring something under his breath as he goes that Chris doesn’t care to hear. His fists unclench once the hallway is empty, and he raps on the locked door, calling Claire’s name.
The door opens and she’s in his arms. He wraps his around hers on instinct, feeling goosebumps lining her bare skin. Pulling back, he scans her up and down, grimacing but not saying a word as he slips off his jacket and gives it to her.
“Chris,” Claire rushes, cowed, “I’m sorry, I’m—”
“Claire, Claire,” he stops her with his hands on her now leather-clad shoulders. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Let’s get out of here.”
She snaps her mouth shut, nodding, and they manage to avoid any other party guests as they slip back out onto the street. In his periphery, he sees how tightly she’s crossing her arms and how pale her skin is underneath the moonlight, the deep purple underneath her eyes he hadn’t noticed before. His stomach clenches and then drops.
Turning up the heat in his cab, he waits until Claire’s buckled in to put the truck in drive. His eyes keep finding her profile in the glow of the streetlights, and his eyebrows raise when her quiet voice breaks the silence.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know,” he says softly, feeling all too much like his father when he does. The thought makes him look at her—really take her in—and it feels like his heart is melting and freezing all at once. So much is on his mind about what could’ve happened, about how this is just the latest in a long line of choices that she’s lucky haven’t turned out much worse, but every word dies on his tongue. She’s here, they’re here. If it happens again, he’ll be there. Does anything else really matter?
“Are you okay?”
Her brows furrow, his heart breaking at the sight, and she glances at him quickly before looking back down at her knees, her hands covered by the brown of his jacket. Her hair falls over her face when she nods, voice quiet but certain.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not mad?”
“You’re okay,” he says honestly. “That’s all I need to know.”
The end credits roll on Home Alone as snow gently blankets Raccoon City, dampening the sounds of the bustle outside. Looking to his right, Chris can’t help but smile at the sight of Claire. She’s eighteen now, looking more and more like their mom every day, but on nights like these, he can still see the six, ten, thirteen year old bossing him around. Pride swells in his chest at the thought of her just having finished her first finals week, doing what she set out to do even after so much hardship, and his eyes flit briefly to the ceiling as if he can see far beyond the white paint.
“Chris?” Her warm voice breaks him from his thoughts, the string lights she made him hang catching her face in a faint rainbow.
“Yeah, Claire?”
She reaches her hands out to him and yawns.
“Bed?” She murmurs, eyes fluttering. For good measure, she adds, “Please?”
Laughing softly, Chris obliges. He leans forward until her arms clasp around his neck and then scoops her up from the couch easily. Her head falls to his chest and he leans down to drop a kiss to her hairline. Like this, she really does look like the same kid that came and jumped on his bed every Christmas morning until ‘91. The memory aches against his chest, ghosts knocking that he can’t let in until he’s alone.
Shaking away the image, he opens the door to the guest room—unofficially her room. With one arm around her lower back, he uses the other to push back the cover and then lays her down and tucks her back in. She curls into a ball like she always has, burrowing deep into the mattress, sleep already wrapped around her.
Without thinking about it, he opens the lower drawer on the nightstand and pulls out a teddy bear. Practically ancient, sewn in too many spots to count, unbelievably soft—tradition. Time has faded the sharpie on his foot, but his mother’s cursive still shines in his mind as if it was fresh ink.
Claire’s First Christmas
He tucks it in next to her and her arm curls around him like she knows, pulling the teddy tight to her chest. They won’t talk about it in the morning and he won’t say anything when she leaves and he’s back in the drawer; he’ll just make sure nothing happens to him until next Christmas.
He can’t help but smile and run a hand through her hair before kissing her forehead again.
“Love you, Bug. Merry Christmas.”
Her body falls from the mucus into his arms and his heart stops. She’s covered in scrapes and bruises, dried blood along her hairline and all over her hands. It’s impossible to tell she’s even breathing until he puts his ear to her face and feels the heat of a shallow breath along his skin.
Shame isn’t a strong enough word to describe the turning in his guts.
He was supposed to protect her from the world, to do everything in his power to keep her from getting hurt, not be the reason that she’s been beaten unconscious. All he can do is gather her to his chest and pray, apologizing in his mind over and over until all the words run together.
Every noise is a threat until the tiniest groan escapes her chapped lips, confusion and irritation just like when he’d wake her up for school in the mornings. She opens her eyes slowly, a clouded sky turning clear. He waits. Sees her find him like she shouldn’t hate him.
“Chris!” She exhales in disbelief, hugging him tighter than she looks like she’d be able to in her state. He relishes in her voice and the warmth of her hand on his shoulder. “I missed you so much.”
“I know,” he feels the words in his bones, wishing he could let the moment linger, “but we have to get out of here.”
Claire agrees only if they find Steve, and the fire in her eyes reignites his. Though they’re separated all too soon, he promises he’ll be fine. He intends to make good on it.
“Chris!” Her voice lights up even the gloomiest of European days, though he holds back on his smile to grumble as he pulls her into a one-armed hug. It’s been too long since he’s seen her, and all his senses tune into her: her breathing, how deep the bags are under her eyes, if she’s shaking because she’s had too much coffee or not enough to eat. She lets him, lips twisted into a small smile, eyebrows raised as she waits for the report.
“I thought we agreed that you’d go with Redfield in the field?” He changes the subject once he’s done, clearly pleased enough.
Claire rolls her eyes and then casts them at his unit, offering them all a smile that’s as cool as water.
“No, you agreed. And are you going to call me Redfield? I also have people reporting to me, you know.”
“Those people call you Claire, not Captain,” he counters, but there’s no tension between them, like this is the one thing in their world of chaos that he’s certain of.
