AN:This chapter might hit you hard in the feels. Get your ovaries ready.
We need to talk.
Sherry didn't finish the text, nor did she send it. Hitting "save as draft" on the glowing screen, she powered the phone off and shoved it hastily into her duffel bag. It would have to wait.
Something told her that Claire might have heard an earful of her story already; no need to send her into a panic that would involve a forced phone call on the back of Jake's roaring, noisy Ducati. There would be plenty of time to tell Claire all about it later, and maybe they'd do it over margaritas, shotgunning beers or shots, or just anything to knock Sherry out so hard she'd think she was back in China. Sherry envisioned dumping salt mounds on the back of her hand, her body already convulsing from thinking of the tangy sting of tequila. She'd need a couple from the top shelf, just from the past two days alone. No use pontificating right now over how she'd explain it to Claire. More than likely she'd be disappointed; not mad, but disappointed. It was an adverse effect of being friends with someone older who's known you since childhood, but Sherry figured that beyond the judgment and lectures, Claire would provide her with solace and guidance through all the confusion.
The time eventually came, and the bike arrived at the rural airport. The setting was as uncomfortable as she had imagined it would be; the airport layout, with its plastic plants and makeshift ticket counters made from discarded furniture reminded her of something out of a 1970's b-grade espionage film. The corridor was painted a bland yellow color, and the curbside check-in consisted of several surly-looking employees in poorly-fitting black uniforms. One smoked a hand-rolled cigarette and eyed Sherry suspiciously as the bike rolled past. The tarmac, not even enclosed with a fence let alone guidance lights consisted of three crudely designed runways, a shimmer of heat dancing in the air above each one.
There was mostly quiet as the bike rolled and stopped through departures, and a lot of looking away at the scenery. Sherry's grip on Jake's waist was loose, and her fingers twitched nervously. She imagined that maybe the cotton material of his black t-shirt was surely stretched or warped due to her fidgeting. Her eyes closed, Sherry heard the crunch of Jake's boots on the gravel beneath them, and she cringed for a minute, not wanting to open her eyes.
"Well, here we are," he said, singsongy.
A few travelers with rolling luggage in tow swirled around them, clutching small portfolios, passports, and boarding passes. Their heads were all down, rolling towards the security checkpoint without observation or care applied to anything else. Sherry eyed them each, taking a slight comfort in knowing that she and Jake were probably invisible to them. Maybe she wouldn't make a scene, and just maybe she wouldn't cry.
Fuck.
That was the last thing she wanted to do, especially in front of him. She didn't want to give him the impression that he'd managed to reduced her to tears twice already. She barely escaped noticed before, she sure as hell wasn't ready to lose her composure now. He'd have to reluctantly hold her and pat her back as she sobbed uncontrollably at the absurdity of it all, and she'd suffer the remainder of her flight home with a stuffy nose and puffy eyes, the airline staff raising a concerned eye as she'd huffily sit in her seat and immediately order a double scotch and soda.
The other scenario was not as bad; she'd jump off the bike, giving him a half-hearted, stiff goodbye, and he'd eye her and nod coldly in his standard fashion, and after briskly turning around with no intention of looking back, she'd take three steps towards the security checkpoint, government credentials and passport in hand when he'd grasp her hand from out of nowhere and forcefully collect her in his arms and meet her once more for one last consuming kiss as he'd whisper that he'd never forget her or some bullshit along those lines, a few older women glaring at the public display of departure with disapproving jealously.
Sherry broke herself out of the reverie. "Great," she said to no one.
Jake steadied the bike as she leaned on the right foot pedal, swinging her other leg around. Both legs hitting the gravel, Sherry stood up straight, hoisting the duffle on her right shoulder, her credentials in her left hand. She then realised she couldn't pick an outcome, and the blank pages ahead began to drive her mad. Fighting the urge to run off and not even look back, she forcibly worked her eyes from Jake's chest to his arms to his hands resting on the throttle of the bike, back up his arms then to that neck and then a little more up - until they finally locked eyes.
