Forty-Six
Rebecca has always felt safe in Billy's arms. When she was alone at night, away from him for so long, she'd roll herself up in her bed sheets and remember the way he felt. She rubbed her cheek against her clean pillowcases and thought of his cheek brushing against hers. She could remember the smell of his skin and the sound of his voice. She touched herself, and thought of him. Her hero. Always.
Now, standing in Billy's hotel room in the heart of Berlin, in his arms, where everything is supposed to feel right, be right, Rebecca doesn't know what she wants.
He's resting his head on top of hers. His arms are around her. He's leaning forward and putting more of his weight on her than she'd like; it's hurting her neck, but she doesn't complain. She won't complain, because it's been so long since she's had to deal with so trivial a problem. And it's Billy's weight, Billy's arms, his hands and hips, his legs wreathed with hers. At the moment, nothing else matters.
"Did he hurt you?" he asks.
She shakes her head.
"No."
"If he hurt you, I swear..."
"He didn't."
Billy grits his teeth. Rebecca's voice, after what she's just told him, is too soft, too forgiving. She's very calm. She fits easily into his embrace. She's not shaking. He can't stand it.
"You're not gonna defend him, are you?"
"I'm not defending him."
"I'm gonna kill that bastard."
"No you're not."
He lets out an exasperated huff.
"Why's that?"
"Because you can't," she says. "No one can."
Rebecca slips away from Billy and starts to walk around the room. Billy stays where he is and watches her. She hasn't told him everything; he's aware of that. There are so many things that have passed in the years that he's been gone, too many to know in a couple of fleeting moments; it's one more thing he has to overcome, in a relationship filled with fleeting moments. It scares him. He's not up for the challenge. Not yet. All he wants to do now is make up for all the time he spent on the run, away from her. There are hours of nothing, hours of silence, that he has to fill with her, with her voice. It's a far less difficult task than coming to terms with the fact that, in his absence, she fell in love with someone else.
He doesn't want to believe that; that, above all else.
"What do we do now?" he asks.
"He's made preparations to fly me back home."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah."
"I'm going with you."
"He's not gonna let you go with me."
"I mean you come with me," Billy says. Rebecca turns around, looks at him. Her face is wan. "If he wants you gone then he shouldn't have a problem with it. You can get back into the States with me. I mean, it might not be as glamourous as flying on a private jet..."
"It's not the glamour I'm concerned about," she says, "it's the danger of you getting caught."
Billy stuffs his hands into his back pockets and glares at her.
"You're still afraid I'll get caught?"
"Yeah, I am."
"And what, you're afraid you'll get caught with me and we'll both end up going to the chair?"
"I'm afraid you'll get caught by him, Billy. The Marines don't scare me at all."
"We'll be alright. Why can't you just trust me?"
"Of course I trust you. It's not that simple."
"He told you it was over, Rebecca. You're free. You don't owe him anything."
Rebecca's gaze slowly falls to the carpet. Billy's eyes are unrelenting. "But you still love him."
She nods. Billy turns around, looks at his duffle bag in the corner. "How can you love that guy?" he asks.
Rebecca lets out a sigh.
"I wouldn't have been able to answer that a couple of months ago," she says. "I would've said I didn't know."
"What about now?"
They look at each other. It breaks her heart to say it, but it's the truth.
"Now I think... for lots of reasons."
They stare at the floor, not saying anything. Billy knows all about the man Rebecca thinks she's in love with. Wesker's past is no big secret. Billy knows about the murders, the experiments, the torture, the betrayal. He knows the aspects of Wesker's life that affect Rebecca too. He knows the beginning of their professional relationship, and the events leading up to that fateful night in the Arklay Facility. He knows what happened afterwards, when Rebecca met up with the members of the Alpha Team in the Mansion, and he knows that it was Wesker, no one else, who tried to put a bullet through Rebecca's heart. He grits his teeth. Hollum told him that she'd be difficult to persuade, considering her mentor's powers.
So he decides to share that information with her, whether she wants to hear it or not.
"I don't know how he did it, but he's messed with your head somehow," he says.
"No he hasn't."
"Come on Rebecca, don't be naive."
"I'm not being naive."
"He's gone into you and... I don't know... rewired you..."
"You know that's not true, Billy."
"... brainwashed you, I don't know how he did it but he did..."
"Stop it."
"... so you think you love him. But you don't. You don't."
"I do."
He shrugs.
"No you don't."
"Yes, I do."
"Wesker knows how to control minds. I don't know how, but he does, it must be a part of what he is or something..."
Rebecca's eyes narrow.
"What are you talking about?"
"He knows how to mess with peoples' heads. It's something to do with... I don't know... something about that Plagas sample he got his hands on... it works like dog whistles..."
"How do you know about Las Plagas?" she asks.
"... and he's infected you with it or something, I don't know."
"How do you know about Las Plagas?" she repeats. "How do you know about all this? Where are you getting your information from?"
Billy looks at her.
"From the guy that asked me to go in and get you back."
Rebecca's face flushes, bright red.
"Who asked you to get me back?"
Billy shrugs, as if she should already know.
"Your boss."
"What boss?"
"Hollum."
Rebecca's eyes light up. Her hands start to sweat. Her mouth goes dry.
Oh shit...
"Hollum?"
Billy nods. "You only talked to Hollum? You didn't get in touch with Claire or Jill or anyone from the team?"
"No. Why?"
Rebecca's breath quickens.
