Though the Truth May Vary

A/N: This is the last thing I've written for this pairing within this particular universe. Not sure if I'll ever revisit it but it was fun while it lasted. This feels like a good place to leave it for now anyway. Title is from "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men

Thanks to everyone who has read and commented on this and the previous fic as well. I appreciate all the feedback.

It's late and she should be at home in bed, beneath the covers with a warm body tucked in around her. She should have gone home hours ago, before the sun bled into the horizon and left ugly, dark bruises hanging in the sky. He's expecting her to come home and yet here she is, sitting at a cafe with a cold cup of espresso pressed between her hands.

The waiter keeps stopping by her table, giving her a look that crosses the language barrier. Get out. Go home. It's all in his eyes, the body language. She's overstayed her welcome here, is taking up precious space that someone else could have, a paying, tipping someone else. But she doesn't want to go yet, not home, not now. Not just yet.

There's a piece of paper in front of her, creased from having been in her pocket, stained from the coffee cup. There are dark pen marks on it, words scratched out so heavily the ink bled through. It's a familiar piece of paper and it's been in her hands before. She left it behind though; she left everything behind.

And now it's haunting her. She stares at the paper, runs her finger over the fresh ink at the bottom, the writing that isn't in her own hand. This is familiar too and even though she's only seen his hand writing a time or two, she could pick it out of a line-up.

It's a number, a phone number. That's it.

It's a way out, a promise that everything can be okay again. This is a way home but it's been so long since she's been there, she isn't sure she quite belongs anymore. Claire left home behind and now it's clawing at her, digging into her skin and leaving marks behind that she can't cover up anymore. She can't hide, no matter how hard she tries. He knows how the wheels turn in her head, he'll see right through her like she's made of thin glass.

Wesker won't say anything though. He'll run his hand down her arm, tangle their fingers together and look at her with those stupid eyes that aren't red anymore but the same sort of blue that the blanket on their bed is, the one he spreads her out and takes her apart on. He wouldn't stop her from going, wouldn't say a goddamn thing because this is not a story written in a book somewhere, a report you'd see on the news.

This is not a kidnapping; this is choice and Claire made hers long ago.

They can't go home but it's nice to have the option.