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Description
Drink the first. Sip the second slowly. Skip the third.
~Knute Rockne

--

Claire Redfield hated the office with a burning passion. The employees there annoyed the absolute hell out of her, and she was constantly stuck with paperwork amongst other things. It was rare, if hardly ever these days, which she got to go out into the field with the others. Claire was bothered by this, but she wouldn't really tell anyone these days. Except for maybe Leon, and even then, it was just little drops of hints every couple of weeks or months.

Maybe the work was finally catching up with her. Maybe just the simple fact that everyone was driving her up a wall was what made her enter the first bar she could spot that Monday night. Or perhaps… perhaps it was that gnawing feeling that she was, again, being stalked.

Again.

The thirty-two year old TerraSave agent had the sneaking suspicion that someone had been stalking her for a long while now, and though she wouldn't tell anyone about it, she was more than nervous. The suspicion that Albert Wesker had never really died in a volcano always haunted her, and the fact they never found a body was more than enough to confirm her worries about the old tyrant still being alive and kicking. Granted, she had an old "buddy" who kept tabs on her everywhere she went, thus giving her no privacy whatsoever. But he hadn't contacted her in a long while.

Claire looked up at the sign to the bar and bitterly smiled to herself, wandering inside. The Gates of Hell. Considering the whole "Made in Heaven" idea…

She walked up to the bartender, watching him grab drinks before he turned around to her and offered a toothy grin. "What'll be, sweetcakes?"

"A hard one," she told him coolly. "Nothing too fancy."

He nodded, turning around and grabbing a glass for her. Before he grabbed the bottle from below, there was the sound of someone sitting down next to her. The two started making conversation, but he didn't care to notice. It sounded real personal. He didn't do that. He only poured drinks, rang up orders, called cabs to get the drunken douchebags out so he wouldn't be having to clean up so much before tomorrow night.

He had it easy.

-----

Aaron Hotchner didn't do bars.

He was an FBI agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit In Quantico, Virginia. It was his job to go out and protect the world from the various amounts of scumbags that proceeded to tread on U.S. soil, and he usually didn't get very many nights off. Even if he did, he had to be to work the next morning early to finish off the paperwork of his latest case, and that took a few hours. So when his team asked him if he wanted to go out these days, he generally brushed it off so he could get a couple hours of sleep, see his son, and come back into work.

Tonight, though, was a little different.

He stood outside in the streets with his partner, his friend. Derek Morgan sighed, gesturing to the bar outside and back to his boss. "You're serious. You wanna go in there for a little while before coming and meeting up with us?! C'mon, Hotch, this is the first time you've gone out with us in months, and…"

Hotch nodded slightly to the bar before looking inside and back at Morgan. He sounded exhausted. The last case had really done a number to him. "…Morgan, it's a warm-up drink, okay? I need some time alone for a bit."

You still bothered by that victim?"

There were no words that needed to be said by this. Hotch merely glanced inside wearily before nodding a little. That was all the communication needed. Morgan patted his back before walking off in the other direction and calling back, "I'm gonna hold you to this!" Which Hotch knew was true. Morgan was going to be all over him tomorrow morning if he didn't show up to this get-together with his friends and coworkers.

With the smallest sigh, the man slipped into the bar by himself and immediately heard a piano in the background. Not a lot of patrons were around—just a man huddled in the corner making the sound of the heaves, and a woman at the front and asking for a shot. Hotch made his way up to the counter, sliding into the stool next to hers and watching the man lean down to grab a bottle for her.

"Rough day?"

He looked up at the sound of the voice, the woman next to him offering a slight smile. He didn't give her one in return—not yet, anyway. "Depends," he replied vaguely, watching the bartender pour her a shot and slide it down to her. Hotch didn't want to reveal too much to her, but for now, she didn't seem like she wanted trouble.

She looked at him, downing the shot and shaking her head with a gasp. Clearly, she had taken something pretty hard. "On what, stranger?" she asked.

"I've had plenty of 'rough days' in my field," Hotch replied dryly, motioning to the bartender. "Whatever you got that's easy."