"What did he promise you? What did he pay you?"
"He didn't pay me anything!" Billy snaps, insulted. "He told me you were in danger, that Wesker has control over you and he's using you against your friends..."
"Is that it?"
"He told me he could get me pardoned," he replies. Rebecca starts to pace. "That's not the reason I did it. I did it so I could find you, so I could save you."
"Jesus, Billy, you have no idea what you've done..."
"What?"
"How often does Hollum contact you? How often are you in touch with him?"
"As often as he contacts me, I don't know."
Billy's heart starts to race. Rebecca's angry, and scared, and it has something to do with the man he's been reporting to. He's hoping he hasn't been duped.
"You reported where I was to him?"
"Yes."
"And where Albert was?"
"Whenever I could. The guy's difficult to keep track of. What's this all about?"
Rebecca sits down on the bed.
"Hollum was the guy Claire was taking orders from, when we were first sent in to destroy Umbrella's database. We found out he had ulterior motives for sending us in."
"What ulterior motives?"
"Hollum's a rival researcher who wants control over all the information about BOWs that Umbrella managed to collect. He changed the order from 'destroy' the database to 'retrieve', he wanted us to take Albert into custody and turn him over because no other data exists about him."
"Of course he wants information about Wesker, Becca, the guy's a fucking terrorist!"
"He wants scientific information, Billy, about Albert, so he can clone him."
Billy shakes his head and chuckles.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Look, you just have to trust me on this, okay, I know who Hollum is and he's very bad news. Christ, he must know where..." She runs her hands over her thighs nervously.
"Clones. Clones. I can't fucking believe this."
She looks up at him.
"Believe it, Billy, because it's true. I saw one."
"A Wesker clone?"
"A William Birkin clone."
"Collect 'em all, huh?"
"This isn't funny, Billy, the three of us are in real danger..."
"The two of us, maybe," he corrects her, his voice stern and humourless. "We're in danger of getting caught on our way back into the States. Not by Hollum, and not by Wesker."
"It's not just you and me," she replies. She shrugs, because it's as simple as that. "It's not just you and me anymore. I have a responsibility..."
"Responsibility for what?" he demands. "To who? To him?"
She nods. He glares at her. "Everything I've done, I've done to get you back."
"I know," she murmurs.
"It was you and me," he says, walking over to the bed and sitting down next to her. "It was you and me, angel, the whole time. That's the way it's supposed to be."
She shakes her head.
"It's different now."
"Do you want it to be different?" They look at each other. "Is that honestly what you want?"
Rebecca raises her hand, lays it on his cheek. Her eyes are beautiful in the lamp light.
"No," she says. She runs her thumb over his lips. "I want it to be simple."
Billy nods.
He wants to stay angry. He wants to keep his own selfish interests in mind. But Rebecca's a different person now. He knows they've been apart for so long, and so many things have happened, that she's not the same person anymore. It's like meeting and falling for an entirely new woman. Someone who's older, more mature than the girl he met a decade ago. The woman seated on the bed is one who's had her heart broken and mended and broken again, who's seen and lived through unimaginable horrors, who through it all kept an eye on the future and looked ahead, and changed. He's looking at a survivor. And loving her for it. He takes her hand, holds it in his. "We have to figure out what to do," he says.
"You believe me?" she asks.
He shakes his head.
"No. But I believe you mean what you say."
For the first time, Rebecca doesn't pick the fight. She smiles.
"Well, that's a start."
He looks at his duffle bag in the corner. It's been a permanent fixture in his life for the last five years.
"I'll find out eventually."
She reaches out with her other hand, touches his face again.
"Thanks." He looks at her, exhausted and confused. "For risking your life to save me. Again."
He nods and looks away.
"You got it, angel."
She leans in, and he embraces her. Outside the hotel room, someone swipes into the suite across the hall and noisily drags his luggage in. When he's gone, they both realize how silent the hotel is. They hold each other, listen to each other's breathing. Rebecca leans her head on Billy's shoulder and closes her eyes. He strokes her hair, gently rakes his finger tips through, pinches the short brown locks. She tilts her face up to his, and is immediately met with his lips, his hand on her cheek, his grateful sigh. Rebecca kisses him, because it feels so good to be kissed by someone that she understands, fully and completely, no matter how great the divide. Billy holds her and eases her down on the bed, and they shift until they're lying against the pillows, in each other's arms.
Billy thinks about where he'll take Rebecca once they get back home. A first date. Then he feels someone watching him. He looks up.
Albert Wesker is standing in the doorway.
Rebecca catches sight of him and freezes. Billy starts to reach for the gun in the night stand. "Don't move," Wesker says.
His voice, cold, falls into the centre of the room like a stone. Billy glares at him, keeps reaching for his weapon.
"Billy," Rebecca says, her eyes on Wesker, open, and haunted. "Don't move."
Forty-Seven
Chris is walking back to his room. It's at the end of the hallway, nearest the toilet. Whenever someone flushes, it resonates between the dingy walls. He's dreading the moment when someone decides to heed the resounding call of nature while he's trying to sleep. He can imagine what it will sound like. He's hoping he'll be out cold by then.
Figures Kennedy'd give me the room next to the shitter.
Chris is still pissed off about his confrontation with the former government agent. It took everything he had not to punch the guy when he had the chance, especially after the Air Force crack. He hates when people point it out as a negative, but it comforts him to know it was the only thing Leon could think of to use. He was proud to join the force. He was a good pilot. If he hadn't opened his mouth that one last time, he might have still been there, 30 000 feet in the air. The only reason he didn't settle Leon's hash was because Jill told him he couldn't fight. Otherwise he would have let it rip.