Jake's gaze wasn't cold, but rather concerned - maybe he sensed her nervousness, or hell, maybe he was as frightened of this moment as she was. He was hard to read, but then again that was Jake - unpredictable yet predictable, hard yet soft; he was a broken door, closed yet opened. It was then that Sherry got to further study the rigid structure of his handsome face; his jawline and cheekbones certainly belonged to his father yet his eyes - his eyes, lips, and nose were his own, all including the long scar that accentuated his youthful yet hardened features. In retrospect, it would certainly be a good story to secretly laugh about to co-workers - female co-workers, maybe, that would gossip in small, impromptu pools around water coolers. One to file away in the archives to be repeated by mouth, different accounts twisting certain details, but the story would travel, and it would be Sherry's own.
"So I guess I'll...see you around." Jake stood there, then sliding his narrow sunshades over his eyes like someone drawing blinds on a window.
Sherry immediately looked down at her boots in reaction to the gesture. "I'll keep you updated with what the U.N. will do with your data," she said. "We might need to give you further protection if any new intelligence shows we need to."
"I think I can take care of myself from here, but thanks for the consideration." His lips twisted in something that wasn't exactly a smile but not exactly a smirk. Surely he knew what he was doing to her. Surely.
Sherry nodded. "Well, we should have what we need to implement a full-on vaccine. We'll also need to keep your relationship to Albert Wesker strictly classified."
Jake tilted his head, deadpan. "Damn. And to think I just posted a Facebook status all about it."
Sherry smiled weakly at the joke. She felt as if a growing magnetic field was surrounding her head and pulling at both ears. The buzzing of the departing aircraft made for a great distraction, but the sound waves were getting to be unbearable, and she'd have to run inside the airport terminal for shelter. End it now, end it now, end it now, a voice said to her from inside. Saying nothing to him but spinning on her boots, she nodded curtly towards Jake and began stepping towards the terminal entrance when she immediately felt a gloved hand take hers.
"Hey," she heard a voice say gruffly after. Sherry then felt a cascade of warmth across her shoulders as arms squeezed her from the front then whirled her back, her face pressing into a broad chest. Taking a couple of deep breaths for reorientation, she identified the aroma of clove cigarettes and perspiration mixed with a little aftershave. Sherry couldn't help but wrap her arms back around him, helplessly burying her face in his shoulder for a few silent minutes.
"You're not going to forget about me, are you?" Jake said with a hint of muffled sarcasm from above her, and this half-joke, half-burning question made Sherry's stomach turn.
Of course I wouldn't, she thought.
"Never," Sherry said, coughing. "After the U.N. and the President hear of your actions, you may just become slightly more commendable amongst the American people."
"Right," Jake said, looking down and away, loosening his grip on the sides of her arms.
"Anyway, I'm sure you've got things to do and people to see," Sherry said quietly, peering up at him. His face was quizzically blank, and she still couldn't read him; there was a countenance halfway between exhaustion and elation.
They stood together for a few moments until the back of Jake's gloved hand briefly brushed against Sherry's cheek, and she tried hard not to react emotionally to the gesture. Instead, she nodded and smiled, curtly accepting the touch.
"I'm glad I met you, Sherry Birkin."
His body pulled away, and by the length of his arms, there was finally some physical distance between them. Relieved at the now growing space, Sherry hoisted her bag back up on her shoulder, nodding once more before turning away from him - and this time, she promised herself- it would be for good.
She didn't look back.
Sherry gingerly lifted the teacup to her lips.
The familiar taste of chamomile filled her senses. Her mother drank it regularly to help her panic attacks; to a sense, it kind of worked. Sherry doesn't remember if her mother took drugs to relieve it, or even if she had been undergoing therapy to relieve the episodes; she just remembers the tea, and the large boiling red kettle that lived on top of the electric range stove at the old house, and how it would whistle clear and loud, roaring almost like a freight train when the water was ready. Sherry would hear the whistle, and the Pavlovian response was usually hiding beneath the floorboards of the house or getting lost in the crawl space under the creaky stairs, at least up until the whistle was silent. The dust would brush on her tiny limbs while she'd spy on her mother through the creases of light - sitting in the kitchen, alone, sipping the tea in silence while staring at the linoleum floor.
