Chapter Text
As she’s getting older, Claire is starting to sympathise with Jody’s instinct to smother her. At least more than she used to. But really, Jody should spend more time worrying about Alex, who’s always making dumb decisions, or Kaia, who’s so quiet you could almost not notice if she disappeared. Claire can take care of herself.
Besides, Claire hasn’t worked a proper case for months and months. She can't get up much enthusiasm in searching for them lately. She wonders if it could be that, for whatever reason, as she’s got to feeling more at home at Jody’s, the adrenaline rush isn’t as appealing as it used to be. Or maybe just that, frankly, a lot of hunters are douches. Most hunters, come to think of it. If Claire never gets called “Blondie” or “Barbie” or “sugar” again, it’ll be too soon.
But despite all that, every now and then Jody invites a hunter over to chat with her, supposedly to keep Claire informed on all the goings-on in what passes for a community, but in reality to convey to her in no uncertain terms that this life is real tough and she should probably just keep her pretty little head occupied with more frivolous things.
And so again today. This time, hearing that this Eileen is coming over, Claire has holed herself up in her room, though she knows it’s only delaying the inevitable. And if she’s on the bed painting her nails, well so what, Buffy did her nails, and she was no slouch in the monster-slaying department.
There’s a knock, but before Claire can even respond, an unfamiliar woman opens the door and pokes her head around. In her 30s, probably, in fitted jeans and a casual blouse, with scarlet lipstick and a cascade of glossy brown hair.
What the fuck is the point in knocking if you’re gonna just barge in anyway, thinks Claire.
“Hi, Claire. I’m Eileen Leahy.”
“I know who you are,” responds Claire brusquely, even as she’s thrown by Eileen’s intonation.
She notices Eileen’s hearing-aid, and falters. Jody never mentioned she was deaf, or hard of hearing or whatever. For a second, Claire feels a flicker of discomfort, not knowing how to act around her. She settles on simply ignoring it, because she wouldn’t want to be treated any differently if she were in Eileen’s place.
“You’re a Winchester groupie,” she says, finishing off the polish on her last nail before casually screwing the lid back on and tossing the bottle aside.
“Is that what you’ve heard?” asks Eileen. She takes a seat across from Claire in the computer chair by the desk, crossing her legs and folding her wrists elegantly over her lap. Her cobalt-blue earrings sparkle in the light.
Eileen’s appearance is something of a surprise to Claire. Most of the female hunters she’s met are – for want of a better word – butch. Comes from trying to fit into a boys’ club, she supposes, though personally Claire’s never given much of a shit about conforming. But Eileen probably wouldn’t quite fit in no matter how hard she tried, so in a weird way, she must have no pressure to try. Must be nice, that.
Claire shrugs. “Heard you like to hang out in their doomsday bunker. Heard you’re dating Sam,” she says, watching Eileen watching her lips, slightly fascinated by the flicker of concentration in her eyes that comes and goes.
Eileen inclines her head, non-committal. “Dating is a strong word,” she says.
“Fucking?”
Claire is never quite sure why she does this, flinging out obnoxious comments she knows won’t get a good response. It’s not like she enjoys people getting pissed or being disappointed in her. But if it’s going to happen sooner or later, she figures she might as well be in control of where and when.
And for some reason, she senses it would hurt a lot if Eileen just decided of her own accord she didn’t like her.
Eileen raises an eyebrow, pausing a moment to consider before she responds. Her posture is calm and regal. A knowing look comes over her face as though she’s figured something out about Claire. Claire hates that look.
“Actually, Sam is more of the touchy-feely type.” Eileen pauses again, to give her deadpan the full effect. “He doesn’t put out that easy.”
Claire has to hurry to suppress her grin. She’s not supposed to be lulled into liking Eileen, to giving into Jody’s tricks.
“Dean, then?” she tries, eyes wide and jeering. A wild stab, and of course it misses the mark.
Eileen’s cherry-red lips tick up in amusement. “I think it’s safe to say that Dean is spoken for. Don’t you?” At Claire’s surprised face, she adds jovially, “What? My ears may not work, but my eyes do.”