At least I didn't quit, he thinks.
It makes him feel better, justified.
He doesn't know what Claire's been up to with Leon for the past couple of weeks, but he's afraid the crush she once had on him has sparked up again. Chris knows all about the affection she harboured for Leon during the first few weeks of the mission. He could always tell when she got off the phone with him; she couldn't stop smiling. He knows she was smitten.
He also knows Claire is the type of girl who can easily fall for someone. Hard.
And he's seen her pick up her broken heart more than once.
He hears the door to the kitchen open. Someone starts to stomp down the hall after him. He steels himself and keeps walking, hoping it's not Leon asking for it again.
"Hey!"
It's Jill.
He turns around and looks at her.
She's coming straight for him with a determined look on her face. He looks around, then points to himself.
"Are you talkin' to me?" he says.
She nods, keeps striding forward.
"Yeah, you."
He pretends to hook his thumbs into his vest.
"What can I do for you, little lady?"
A small cry of surprise escapes him as she steps up to him, throws her arms around him, and kisses him.
"You're hot when you behave," she growls with a lusty smile.
She shoves him into his bedroom and stalks inside, then slams the door behind them.
Chris is about to say something when Jill jumps on him. He catches her as her legs hike up his body and wrap around him. Despite her muscled limbs she's light as a feather, and Chris holds her up with ease as she continues to kiss him. He tries to speak but her lips, beautiful, soft, are pressed tightly to his. He gives up and slings one arm around her hips, the other around her waist. He grunts happily as Jill's fingers claw his shirt up, inch by inch. "My my, Miss Valentine," he says, chuckling at her eagerness.
"Shut up," she orders. Her legs slip to the floor again. She yanks his shirt off over his head and flings it into a corner. A quick push, and he falls back on his bed. It lets out an embarrassing creak. Jill doesn't seem to mind. She climbs on top of him, starts kissing down his chest. He looks at her, amused, and bewildered.
Jill thinks the look on Chris' face, earlier in the kitchen, is the most handsome look he's ever acquired. He was scowling, his brow was furrowed, the muscles in his arms were tense to the point of bulging. His stance was wide, ready to pounce. All combat pants and boots and white t-shirt, he looked like a fighter pilot in the midst of squaring off. He had to fight his first instinct, his instinct to beat the crap out of someone who'd pissed him off. And all for her.
It was all incredibly sexy.
Jill won't admit it, but she loves watching Chris fight.
It doesn't mean she wants him to fight, though.
Jill lowers herself to Chris' fly and looks up, to make sure he's still paying attention. He has an unabashedly dumbfounded look on his face, the same look he always gets when he's about to be intimate with her. If she doesn't prepare herself for it she ends up giggling, it's so incredibly stupefied. His large brown eyes follow her as she unzips his pants with her teeth. He doesn't look away for a second, so she's certain she has his undivided attention. Not that she's ever had to fight for it, of course. Still, there's a part of her that's nervous, and always will be. She doesn't like to deal with change. It would break her heart if he ever lost that wonderful look.
She slides his pants down and off, then reaches for his briefs. No matter what time of year it is, Chris always has a golden glow about him. She's made jokes about him going to tanning salons, though he's never stepped foot in one before. She's pale compared to him, but she loves it. It lets her know just where his skin is, so she can pay strict attention. Carefully, she eases him out of his briefs, until he's naked and hardening before her eyes. He props himself up on his elbows as Jill licks her lips. "Wow..." he whispers, in awe.
"Chris..."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
They look at each other and smile. The name of the game is Jill-On-Top. He nods, then lets out a soft, almost mournful sigh as her wet lips split over him, and his length fills her mouth.
Jill works his sex slowly, firmly, grasping him with one hand, sucking and pumping him with her mouth. She runs her tongue along his skin, licking the underside of his cock with her violet eyes half-closed. Her lips smack with every dip down on his erection. She moans softly, enjoying his taste, his smell. Chris watches her with the same reverence for her that he always keeps burning brightly. In the past he's wanted to murmur things to her, little things he couldn't get away with saying at any other time. But the promise of her naked flesh never fails to make him speechless, helpless. At times like these, all he wants to do is feel, and enjoy.
The minute she saw him restrain himself for her, she wanted to please him, to let him know how much she appreciated his efforts. Lately it seems the team dismisses what Chris has to say whenever he voices an opinion. Leon keeps him in the dark about a lot of things, and Claire too, to a certain extent. It was like that during the early days of the mission too. Chris was the brunt of a lot of pretty-but-dumb jokes, a lot of cracks about his former profession and his enthusiasm for taking the bad guys out. Chris rolled with the punches, of course, but Jill could tell a part of him was hurt by the snarky comments. Jill thinks the team won't give Chris the credit he deserves, despite having proved himself again and again. She wants to tell him now, as she makes love to him, that she knows he's a very good man.
Chris' head falls back on the pillow. He puts both hands on his head, framing his face with his toned arms, and rocks his hips forward into his lover's mouth. Her tongue starts to dart, her mouth gets wetter with each gentle thrust. She works him over, until his eyes are squeezed tight and his fingers dig into the thin mattress. She looks up at him, gives him one long, final stroke, then whispers to him. "My turn."
Chris' eyes widen.
"Serious?" he asks.