With a grin, the man turned away from the two of them, and Hotch turned to her. Her red hair was propped up in a ponytail, and she looked to be about thirty years old. It was obvious she had seen a lot of things beyond her years, and she must have had one hell of a job to be coming to a bar like this one. She nodded a little, offering him the slightest smile that lit up her whole face. "I know what you mean."

Hotch frowned at this. "Explain."

"My line of duty is… difficult to explain."

"Try me, Miss…?"

"Redfield. I'm Claire Redfield. And I do bioterrorism work. Making sure pharmaceutical companies aren't doing anything shady with medicine and aren't creating bio-organic weapons in their spare time." She sounded bitter at the last part as the bartender gave Hotch his drink. "Hoping and praying there won't be another Raccoon City incident or something terrible like the Arklay Mountains."

Hotch drank the alcohol, wincing very slightly and putting down the glass. He'd heard about the Raccoon City affair and how the government said it was all about Umbrella and being a test city for an outbreak or something. Honestly, he hadn't paid much close attention to it—he was more focused on his wife and the potential for some day having kids… in six years, anyway. He set the glass down. "I heard about it. Not much, but enough to know bad things happened down there."

Claire laughed at this now, sour. "You have no idea." The sourness went away, though, as she looked at Hotch from head to toe and back outside. "So what do you do?"

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia," he told her. "Just got off a case from here in DC."

"Profiler, I guess?" Claire inquired.

He nodded. "I'm sorry. My name's Aaron Hotchner."

She smiled slightly. "Do you prefer Aaron or Hotchner?"

"A lot of my friends call me Hotch."

"Hotch it is," she replied cheerfully, motioning to the bartender. "Hey, can we get another round over here?"

With a nod, the man went to go grab them both another drink. Claire turned to Hotch and looked around for a moment before speaking lowly. Worried. "I… I have a question. Or—more of a request."

Silence and a nod to continue.

"I… think I have a problem. With a stalker."

The word 'stalker' sent red flag warnings screaming in the profiler's brain, but he didn't move a muscle. She continued on, worried. "I used to have a man who followed me around everywhere I went. Work, home, the store- you name it, he was there. He slept on my front lawn, for god's sake, and it was just… terrifying. Then he stopped, and well. I don't know. I feel like either he's back, or someone else is on my tail again. I keep looking over my shoulder, and I keep seeing someone, but I just don't know who. It's… scary, you know?"

With a slight nod, Hotch took a drink and set it down before looking at the agent in front of him. Claire Redfield seemed to have great intentions with a hate for those who wished to damage the world with their biological weapons. A good soul—and yet not telling him some things. "I do, yes."

Claire looked down a little and back up at him, sighing. "I know we just met and everything, but—"

"—you want me to know if I'll take your 'case' of this stalker?" Hotch finished, watching her blush a little, flustered that he knew what she wanted. "To see if I can help you in any of this."

She found her glass very interesting at the moment, swirling around what little liquid was left in it. He watched her for a moment before giving a very slight smile. Claire looked at him, tilting her head.

'…he looks very handsome when he smiles. I wonder how often he does it, if ever at all.'

"I'll see what I can do."

Claire felt her heart lift quietly, nodding and smiling widely. "You have no idea how much this means to me. Seriously, thank you so much."

Hotch didn't nod. "It's my job, Miss Redfield. I'll be happy to help."

"Claire, please. Miss Redfield is formal."

The bartended glanced at the both of them, and Hotch pulled out a fifty dollar bill. He nodded to the man, whose jaw had dropped wide open. "Keep the change. From the both of us."

Claire stared at the FBI agent, blinking and finding words hard to come across. Hotch pulled out a card and set it next to her. "If you need me… you have my number, Claire. I'll see you around. Maybe."

And as quietly as he entered, Hotch slipped out of the bar.

Claire's mouth shut as she took hold on the card, smiling very weakly to herself. Maybe there was still a little hope left in the world... as far as the office was concerned.

If he could get out and have a nice drink, then so could she. Especially since his job was a hell of a lot harder than hers.

