A/n's: Here it be, as promised. Part Two. I realized something after posting the first part – I had two #23s! So, this part will go from 27 to 50 instead of 26. Sorry, 'bout that, but to make up for it, a lot of these ones are quiet a bit longer than those in the first part….;)

Well, now that these are finished, I suppose it's time for me to knuckle down and really think about that sequel – I would like to do one, but have having trouble deciding where the story should go…I'm gonna have to give it some thought. Keep an eye on my profile for details, I'll keep you updated there.

Warnings: Minor swearing, minor gore, sexual situations (I mean this one, you are warned, ya'll).

Part Two

"You haven't changed, you've just become more of yourself."

-Oprah Winfrey

27. Curtain
She leaned to read the memo over his shoulder and her hair brushed across his shoulder, falling into her face like a heavy, dark curtain; the scent of it, fresh and clean, and vaguely…crisp, like apples, tickled at his nose.

She reached to push it back – but he was quicker, hooking the silky locks back behind her ear before she'd even gotten her hand all the way up.

A simple pleasure – the feel of it sliding between his fingers, the possessive stroke of his skin over hers – but one he heartily enjoyed.

28. Prison
Prison. Dungeon. Hell.

She heard all those in description of the steel and brick hive that kept them safe underground, and truthfully…she could agree with them. To a point.

Yes, she missed the sun, the wind…and longed to see and feel them more than the odd, top-side mission allowed her – but this was Umbrella's kingdom. Wesker's castle.

Her home.

29. Tradition
"This is a gross misallocation of resources," he told her, sounding wearily bemused as he tipped his head and watched.

"I know."

She didn't stop though. Her hands continued to knead, to squeeze and roll the spongy, sticky dough beneath her fingers, spreading it slowly into a round, thin sheet. "But this is New York," she smirked, amused…and obviously pleased with herself. "It's tradition."

30. Kiss
"Kiss me."

His mouth found her throat and he reveled in the taste of her; at the hot, feminine scent of her. "I am."

"Touch me."

His lips pulled into a grin, his teeth nipped…and fabric tore. "I will."

31. Spine
It was unnatural – unhealthy, at best – but she couldn't help it. She was fascinated, to the point of distraction, by the most innocent parts of him: the strong forearms visible when he, oh-so-rarely, rolled up his sleeves; the neat vee of his torso as his shoulders and chest narrowed down to his hips; that spot – just there – where his Adam's apple played in his throat; and…most recently, the long length of the spine that bisected the powerful planes of his back.

She couldn't resist as he dressed, slipping up behind him to press her mouth there – to run her lips slowly down.

He tensed, muscles flexing – tightening - beneath her tongue, and he grabbed at one of her wrists, fingers wrapping hard. "Don't start what you can't finish," he warned, voice low and rough…and exciting.

She smiled against him, heart fluttering, muscles clenching – eager. Ready. Wanting.

She moved around him, fingers dragging over his skin, looked up and met his gaze – that burning stare – unflinchingly, and, holding it, sank gracefully down to her knees.

32. Scream
Whatever oversight had led to this moment, whatever idiotic incompetence, the person – or persons – responsible would pay for it. Dearly.

But later.

Just now…a chair was flying through the air – heaved by the roaring, enraged and wildly mutated test specimen in response, undoubtedly, to the arrow jutting from its sternum; the heavy piece of furniture smashed against the wall, gouging into the steel with the scream of metal-on-metal, just inches from where her head had been seconds before.

….Right now, he had more important things to do.

33. Poem
He wouldn't write her love songs; wouldn't recite poetry. He would probably never bring her flowers or chocolates, or ever get down on one knee.

He wasn't anything like what she'd expected to find, expected to want or need….but she did. For better or worse, wrong or right.

He was where she needed – wanted- to be.

34. Planet
The hologram spun slowly, mimicking the rotation of the planet it was modeled after, the various red and white rosettes that marked the remaining facility locations winking in and out of sight as it turned.

There were less now than there had been – a mere handful left to represent the empire Umbrella had once controlled, the world that had once been theirs…had once been his.

And it will be again, he vowed, resting his mouth against his laced hands, and glancing over his knuckles to find the brown-green gaze across the table. It will be…ours.

35. Blanket
She was where she belonged. She knew that, accepted that – was gloriously content with that knowledge.

But there was still…guilt. Avoidable turning the day, easy to ignore when her brain and body were occupied, but insidiously slippery at night, gliding in when her defenses were down to haunt her dreams, to mutate them into nightmares of pain, blood, and loss.

When she woke – and she always did – she reached for him, automatically, mindlessly; needing his heat, his strength…his heart drumming in time to her own to remind her that this, here, with him, was where she was meant to be.

36. Insult
The heavy glass just missed Umbrella Rome's director, the hologram shimmering out just as the improvised weapon passed through her head. It smashed against the wall behind, glass spraying, water splattering.

He tilted his head and said dryly to the thrower, "You are aware, yes, that even if she hadn't disconnected she still wouldn't have felt that."

"But it still would have made me feel better," she snarled, folding her arms over her chest with a growl. "I swear, if I have to take one more back-handed insult from her I'm going to…" Her arms unfolded enough for her to curl her hands into claws – imagining the director's lithesome neck beneath them.

"What?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek, weighing her options…and enjoying each and every one. "Flay her. Skin her alive. Rub her down with BBQ sauce and drop her in upper Manhattan."

He laughed, that rough, rare sound, and her eyes snapped over.

"I'm not kidding."

"I don't doubt it." He grinned, amused – and vaguely, somehow, pleased. "I look forward to it."