She nods, and starts to crawl towards him. He collects her in his arms, kisses her, then starts to take off her clothes.
It's rare that Jill lets Chris go down on her. She's shy about him being down there for any extended period of time. Of course it feels good. It feels incredible. But she's always had a problem with it. She can't get comfortable. She worries about how she looks, how she tastes. She doesn't know that, to Chris, she's the most beautiful woman in the world, all over. He never pressures her into letting him indulge. He lets her make requests. This is one of those nights when the thought appeals much, much more than the bashfulness.
Chris has her naked in a flash. He must have been thinking about this for a while. He has the moves down smoothly, as if he'd rehearsed it over and over again in his head. Lying on Chris' bed, which will be her bed for the night as well, Jill looks up at the ceiling as his tongue sweetly, softly, licks her in allegiance. He sighs and eases up higher, spreading her legs further apart to be sure he tastes every inch of her. Jill moans, starts to wiggle beneath him; its been too long. She reaches down and runs her fingers through his hair as, moment by moment, he administers his affections. His tongue, wide, flat, flits from bottom to top to bottom again, circles her, inspires her to relax and enjoy. He looks up at her while his lips open and close, sees her smiling. He wants to tell her to surrender, to let herself come. But he doesn't want to speak.
Chris is so good Jill doesn't need much more persuading. She arches her back. Her legs shake. Her thighs close, holding his head fast. Her breath comes faster and faster, deeper and deeper. She moans, "Chris... Chris..." And he feels her throbbing, even as she gasps. He feels her clinching around his tongue and reaches up, tickles her clit with two lightly dancing fingers. The minute he touches her she seizes up, and a final call of his name brings a cascade of her down his chin. She starts to laugh, embarrassed, elated. Chris continues to go down on her until she's finished riding the wave. When her thighs open up again, he leans back, wiping his chin with a proud smile.
She's about to apologize when he crawls up the bed and embraces her from behind. Taking her cue, Jill tilts her hips forward, welcoming him. He puts his arm around her waist and parts her legs with his knee. Brushing her hair off the nape, he kisses her neck, her shoulders, as he eases himself inside her. Jill turns her head and looks him in the eye. He puts his hand on her cheek, keeps her facing him. He wants to look into her eyes as he glides in and out of her. Jill can't help but get lost in his gaze. She feels him within her, every inch of him hot, hard, and sees his face, his honest eyes, and knows he's utterly devoted to her. She starts to church her hips while in his arms. He grins and whispers, "... yeah... do that little wiggle for me..."
She puts a finger on his lips.
"Shhh..."
He nods, but when she starts to cater to him, rocking, swirling her wetness around him, his excitement can't be concealed. He starts to move faster, harder, cups her breasts with his left hand, thumbs her nipples. Jill looks down at his tanned hips urging himself inside her tight, pale body. She catches his gaze again as he kisses her. His kiss is interrupted by a low growl. He tries not to break it off, but he can't help it. He squeezes his eyes closed and grunts, losing himself, coming as quietly as he can but losing the fight. He burries his face in her neck and groans, holds her tightly against him as he shudders with satisfaction.
It's a while before his orgasm subsides. When it does, he pulls out slowly, kisses Jill gently, everywhere he can. He rolls onto his back and brings her to him, and she starts to stroke the hairs on his chest. He starts to giggle. "Hey," she says. He looks at her. She smiles. "Got something to say?"
He shakes his head, goes right on chuckling. "You alright, Redfield?"
"I think you fucked my brains out..." he says.
"You didn't have much to begin with," she jokes. He nods, keeps smiling, but a wave of melancholy comes over her. She feels bad for what she's just said. "Hey you," she murmurs.
"Mmm?"
"You're a good man," she says softly.
He smiles, holds her closer.
"You're the best, Chilly Jilly."
She leans her head on his chest.
"You know what's hot?" she asks.
"What?"
"You can fly planes."
He chuckles.
"I can fly planes."
"Can you fly me in a plane?"
"You got a plane?" he asks.
"Yeah, under my bed."
"Okay then."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yeah, tomorrow."
"Okay."
He kisses the top of her head.
Someone flushes the toilet.
"Fucking Kennedy," he grumbles.
Jill sighs.
Forty-Eight
Rebecca wanted to tell him the name of the second man she ever slept with.
Not the first.
They were lying in his bed, in the penthouse that seemed to loom over the rest of the city. They were naked. Her head was on his chest. She could hear it, somewhere beneath the flesh, the solid muscles, the blood and bone. His heartbeat; a constant, gentle drumming, over and over. It threatened to lull her to sleep, but she didn't want to slip into the same, beautiful oblivion she always did when he made her come. She wanted to stay awake, and talk, and hear his voice. She wanted to be awake when he slipped out from the covers. No matter how good it was, how hard she felt it, she felt cheated when she woke up and he wasn't there.
Besides, she felt he had to know, if only to make sure what she was doing, feeling, was right.
The problem was how to approach it. She didn't want to just come right out and tell him. She wanted it to evolve, to let him divine her secret in conversation. Weren't all normal relationships built on such carefully laid stones? She couldn't simply tell him what she thought he should know. She was afraid he'd ask her too many questions she couldn't answer. She was particularly terrified of "Why".
So she asked him a question first.
"Captain?"
"Mmm?"
"Who was the first girl you ever slept with?"
He smiled.
"That's a rather forward question, Miss Chambers."
She grinned.
"I'm curious."