Description
Drink the first. Sip the second slowly. Skip the third.
~Knute Rockne

--

Claire Redfield hated the office with a burning passion. The employees there annoyed the absolute hell out of her, and she was constantly stuck with paperwork amongst other things. It was rare, if hardly ever these days, which she got to go out into the field with the others. Claire was bothered by this, but she wouldn't really tell anyone these days. Except for maybe Leon, and even then, it was just little drops of hints every couple of weeks or months.

Maybe the work was finally catching up with her. Maybe just the simple fact that everyone was driving her up a wall was what made her enter the first bar she could spot that Monday night. Or perhaps… perhaps it was that gnawing feeling that she was, again, being stalked.

Again.

The thirty-two year old TerraSave agent had the sneaking suspicion that someone had been stalking her for a long while now, and though she wouldn't tell anyone about it, she was more than nervous. The suspicion that Albert Wesker had never really died in a volcano always haunted her, and the fact they never found a body was more than enough to confirm her worries about the old tyrant still being alive and kicking. Granted, she had an old "buddy" who kept tabs on her everywhere she went, thus giving her no privacy whatsoever. But he hadn't contacted her in a long while.

Claire looked up at the sign to the bar and bitterly smiled to herself, wandering inside. The Gates of Hell. Considering the whole "Made in Heaven" idea…

She walked up to the bartender, watching him grab drinks before he turned around to her and offered a toothy grin. "What'll be, sweetcakes?"

"A hard one," she told him coolly. "Nothing too fancy."

He nodded, turning around and grabbing a glass for her. Before he grabbed the bottle from below, there was the sound of someone sitting down next to her. The two started making conversation, but he didn't care to notice. It sounded real personal. He didn't do that. He only poured drinks, rang up orders, called cabs to get the drunken douchebags out so he wouldn't be having to clean up so much before tomorrow night.

He had it easy.

-----

Aaron Hotchner didn't do bars.

He was an FBI agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit In Quantico, Virginia. It was his job to go out and protect the world from the various amounts of scumbags that proceeded to tread on U.S. soil, and he usually didn't get very many nights off. Even if he did, he had to be to work the next morning early to finish off the paperwork of his latest case, and that took a few hours. So when his team asked him if he wanted to go out these days, he generally brushed it off so he could get a couple hours of sleep, see his son, and come back into work.

Tonight, though, was a little different.

He stood outside in the streets with his partner, his friend. Derek Morgan sighed, gesturing to the bar outside and back to his boss. "You're serious. You wanna go in there for a little while before coming and meeting up with us?! C'mon, Hotch, this is the first time you've gone out with us in months, and…"

Hotch nodded slightly to the bar before looking inside and back at Morgan. He sounded exhausted. The last case had really done a number to him. "…Morgan, it's a warm-up drink, okay? I need some time alone for a bit."

You still bothered by that victim?"

There were no words that needed to be said by this. Hotch merely glanced inside wearily before nodding a little. That was all the communication needed. Morgan patted his back before walking off in the other direction and calling back, "I'm gonna hold you to this!" Which Hotch knew was true. Morgan was going to be all over him tomorrow morning if he didn't show up to this get-together with his friends and coworkers.

With the smallest sigh, the man slipped into the bar by himself and immediately heard a piano in the background. Not a lot of patrons were around—just a man huddled in the corner making the sound of the heaves, and a woman at the front and asking for a shot. Hotch made his way up to the counter, sliding into the stool next to hers and watching the man lean down to grab a bottle for her.

"Rough day?"

He looked up at the sound of the voice, the woman next to him offering a slight smile. He didn't give her one in return—not yet, anyway. "Depends," he replied vaguely, watching the bartender pour her a shot and slide it down to her. Hotch didn't want to reveal too much to her, but for now, she didn't seem like she wanted trouble.

She looked at him, downing the shot and shaking her head with a gasp. Clearly, she had taken something pretty hard. "On what, stranger?" she asked.

"I've had plenty of 'rough days' in my field," Hotch replied dryly, motioning to the bartender. "Whatever you got that's easy."