“Well I call you Chris. Or I can bring back Sparkles and we can see how your team reacts—.”
“Captain Redfield!” A voice from behind interrupts. Both Redfields swivel on their heel, their voices barking out at the same time:
“What?”
The young BSAA agent looks between them with eyes wide as dinner plates, wider when Chris goes to elbow Claire. He just misses as she dodges, her laugh thawing the snow on the ground.
“Ignore my sister. What is it, Johnson?”
Johnson scrambles for whatever his point was, and Claire casts him a sympathetic glance, taking the moment to pat Chris’s shoulder.
“I’ll leave you to it. Go easy on them.”
He catches her wrist before she can get far, pulling her into another quick, tight hug.
“Be careful.” He murmurs into her hair, and fishes out a protein bar for her, staring until she takes it.
“Always am,” she promises with a wink. Then she’s gone.
His phone rings with a number he doesn’t recognize, and he steps to the side to answer.
“Redfield.”
“This is Chris Redfield?” An unknown voice asks, chatter and beeping in the background that he’s all too familiar with, his stomach dropping like a stone. The list of people anyone would be calling him about isn’t long—half of it is standing five feet away.
“Yes.” He grits out.
“My name is Madeline; I’m a nurse at Saint Mary’s. I’m calling about your sister, Claire.”
The rest of the call turns to static, his rapid heartbeat overtaking any other possible sound. He only snaps out of it when Jill’s hand hits his shoulder, her brows furrowed and worry in her irises.
“It’s Claire,” he just gets out before his breath is stolen again.
“Go.” Jill says, firm but kind. He can’t help that he looks at her with uncertainty—leading a team has been his job for too many years to just lose that instinct, even as his entire being is tugging, pulling, jerking at the leash to move in the other direction.
“Go, Chris. I’ve got this.”
She lets him go and walks away like she knows he needs it, and he looks down to find, somehow, car keys already in his palm.
The first thing out of her mouth when she wakes up is his name.
Strained, dry, heaven-sent.
“Chris?”
“I’m right here,” he chokes out, grabbing her hand and leaning forward until he’s in her field of vision. “I’m right here, Bug. It’s okay; you’re okay.”
Some of the panic in her eyes fades knowing he’s there, but his relief is short lived when she speaks again.
“The flash drive? Did I—where is it? Is it safe?”
His tongue is too leaden to speak, fear and anger bubbling in his every pore. With sharp fingers, he reaches towards his bag and pulls out the small black square, tossing it on the table and swallowing back the bile filling his throat.
The rest of the tension drains from her body, a slow exhale escaping.
“Good.”
Staring down at his clasped hands, white knuckles, Chris’s voice is strained like a frayed rope. It’s worn thin under the weight of a lifetime of worrying, of not being able to get there in time, of wanting her to stop but knowing that it’d be easier to turn off the sun. He speaks slowly, each word carefully calculated.
“Do you really think that fucking flash drive was worth your life?”
“Chris,” she sighs. He can hear her eyes roll, and his gaze shoots to her faster than a gun, tears lining his lower lashes.
“No, Claire.” He cuts like a knife, breaths speeding up. “Do you know how terrifying it was to get a call that you were in the hospital? To hear everyone whispering about the rubble you were trapped under because you refused to evacuate? Over this?”
The flash drive shines under the fluorescents, trapped in his grip like a venomous snake he’s trying to wrangle. Claire scoffs but winces, and he wordlessly hands her water though his expression doesn’t falter.
The empty cup echoes off the table.
“Probably about as terrifying as the call that you disappeared from the hospital and no one knew where you were.”
Metal on metal. The blades sparks.
Neither blink, but he can't look at the scrapes marring her face for much longer. Swallowing, he stares out the window and tries not to imagine all the what-ifs that torture him. A thick silence lapses between them—too much history, too many mirrors—through the nurse adjusting her pain medication and his phone chiming with a text from Jill that he doesn’t bother with yet.
The sun is beginning to set by the time Claire clears her throat, drawing his attention only to find her gaze elsewhere. If he blinks, he could mistake the present for decades ago, the hospital room for the cab of his truck—the first, third, tenth time.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” Claire starts, but he doesn’t indulge the wishful thought that she’ll stop there. “But I’m not sorry for getting that drive. And everyone whispering about it doesn’t know what’s really going on like we do. I did the exact same thing you would’ve if you were there.”
His chest drops twenty degrees because he can’t argue—it could very well have been her getting another call about his heroics landing him with broken ribs and a concussion, coming so close to breaking their promise and making her live with the aftermath. He sighs, knowing better than to tell her she’s right, or that running into chaos is his job, not hers, but unable to just let it—her—go, either.
“I’ll always support you doing what you think is right," he says, after a moment, soft and protective. "But I can’t lose you.”
It’s enough to get her to turn his head and pick up his calloused hand, her bruised skin stark against his.
“You didn’t. I’m right here.”
Confident. Fiery. Still more attitude than she looks like she could fit. Looking at her is like looking at the universe, and he realizes that the only thing he can truly do for her is quietly accept that weight.
His lips brush against her knuckles to buy his lungs time to calm down. She stares at him with raised eyebrows, clearly expecting him to say something more—probably trying to guess what route he's going to take so she can counter again, but instead he shakes his head.
“I know,” he exhales. His tone is feather light, yet still somewhere between suggestion and instruction. Old habits. "Get some rest, Claire."
Defiance flickers in her eyes—habit, a comforting one—but understanding seems to settle on her too.
“Okay,” she murmurs. She squeezes his hand one more time before letting her eyes flutter shut. “Thanks for coming, Chris.”
He smiles down at her, light filling his chest. He doesn’t need to say what they both already know.