He ran his hand over the soft skin of her shoulder.
"Grace," he said.
Rebecca looked up at him.
"Grace?"
He nodded. "Where did you meet her?" she asked, intrigued.
"At a bar. I saw her standing... waiting for a drink."
Rebecca continued to look at him, at the line of his jaw, at his top row of perfectly straight teeth as his mouth moved. She still couldn't get over who he was, and what they were doing, back then. "She was alone, standing at the bar. I wanted to talk to her."
Rebecca smiled.
"What did she look like?"
"Very beautiful," he said, nodding slowly, losing himself in the memory. "Beautiful. Dark skin, the colour of coffee... smooth... and beautiful brown eyes. She was... lovely."
He stroked Rebecca's shoulder while she ran her fingers lightly over his chest.
"You picked her up?" she asked, teasing. "That's rather FORWARD of you."
He smiled.
"You should have seen me back then," he said. "It was the eighties. I had a sort of Billy Idol thing going on with my hair."
They chuckled. Rebecca reached up and brushed his blonde hair back.
"You should cut it."
"I should," he agreed. "But it's easier to just slick it back." He took her hand from his head and kissed her knuckles.
"So you were a hot Billy Idol lookalike, yeah. How did it happen?"
He turned his head, spoke into her hair.
"I told her I thought she was beautiful. And we started talking. She said she liked my accent."
"You still had a Southern accent?"
"No, I put it back on for her. I thought it might impress her."
They chuckled again.
"Did it impress her?"
"It did," he said. He held her closer. "We talked for a long time. And she invited me to walk her home. So I walked her home. And she invited me up. So I went up."
Rebecca looked at him. His glasses were off, his eyes almost closed.
"And?"
"And..." They laughed again. "She seduced me."
"Really?" she asked. "You didn't make a move?"
"Not at all," he confessed. "Didn't raise a finger."
Rebecca laid her hand, flat, on one of his pecs, and savoured the idea of him trusting someone. "Was it good?"
"Wonderful," he said. He stroked her hair. "Grace..."
"Did you ever see her again?"
"No," he lied.
Rebecca told him about her first time weeks ago. She told him about Billy Coen, her dorm room, her tiny bed, and the things they did. He listened intently, asked her intimate questions with a mischievous grin on his face. The second she was finished, he scooped her up in his arms and took her back to his bedroom, did all the things to her that she said Billy had done. Through it all, she thought of the two of them. When her eyes were closed, it was Billy touching her, Billy's hands parting her legs, Billy's tongue running over her hips. When she opened her eyes, it wasn't Billy anymore. The perfect lips, the strong fingers, the teeth, the arms, the voice whispering her name, the hard cock... it was Albert, all Albert.
The third man.
"Who was your second?" she asked.
He grinned, leaned down and murmured in her ear.
"My my, Miss Chambers, you're inquisitive tonight."
"I was just wondering," she said innocently.
"I'll bet you are," he said. He took a deep breath. "Annette," he replied.
Rebecca looked at their reflections in the mirror across the room.
"Annette Birkin?"
"Ah, she wasn't Annette Birkin then," he said. "She was just Annette. Dr. Annette. Come to think of it... I can't remember her maiden name."
"You dated her?"
"No. Things just happened... back then."
"Wasn't she a..."
He smiled, waited for her to finish her sentence. "... a battleaxe or something?"
"Battleaxe," he laughed. "I haven't heard that term in a while."
"Well, you know what I mean."
"You might scoff, but Annette was very pretty when she was young," he admitted.
"Really?"
"Oh yes. She looked like Jodie Foster. She was... irritating as hell..." He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. "But very pretty. I was working in the lab one night, and she came in, all dressed up." He looked up at the ceiling. "And I couldn't resist."
"Did you seduce her?"
"No," he said. "She came on to me."
"Right."
"I swear."
They looked at each other.
"Boy, you don't even have to try, do you?" she joked.
He chuckled.
"Not back then, I didn't."
It was quiet. Rebecca held her breath. He had to ask her, after all that. And he did.
"And you?"
"Hmm?"
"Who was your second man?" he asked, his voice low, soothing.
Rebecca sighed. Time to come clean.
"Chris."
He looked down at her.
"Redfield?"
She nodded. She felt his chest raise, then fall slowly, evenly. "Are you mad?"
"No," he said, and his voice was calm, soft.
"You're sure?"
"Why would I be mad?"
"You hate Chris."
"And he hates me," he agreed. "But your past is yours. It has nothing to do with me."
"I thought you'd be mad," she said. "I've been wanting to tell you."
"Why's that?"
"I just thought... you should know."
"Dear heart..." He looked down at her. "Some things, I don't need to know. Despite how much you care... for me."
They were quiet.
"Was it good for you?" he asked.
She smiled.
"A little," she said. "I liked what it did for me better than doing it."
"What did it do for you?"
"I wasn't lonely. That night."
"Mmm..."
She made light of it, so he wouldn't read too much into her last comment.
"He called me Jill."
"Right in the middle?"
"Yeah."
"Cad," he teased.
She let out a soft giggle.
"I know, huh?"
"Fucking Redfield," he said in disdain. They chuckled. "Literally, fucking Redfield."
"He was drunk."
"Were you drunk too?"
"No. Stone cold sober."
"Mmm..."
His lips found their way to her forehead. He pulled her on top of him. She felt him hardening between her legs. He held her face in his hands, kissed her. Then he pulled away and revealed a devilish grin.