With a grin, the man turned away from the two of them, and Hotch turned to her. Her red hair was propped up in a ponytail, and she looked to be about thirty years old. It was obvious she had seen a lot of things beyond her years, and she must have had one hell of a job to be coming to a bar like this one. She nodded a little, offering him the slightest smile that lit up her whole face. "I know what you mean."

Hotch frowned at this. "Explain."

"My line of duty is… difficult to explain."

"Try me, Miss…?"

"Redfield. I'm Claire Redfield. And I do bioterrorism work. Making sure pharmaceutical companies aren't doing anything shady with medicine and aren't creating bio-organic weapons in their spare time." She sounded bitter at the last part as the bartender gave Hotch his drink. "Hoping and praying there won't be another Raccoon City incident or something terrible like the Arklay Mountains."

Hotch drank the alcohol, wincing very slightly and putting down the glass. He'd heard about the Raccoon City affair and how the government said it was all about Umbrella and being a test city for an outbreak or something. Honestly, he hadn't paid much close attention to it—he was more focused on his wife and the potential for some day having kids… in six years, anyway. He set the glass down. "I heard about it. Not much, but enough to know bad things happened down there."

Claire laughed at this now, sour. "You have no idea." The sourness went away, though, as she looked at Hotch from head to toe and back outside. "So what do you do?"

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia," he told her. "Just got off a case from here in DC."

"Profiler, I guess?" Claire inquired.

He nodded. "I'm sorry. My name's Aaron Hotchner."

She smiled slightly. "Do you prefer Aaron or Hotchner?"

"A lot of my friends call me Hotch."

"Hotch it is," she replied cheerfully, motioning to the bartender. "Hey, can we get another round over here?"

With a nod, the man went to go grab them both another drink. Claire turned to Hotch and looked around for a moment before speaking lowly. Worried. "I… I have a question. Or—more of a request."

Silence and a nod to continue.

"I… think I have a problem. With a stalker."

The word 'stalker' sent red flag warnings screaming in the profiler's brain, but he didn't move a muscle. She continued on, worried. "I used to have a man who followed me around everywhere I went. Work, home, the store- you name it, he was there. He slept on my front lawn, for god's sake, and it was just… terrifying. Then he stopped, and well. I don't know. I feel like either he's back, or someone else is on my tail again. I keep looking over my shoulder, and I keep seeing someone, but I just don't know who. It's… scary, you know?"

With a slight nod, Hotch took a drink and set it down before looking at the agent in front of him. Claire Redfield seemed to have great intentions with a hate for those who wished to damage the world with their biological weapons. A good soul—and yet not telling him some things. "I do, yes."

Claire looked down a little and back up at him, sighing. "I know we just met and everything, but—"

"—you want me to know if I'll take your 'case' of this stalker?" Hotch finished, watching her blush a little, flustered that he knew what she wanted. "To see if I can help you in any of this."

She found her glass very interesting at the moment, swirling around what little liquid was left in it. He watched her for a moment before giving a very slight smile. Claire looked at him, tilting her head.

'…he looks very handsome when he smiles. I wonder how often he does it, if ever at all.'

"I'll see what I can do."

Claire felt her heart lift quietly, nodding and smiling widely. "You have no idea how much this means to me. Seriously, thank you so much."

Hotch didn't nod. "It's my job, Miss Redfield. I'll be happy to help."

"Claire, please. Miss Redfield is formal."

The bartended glanced at the both of them, and Hotch pulled out a fifty dollar bill. He nodded to the man, whose jaw had dropped wide open. "Keep the change. From the both of us."

Claire stared at the FBI agent, blinking and finding words hard to come across. Hotch pulled out a card and set it next to her. "If you need me… you have my number, Claire. I'll see you around. Maybe."

And as quietly as he entered, Hotch slipped out of the bar.

Claire's mouth shut as she took hold on the card, smiling very weakly to herself. Maybe there was still a little hope left in the world... as far as the office was concerned.

If he could get out and have a nice drink, then so could she. Especially since his job was a hell of a lot harder than hers.