37. Voices
They were talking about her; those voices crackling in through the speakers. She hadn't heard her name - they'd intercepted the feed mid-conversation – but she knew…just as she knew who they were despite the time and distance that separated them.

'Betrayer,' Christy called her. 'Treason,' was the name Bill gave to all that she had done.

It was expected…but still…the words settled in her chest like rocks.

If there had been another way…if only they could accept as she had….

"Regrets?" came his smooth, cool voice, drowning out the satellite feed easily.

She looked up, met that gold and red gaze, staring for one long silent moment – then replied, honestly. "No." She shook her head, folded her arms and took a slow breath. "No regrets."

38. Mask
His blonde brows were arched as she approached, peeling up her reflective face protector and shaking loose her hair, a lilt playing around his lips.

"Enjoy yourself?"

She grinned, looked back at the still slightly smoking, gore encrusted Hummer - from which the rest of the team had already begun to carefully remove the muzzled, bound, but still earnestly wriggling ordinance.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

39. Finger
"And what will you do?" he asked, eyes pinning her place even as his hands moved into her hair, gripped and held on. "When they come?"

Her fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding hard, her eyes dark and deep. "What I have to."

40. Umbrella
"So…" she leaned back, water lapping softly between them as she wriggled gently, but maddeningly, as she got comfortable. "Why an 'umbrella?'"

He grabbed at one of her hips, trying to still her forcibly. She resisted. On purpose, he suspected. Vixen. "Because a man with an umbrella never has fear of the rain."

She laughed, her skin beneath his fingers seeming to vibrate with the very joy of it as she turned her head and nipped at his jaw. "If you have something against water, I think you're in the wrong place, buddy."

"Perhaps…" he murmured, knuckles of his free hand grazing against her throat, fingers curling around her chin, angling her head… just so…so he could brush his mouth over hers. "But you're not."

All it took was a little shift, a little tilt of his hips and she was his.

41. Italy
She knew why they were here, knew it was a very good reason…but that didn't mean she had to like it.

"Maybe I could just…beat her. You know, like a dirty throw rug."

He chuckled, but remained firm. "No, not this time, I'm afraid. She hasn't quite outlived her usefulness yet."

She sighed. He just smirked.

42. Neck
"You have got to start going easy on the biting," she chuckled, leaning close to the mirror, turning her head this way and that, examining the dark, purple-black horseshoe smudges staining her pale skin. "People are going to start thinking you have a vampire fetish."

43. Fever
Forget disease. Forget illness.

No sickness, no cold or virus had ever made her burn like this, had caused a fever in her blood like this thing between them.

44. Cape
She was sprawled across the bed, a book open in front of her face with the intent of reading, but just then she was watching him over the pages.

"I like that jacket," she told him, eyebrows wagging mischievously at him above the edge of her book. "It makes you look like you're wearing your cape."

He frowned tiredly at her, and she laughed.

"What? I didn't say it was a bad thing. I like capes."

45. Belly-Button
"What are you doing?"

"Playing."

A muscle twitched in his stomach, a quick reactionary tick to the warm velvet of her tongue against his skin.

"You're a strange woman, do you know that?"

She chuckled and feathered a kiss over his belly-button. "Do you know what this means?"

He tipped his report down so he could arch a brow at her. "Enlighten me." This was bound to be good.

"Somebody birthed you. You, Umbrella's dark and scary overlord, who strikes terror in the hearts of men with a look." She smiled, folding her hands on his belly and resting her chin atop them. "Tell me about them, your parents."

He paused. A small wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. "I don't remember them."

Her own brow furrowed back at him. "How do you not remember your parents?"

His face smoothed. It wasn't worth concern. "They worked for Umbrella, and provided for me a way into the company fold; by comparison anything else is unmemorable."

Her exhale blushed across his skin, but she said nothing. Just looked at him for a quiet, watchful moment, then unfolded her hands to press a kiss to his belly-button again.

46. Appetite
Their appetite for each other was ridiculous, and, if nothing else, likely to kill them both one day.

But…if she had to go, she figured there were certainly worse ways.

47. Badge
The square bit of plastic bounced across the desk, she caught it on the second jump with a quick, easy swipe of her hand.

"Keep that on your person at all times, you'll need it to move freely about the facility," he told her as he unbuttoned and peeled off his jacket.

She flipped it over, looked. "That's not my name," she pointed out, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, eyebrows arched.

"No," he acknowledged, hanging his coat in the closet. "But that's the only one they need know."

When he looked back a moment later, she was smiling.

48. Nail
"I'm just saying I can see where the Chairman's coming from – she's female, she's alive, and hey, beggars can't be choosers, right?" The guard grinned stupidly, elbowing his buddy in the side. "I'd totally nail her too."

What that idiot was thinking, he could only guess….but one thing he did know for sure, was that he would never think it again.

49. Lover
She was never quite certain how to refer to him, to their relationship, in normal conversation.

They weren't married, and boyfriend – besides just feeling wrong – made it sound like she was thirteen and doodling his name all over her calculus notebook. Lover…got straight to the heart of the issue, but it didn't quite…it wasn't…enough.

"He's…" she paused, considered…and shook her head helplessly as her lips quirked. "Mine."

50. Threat
"They can't have you."

His hands were hard, fingers biting into her skin as his mouth tore over her body, hot and wild, making her arch instinctively, wantonly, against him.

"You're mine."

He yanked on her clothes; she pulled on his, a desperate sound of need wringing from her.

"Yours," she echoed. Her mouth landed on his shoulder, followed the curve of it to his throat, up to his jaw, his mouth. "Only yours."