"My cock's bigger," he purred.
She laughed as his hips tilted up between her legs, bringing her closer to him.
She leaned down and whispered in his ear.
He let out a low, proud growl, and his arms, his legs, held her fast against him. He didn't let her go until the sun came up.
Forty-Nine
He met her at a bar in downtown Raccoon. He was sitting with William, sipping Southern Comfort, when he saw her across the room. She was standing alone, looking at her watch, and appeared more and more frustrated as time wore on. He didn't say anything at first, chose instead to listen to William, who gabbered on and on about the experiments, and the advancements Umbrella was making. A smile worked its way onto Albert's lips. William stopped, annoyed. "Are you listening to me?" he asked.
"Yes," Albert replied, without catching his partner's gaze.
"You don't seem to be too interested," William said, peeved. "Should I change the subject?"
"What do you think?" Albert asked, nodding in the woman's direction. William turned his head.
The woman at the bar was about William's age, tall and slender, with long, braided hair. Her skin was dark, majestic, dusted with gold under the lights. The dress she wore was red and clung to her curves. She leaned forward on the bar, and Albert's gaze glided towards her rump. He sighed, satisfied by the angle of her body, then downed what was left in his glass.
"The girl at the bar?" William asked.
"Yes."
William shrugged.
"She's pretty."
He didn't offer more than that.
"She's beautiful," Albert said.
"And?"
"And I'm gonna say hello." Albert started to rise.
"What are you doing?" William asked. He reached across the table. Albert, still poised in the air, looked at him.
"I'm going to introduce myself. What does it look like?"
"You're not thinking of going home with her, are you?" William's voice was low, irritated.
"I'd like nothing more than to go home with her," Albert replied. "If I'm lucky, I will."
"Come on, Wes!" William said.
Albert sat down again.
"Yes?"
William glared at him.
"You don't seriously think it's a good idea to introduce yourself to a woman who doesn't work for Umbrella, do you?"
"Is that a prerequisite?"
"Look at her, Wes! She's completely beneath you!"
"I'd like nothing more than to have her beneath me," Albert said with a smirk.
"There are countless women at the Facility that could use a date," William said. "You could take your pick."
"I'm not interested in dating anyone at the Facility. I'm not particularly interested in dating, period. I'd just like some… company… is all." He watched the woman turn around and glance over the room. She caught Albert looking at her. She smiled, and quickly looked away.
"I suppose I'm not company enough?" William asked. He sounded angry.
Albert smiled at him and stood up.
"What do you think?" he asked. "Scientist, or Southern Gentleman?"
William's glare grew fierce.
"You're making a mistake," he hissed.
"On the contrary," Albert replied. "I should have made this decision a long time ago." He put his glass back down on the table, then walked towards the bar.
The woman blushed as Albert sauntered up to the bar. She kept her eyes down on her drink and tried not to look at him. But curiosity got the better of her, and she glanced up to find him peering at her. She smiled. "Hi," she said.
"Hello there."
She giggled.
"Are you a cop or something?"
He chuckled and looked away.
"What makes you say that?" he asked in a soft, Southern drawl.
She shrugged.
"You look… really… clean cut."
He smiled.
"No, I'm not a cop," he said. "Not a cop. I'm a doctor."
"A doctor?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Wow. I didn't know doctors came in here."
"No?"
"You're a little young for a doctor, aren't you?" she asked.
"Really?" He shook his head, still smiling. "Somebody better tell my supervisor, then."
"No, no," she said, apologetic. "I don't think you're too young to be a doctor, I'm just…" She turned away, rolled her eyes. "I just felt like making a fool out of myself, that's all. Shit." She looked down at her shoes, embarrassed.
"It's alright, I don't mind," he said. He leaned closer. "I get it all the time. I'm not as young as I look."
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Twenty-three."
She laughed.
"You're younger than me, that's for sure," she said.
"Yeah? I figured you were my age. Maybe even younger."
She looked at him with a smile and an arched brow.
"Really?"
"Yes ma'am. I figured you were maybe twenty-one, twenty-two…"
She laughed again.
"You're a charmer, I'll give you that."
"Well ma'am, I know it's impolite to ask a lady her age, so I'm just gonna have to let you volunteer the information. But I must say you've got me curious."
She smirked.
"I'm thirty-one," she said.
He blushed, looked away.
"I got a confession to make," he said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"What's that?"
"I've been watching you for a little bit."
"I noticed."
"And I realized you're the most beautiful woman in this room."
"Really?" she asked, amused.
"Yes ma'am. And then I wanted to know why you're standing here all by yourself, with no one around to talk to."
She looked him up and down.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Albert."
"Well, Albert," she said, "it just so happens I've been stood up."
He looked shocked.
"Stood up?"
"Yep."
"By who?"
"By the guy I'm no longer seeing," she replied, "as of this moment."
Albert's smile faded a little.
"Boy, that ain't too smart of him to let a pretty lady like you get away."
She finished her drink.
"Well, he'll get over it, I'm sure."
"Mind if I say something a little forward?"
"Not at all."
"He is one dumb son of a bitch."
She laughed.
"He sure is." Her laugh faded. She smiled at him. "I'm Grace. Thirty-one." She offered him her hand.
"I'm Albert, twenty-three, and I sure am glad to meet you." They shook.
"Do me a favour, Albert?" she asked.
"Yeah?"
"Buy me a drink and stop calling me ma'am."
He laughed.