Claire leans back, crossing her arms defensively, trying not to let on that she doesn’t know what Eileen’s talking about. She doesn’t want to be thought of as out of the loop.
(Not that she gives a shit about Dean’s love life, but she is a little bit curious about what naïve bimbo would fall for that try-hard macho schtick of his. Just a bit.)
“So, anyway,” Claire drawls out, before wondering how well her forced attitude translates without sound. “Jody asked you to talk to me, didn’t she? You come to tell me stay in school, don’t go doing drugs or chasing after scary monsters? Stay at home like a good little girl?” She fixes Eileen with a smug, cocky look.
“Not exactly,” responds Eileen. “But I do have some homework for you.”
“Homework?” She pulls a disdainful face.
“I’m working a case up in Minnesota. I say ‘case’. Hikers missing, no bodies found. Could be something, could be nothing. Reports are spaced out, so if it is a critter, seems like it’s a solitary one. Wendigos have been known to feed in that area. Anyway, I could use your help, if you’re up for it.”
Claire looks at her suspiciously. She wonders if Jody asked Eileen to give her some busywork to keep her off actual cases. “Why would you need my help?”
Eileen reaches into her pocket to produce a USB drive, and throws it over to Claire seated on the bed.
Claire catches it in one hand and frowns at her questioningly.
“I got hold of these 911 recordings, but…” Eileen holds her hands up in defeat. “Need someone to give them a listen, note down anything weird.”
Claire turns the thumb drive over in her hands, considering. It’s not exactly the action she was hoping for, but she’d still be part of a case.
“Of course,” says Eileen casually, “if you’re not interested, I could ask one of the other girls, but it seems like you’re the one with the most hunting experience–”
“No,” Claire responds quickly. “No, it’s okay, I got it.”
Eileen smiles warmly at her. “Thanks.”
Claire nods, trying to be cool about it. “Wendigos, huh,” she says. “Nasty stuff.”
“Yeah. Well. This line of work’s not for the faint-hearted. But I think you know that.”
Claire feels something like a swell of pride, of happiness at being recognised as someone who actually knows what’s up.
“I’m planning on popping back here tomorrow evening,” says Eileen. “You can let me know then if you found anything.”
“Sure.”
“And Jody’s got my contact, so if you’ve got any questions for me – about hunting, or anything – you can give me a call any time. A video call, preferably,” she jokes. She uncrosses her legs to stand up.
“Eileen,” says Claire to stop her as she’s about to leave. But Eileen doesn’t catch it. Claire waves a hand to get her attention.
“Can I ask… This” – Claire gestures awkwardly at her own ear – “was it from hunting?”
Eileen doesn’t respond immediately. Despite all her humour, there’s something calm about her presence, Claire thinks. She takes the time to think about what she has to say.
“You know what a banshee is, Claire?”
Claire shakes her head.
“You can look it up when you’re done with that,” says Eileen, gesturing at the thumb drive. “It’s worth knowing about. Just in case.”
“So a banshee did that to you?” asks Claire.
Eileen nods. “Yes, but not during a hunt. When I was just a baby. It took my parents.” Before Claire can react, she adds, “Don’t worry, a few years back I stabbed that fecker right through the heart.”
She gives Claire a self-satisfied smirk, and Claire can’t help but return it.
“Nice,” she says. “It was angels killed my parents,” she adds before she’s thought about it.
Normally she doesn’t like telling people, doesn’t like being the poor little woe-is-me orphan, but she doesn’t mind telling Eileen if she’s been through the same thing. And Claire knows that sometimes you have to get these things out when you can, say them out loud, before the pressure of holding everything in starts to crush you.
Eileen nods in sympathy, but thankfully she doesn’t give the pat I’m-so-sorry response that Claire was bracing herself for.
“Guess you win on the irony front,” she says instead.
The two of them exchange a look, a look of black humour that probably only people with childhoods as fucked up as theirs get to share.
Eileen moves a step towards the door, but hesitates.
“You know,” she says carefully, “people tell you revenge won’t bring anyone back, it won’t end your grief, and that’s true. You can’t heal violence with violence. But knowing that monster won’t hurt anyone else? It got rid of this constant gnawing in my stomach. I can sleep easier at night now.”