There was no whistle on the plane, but rather the roar of the engines, and the slowing, steady hum of Sherry's pulse. She takes another careful sip of tea as she partook in a common habit when taking off for a flight - looking out the window at the vanishing landscape. Muscle memory, she accounts it to. Sherry instantaneously regrets the reflex, because almost immediately she is looking for something - no, someone on the ground. As the crude runways beneath her become smaller, the fields of grain less recognizable, her eyes search harder, and after the strain becomes too much, after the chamomile tea disappears, she gives up.
He's looking upwards. Nothing close to a metaphor, however. His back is almost strained from the convex angle he's bent.
He sees specks of dust, dirt, fowl - all in the daytime sky. Nice in any other context otherwise, but not worth shit at present.
The afternoon sun is nearly unbearable. He doesn't know it, but his pupils are dilating madly to compensate for the overexposure. His gloved hand shields his brow, but the act is futile. Not caring about the harsh light, he continues to search, and as a result, develops an acute tension headache.
The bike throttles beneath him, and he feels it growl warmly. It provides a sense of comfort; it lets him know that at least he isn't alone. He knows he should be high-tailing it back into town by now - who knows if the gang members from earlier might be searching for their downed party members. He just needs to see, one last time - he just needs to see some form of closure to visually separate himself, or he might just go mad.
He then sees a modestly-sized jet, maybe a Boeing 737 in the distance, pushing its way steadily through the stratosphere. He's not exactly sure if it's hers, but he wants to think it is; his eyes can't stop following it, and just for his own mental benefit, he stays and watches the silver jet as it pulls itself through the wisps of clouds.
Phone, something says in the back of his mind. But what the hell could I say? He thinks to himself. A few cookie-cutter ideas flood his brain. Nothing quite fits what he's feeling right now. A million things float through his head like binary, all broken code, all undecipherable. However, he wants her to know, he just wants her to know-
To: Sherry
From: Jake
I lowered my asking price...to fifty dollars.
That's suitable, he figures. She'll know that he at least isn't all about the money, but he's at least about some of it - that would prove that he's a man of sustenance. After all, he was not just a cunning mercenary, but a shrewd businessman as well. He had a thorough understanding of the mechanics of negotiation and yeah, he'd show her - maybe as a result the American government would reward his modesty and actually give him the whole fifty-fucking-million dollar sum. Above all, he wanted to prove a point - a hard one, and he'd hope Sherry would see through the smokescreen.
She would, right?
Before we parted ways, Jake Wesker unnecessarily expressed his gratitude towards me, saying I had saved him. Truthfully, he had saved me as much as I him; I owe my life to his loyalty, courage and unwavering cooperation, and this I can never forget. Given this, I humbly ask the United Nations to cease all investigation regarding Jake as we firmly believe that our involvement has already gone above and beyond the scope of the call of national security -
No, no, no. Sighing, Sherry erased this paragraph; it showed far too much bias. She pictured herself reading this in front of a panel, a bunch of foreign dignitaries raising eyebrows and chuckling to themselves about her saccharine treatment of the situation.
Jake Wesker's blood sample was handed over to the U.N.'s leading researchers, along with six months worth of test results retrieved from Neo-Umbrella's archives. With the data now in the right hands, things seem to be finally settling down. Following Jake's rescue, BSAA officials classified his relationship to Albert Wesker as top secret, recognizing the threat it could pose to global security.