"Where are my manners?"
They chatted for a while, Grace drinking a martini, Albert sipping another Southern Comfort. She laughed easily at the things he said. There seemed to be no end to the amusement his accent provided her. He was polite and charming. He asked her all sorts of questions about herself, and was thoroughly interested in her responses. The longer the night wore on, the more he asked her, the more she found herself attracted to him, despite the age difference. She asked him about himself and his work, and his answers were long and engaging, but he didn't reveal too much about himself. Throughout their conversation, it looked as though she wanted him to dispense with his shy mannerisms. She asked him things that were bold for a first meeting. He blushed, and remained an enigma.
At twelve o'clock, Albert felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned his head. William was standing behind him, a small grin on his face. "I'm heading out now," he said. Grace looked at Albert, then at William.
"Is this a friend of yours?" she asked Albert.
"Yeah, this is William," Albert replied, still lilting. "He works with me too."
"I'm Grace," she said, extending her hand. They shook.
"Nice to meet you. Grace..?"
"Johnson."
Albert looked at her.
"Really? Johnson?"
"Yeah," she said, and chuckled. "Surprised?"
"I knew someone with the last name…"
"I'm gonna go now, Wes," William said, cutting him off. "Early day tomorrow."
"I'm gonna stay here," Albert replied. "To make sure Miss Johnson gets home alright."
"Okay, well then, I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early," William replied. He turned to Grace. "It was nice meeting you, Miss Johnson." He nodded, then briefly glanced at Albert before making his way to the door.
When he was gone, Grace looked at Albert.
"He works with you?"
"Yeah, he's a doctor too."
"He's even younger than you are, isn't he?"
"Yeah, by two years."
"He was sitting there by himself that whole time?"
"I guess so, yeah." He winked at her. "He's a little uptight."
Grace nodded, but it was obvious she was uneasy. She thought she recognized the look in William's eye as he left; jealousy.
It was one o'clock when Grace decided she needed to get back to her apartment. Albert strolled alongside her and continued their polite conversation. She stole glances at him when he wasn't looking. Her voice got softer and softer as they made their way through one of several residential areas in Raccoon. When they reached the stone steps of her apartment building, she turned and looked at him. "I guess you have to go now, huh?" she asked.
"Not particularly," he said with a grin.
"Don't you have to work early tomorrow? I thought I heard your friend say something like that."
"Yeah, I guess, but that's alright. I'll probably walk home from here. Nice night out and all."
They smiled at each other.
"Nice night," she echoed.
"Yeah."
"Maybe you'd like to see the view from my balcony," she said.
He blushed.
"Maybe."
She smiled.
"Come on up."
They took the stairs to the third floor, and Albert followed Grace to the last door on the right. She unlocked it and they strolled inside. It was a comfortable one bedroom, with colourful paintings on the walls, a couch brimming with pillows, and beaded curtains over one of the doorways. Grace put her purse down on the coffee table. "It's a nice place," Albert said, glancing around.
"Thanks," she replied.
She walked into the room, then stopped.
He followed behind her.
She reached back, found his hand without looking. She stroked his knuckles with her thumb. He reached out, ran his hand over the dark skin of her bare arm. She turned and looked at him, at his eyes, open wide in veneration. She stepped close to him, tilted her face up, and kissed him. And kissed him again. His hands slid over her arms, to her face, rested on each of her cheeks. She put her hands on his wrists and guided him, step by step, to her bedroom behind the beaded curtain.
She lay down on her bed and invited him to lay down next to her. Her hands caressed his ears, his face, his shoulders. She unbuttoned his shirt and opened it, removed it for him, tossed it aside. She reached out, took his hands, placed them over her breasts. He closed his eyes and sighed when he felt them. He kept them closed as she undid his belt, his pants, his shorts. When he opened them again he saw her gazing down at him, a small smile on her face.
He opened his arms, embraced her, rolled them over so that he lay on top of her. He eased her out of her dress, took the time to enjoy the feel of her soft skin beneath his palms. He didn't kiss her the entire time, choosing instead to memorize as much of her as he could. When she was naked, he leaned down and kissed her, ran his tongue over her lips, over her neck. He moaned softly when she kissed him back, when she touched his ass, when she reached down and found him hard, and stroked him, slowly. He kissed her breasts, licked her nipples, held her as close to him as possible.
"You're beautiful," he murmured.
"Thank you…"
"… so beautiful…"
"Albert…"
"… Grace…"
"You can have me now, baby…"
He blushed.
"… now?"
"… yeah…come on now… don't be shy…"
He looked away, tried to hide his smile, his nervousness.
She kissed him gently, reached down, found him, and guided him in.
He groaned when he felt her heat surround him. He didn't move for a moment, to let what was happening really sink in. Grace kissed the skin beneath his chin as he shuddered, encouraging him to move, to thrust. He started to rock back and forth above her, sliding in and out as carefully as he could. He looked down at her, grateful, and adored her. She whispered to him.
"You've never done this before, have you?"
He kissed her.
"No ma'am, but I sure do appreciate the opportunity."
They chuckled, and didn't stop until well into the next morning.
A week later, they called him in early. They told him they had new recruits for the experiments. He knew what that meant. New people picked off the street, drunk, homeless, or alone, brought in, sedated, then shot up with the new serum prototypes. They were derelicts, mostly, or asylum patients, or criminals. He didn't feel sorry for them.