Claire takes that in. She’s not sure whether Eileen is endorsing her getting revenge or not. But then again, maybe Eileen didn’t actually come here to lecture her or give unsolicited advice. Maybe she genuinely did just want to talk to her.
“For me, there isn’t really a way to get revenge anyhow,” says Claire. “No more than I already got. But this hunting stuff, it’s more like… so that all this horrible shit I’ve been through? It wasn’t just for nothing. You know?”
She doesn’t think she expressed herself very well, but Eileen nods in understanding.
“Better do your homework, then,” she responds with the trace of a smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” replies Claire, and if something a bit flirty slips into her voice it doesn’t matter, because Eileen can’t hear her.
“I don’t think I’m quite old enough for ma’am yet,” responds Eileen with a self-deprecating look.
“No. I guess not,” says Claire, and realises she’s unconsciously been chewing at her fingernail.
For some reason she doesn’t drop her hand. For some reason she lets the pad of her fingertip press down her bottom lip as she looks up at Eileen.
Eileen’s brows draw together, eyes flicking over Claire, giving her the once-over. Claire’s breath catches in her throat.
“See you tomorrow, then, Claire.”
The tension drops from Claire’s shoulders. “See ya,” she says, a sudden rush of shyness washing over her.
Claire gets up to open the door for her, and they exchange a friendly smile as Eileen steps out into the hallway.
As Eileen turns away, Claire finds herself biting her lip.
“I think you’re really pretty,” she says softly to Eileen’s retreating back.
Yeah, sometimes it’s a relief to say these things out loud.
*
23 and never been kissed, that’s pretty damn pathetic, even for Claire’s shitty life.
She’s made out with boys, of course. Or rather, boys have made out with her, while she would grin and bear it, wondering if there was something wrong with her that she desperately wanted their attention but when she got it, didn’t really like it, even felt ashamed of it sometimes.
Girls, though. She reckons that might be different. But how are you even supposed to flirt with them? Every way she might try it on with a guy just comes off like regular BFF stuff when she does it with another girl. (“Hey, your ass looks super sexy in those jeans.” “Thanks, they were on sale!”)
It’s hard to even be totally sure she’s a lesbian if she’s never really tried it.
She got butterflies a few years ago when she met Kaia, thinking maybe it was the start of something. But even though, yeah, Claire got some hardcore hand-holding action out of it, the whole idea pretty much fizzled out when Kaia came to live with them and Claire actually got to know her.
Kaia is sweet, and quiet, and looks up to Claire like no one else ever has. Claire would still fight anyone tooth and nail to protect her. But Kaia never made Claire tingle with lust, never made her want to just grab her and kiss her, and in the end that whole not-a-thing with her just made Claire doubt herself even more.
Maybe she isn’t really a lesbian. Maybe she’s just into whatever she thinks she can’t have.
From the stories Claire heard the two or three times she actually showed up to college, even straight girls are out there macking on other girls to see what it’s like, or to impress their lame-ass boyfriends, or maybe just because they can.
So why can’t she? Why can’t she proposition some cute girl, ask her if she wants to make out just for the hell of it, offer up a taste of the old cherry chapstick?
She likes to think it’s not because of her parents. She likes to think it’s not because of their silent but clear disapproval when anyone mentioned gay marriage bills, their insistence on praying for celebrities they didn’t even know, the hushed undiscernible conversation they had in their room after her mom caught Claire trying to download Tipping the Velvet on their shitty last-century modem (she never succeeded).
She likes to think she can recognise they were just people, and people can be good and loving and care about you and still be wrong about some stuff. Even if they’re dead.
But until she has the opportunity, maybe she’ll never know for sure.
Claire sits down later to check the recordings – Eileen helpfully included files with the rest of the case info, but there isn’t much in the phone calls that seems super relevant, in the end – and afterwards opens her browser with the full intention of researching banshees and wendigos.
And she does, for a whole five minutes, before she finds herself typing sign language basics into the search bar, and the rest of her evening is gone.