Slightly better. The writing was far from academic - anyone with a sixth grade reading level would be able to comprehend the situation. Sherry was still uneasy about the report - her task was to convey the critical mass of their experience while still masking all emotion and potential conflict of interest she might have had, especially towards Jake. Truthfully, she intended on writing sonnets, villanelles, couplets just teeming with misguided, raw emotion. He's a good person, really, just please leave him alone. The less articulate side of her brain just felt like crafting her presentation out of hurled, disfigured pages of the report laden with that repetitive line. Her tone was clinical enough, she figured, and that was acceptable to D.S.O. protocol, yet she still needed some closure for her own gratification.
The report needed more substance. She'd write a few filler pages about statistics, the weapons used, all injuries sustained, even a fucking expense report for the time spent at the hotel. Jake's mug shot extracted from the Neo-Umbrella archives glared at her, hovering on her desktop. The eyes were focused, soulless, and devoid of any hope. Looks like someone ran out of fucks to give on photo day, she thought, tapping on the airline tray table. This was certainly not how she wanted to remember him. She saved the official report to her laptop's hard drive and opened a new document.
Jake and I spent six months undergoing Neo-Umbrella's tyrannical medical evaluations. I am familiar with the unethical, uncouth practices of the researchers that prodded us like animals; I am no stranger to cold needles, hardened restraints and steel cages. As much pain as I have endured, by far, the most unbearable of the whole ordeal was the separation; he protected me as I was ordered to protect him, he served as my guiding light as much as I had been hired to do so for the sake of the world. Not a day passed when I was subjected to tests of my blood, endurance, and patience when I didn't think about him; I was not worried about him, ladies and gentlemen of the United Nations, I worried for myself. Because I knew - I knew that with Jake by my side, I was truly invincible. What kept me going, what kept me strong, was knowing that he and I would be reunited, and what would once be a void inside me I never knew existed, would once again be whole.
Ladies and gentlemen of the panel, you may know separation. You may know what creates motivation and how hope festers life as much as it does death. You may have felt how it is to be too afraid to ask those dangerous questions, the ones even more difficult to ask and answer than it would be fighting the most deranged, degenerate B.O.W., more difficult than facing the past to brace for the future.
I was too afraid to tell Jake Muller that I loved him. I was too afraid of what he could be, rather than realize what he actually was. And just maybe - maybe he loved me too. He loved me half-dead, bloody, dismembered, partially naked, completely naked, and also while an unravelled, disheveled excuse for a government agent. And now that things have returned somewhat to normalcy, the challenge for both of us is to find our way back to each other. And from what I know of Jake, he is capable of wondrous, amazing potential...
Sherry stopped typing, and without thinking did a quick control-A on the keyboard, slapped the delete key and erased the entire document, and to just be sure, threw the empty file into a partitioned disk image, choosing the 35-time zero-out override.
Opening up a new document, Sherry hit the return key a few times. The blank space of the document glowed with the former speech's ghost image on the display. Her mind went blank, and suddenly felt uncontrollably sleepy. Would be advantageous to knock out, Sherry thinks. She'd later open her eyes to the rows of streetlights in darkness, welcoming her home, then waking up to the gentle bounce of the landing gear on the runway at Dulles.
He's a good person, really, just please leave him alone. That's the last thing she remembers typing before falling asleep. She thought of him as she rested her eyes and leaned against the window to settle in. Guiding light, invincible, unwavering loyalty. The words floated in her mind like a comforting lullaby. She wrapped her arms around herself in futility, catching an iota of his scent still lingering on her scarf. It was warm, flourishing, and felt like weightlessness. So this is what it's like to float.
She drifts and continues until she's awoken by a dull object thumping her head from above; the oxygen mask shakes and dangles in front of her groggy line of sight to the tune of shrill screams of the passengers around her.
AN: Yep, another cliffhanger. You can say it. "DCB, you're an asshole."
This story will take a mini-hiatus as I'm travelling to Chicago for a week of friends, family, and about 12 lbs of weight gain.
SORRYYYYY (knowing me I will probably write the next chapter while I'm on the road anyway)
My tumblr name is la-coca-dieta, as I was rather rudely censored by FF.n last week...again, follow me for lulz, story commentary, and chapter previews.