He walked into the examination room as confidently as he always did, holding the briefings they gave him the night before. He read them over a couple of times, to make sure he was prepared. He looked up from his notes and saw a number of the other researchers. Six people were strapped down to examination chairs. Their wrists and ankles were secured. Two of them were gagged. All of them were moaning quietly, drugged, unaware of where they were, or what was going on.
William was there, too.
And Dr. Marcus.
"Dr. Wesker," Marcus said. "Right on time."
"Good morning, Dr. Marcus," he said. He nodded at William. "Dr. Birkin."
"Good morning, Dr. Wesker," William said with a grin.
"Dr. Birkin has done us a favour by hand selecting the new recruits," Marcus said. "They've all been prepped, so I suggest the two of you conduct the experiment in a timely fashion. First injection is slated for six a.m. sharp." He nodded at them. "Let me know if you witness anything particularly out of the ordinary. I'll be in my office."
"Yes sir," William said.
Marcus left the room. William handed Albert a clipboard.
"Start from the left," he said.
Albert walked over to the first recruit. He'd been beaten. The next was another man, probably mentally ill, who was muttering something incoherent. The third man was out cold. His head was shaved. A large gash split his skull into two perfect halves. Albert took note of their conditions prior to the first injection. He stopped in his tracks when he reached the fourth candidate.
Someone had beaten her so badly her left eye was caked in blood. Her head bobbed up and down, partially from the assault, partially from the drugs. Albert looked at her, assessed what they'd done to her. They chopped off her braids, bruised her beautiful skin. Her right ear was missing.
"Grace…"
He looked up and glared at William. William's face was cold, sinister.
"Go on," he said.
Albert looked over the other two candidates. They were fading fast. He took note of their conditions, then turned to William. "First injection to be administered in five minutes," Will said, checking his watch. "Hypothesis: subjects will lapse into seizures, as noted in experiments AS 567 and AS 573. The first stages of mutation should manifest in roughly six hours." He looked at Albert. "And will no doubt be very, very painful." He smirked, then looked at his watch. "Just enough time to take a leak." He strolled out of the examination room. "Prepare the injections, will you, Wes?" he called over his shoulder.
Albert watched him go, then kneeled down in front of Grace, tilted her chin up. Their eyes met, but she didn't seem to recognize him. She moaned, and a trail of blood ran down from the corner of her mouth.
He knew what he had to do.
"My apologies, Grace," he said. His voice was cold, devoid of emotion. "Believe me, it's better this way."
He stood, walked behind her, put his hand on her chin, put his other on her shoulder, and with a swift, brutal twist, snapped her neck.
Fifty
Claire is waiting in her room. She knows Leon is going to show up any moment. She recognized the look her gave her at dinner. Another night of instant ramen, with apples for dessert. Claire thought about the Facility and the late night calls to Cha Liu's. She always looked forward to ordering from them. It got to the point where she just mentioned her name and they knew what she wanted. She remembered how good their signature dishes were. It was much better than boiled water in Styrofoam bowls. She looked up briefly at Leon. He was looking at her. He opened his eyes a little wider, then glanced at the hallway that leads to her room. She gave him a slight nod, then went back to her bowl of noodles. They all ate in silence and tried not to look at each other.
No one spoke to Rebecca.
Claire sighs and thinks about her now. She's still pale, still quiet, still looks as though she's been left out in the rain, though she had a bath when she got in. No one wants to say anything to her, Claire included, because they're afraid they'll upset her. The moment she stepped into the shelter and saw Chris, she started sobbing. Chris put his arms around her, cradled her head in one of his hands, and let her tire herself out. Chris has always had a soft spot for Rebecca. And he knows, no matter how betrayed he felt, Rebecca doesn't deserve a broken heart.
Claire smiles. She admires her brother's ability to forgive. It's always so difficult for him to get over his initial shock. He has a habit of succumbing to his passion without thinking things through, then apologizing for it first thing when he's ready. It's one of his most irritating and endearing qualities. Chris has a big mouth, but he's still a good guy. Claire is the one who can hold a grudge.
One time, when they were still teenagers, she went for weeks without speaking to him after a fight. She said she was sick of his attitude, his behaviour, and swore she'd never forgive him. He snapped back at her, helped her along with the silent treatment, leaving a room when she came in, or otherwise ducking out of her way. Neither of them looked each other in the eye.
Claire was dating someone at the time, some lanky kid that lived a couple of blocks away. She found out he was cheating on her, then broke up with him and ran to her room, crying her eyes out. She didn't come down to dinner that night. Later on, there was a knock on her bedroom door. She asked who it was, and found out it was Chris, holding a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. He asked if he could come in, and she told him he could. He put the food down on her dresser, then walked over to her, meek, and put his arms around her. She started sobbing again, and he told her the guy was a shithead anyway, not worthy of her. She thanked him, and he left, gave her her space.
She ate the spaghetti, despite the fact that it was cold, and Chris went down the street, found the punk, and kicked the crap out of him for breaking his little sister's heart.
The knock on her door now, while she's standing in one of the shelter's bedrooms, startles her.
It's funny how often memories collide with reality.
"Yeah?" she asks.
Leon pokes his head in.
"Hey."
"Hey," she says. She sits down on the bed. He walks in and closes the door.
"How are you?" he asks.
"Good, good. You?"
"Good."
He sits down next to her, puts his hand on her thigh. She turns her head. They try not to kiss, but can't help it. He puts his arms around her, pulls her close to him. The angle is awkward, but Claire doesn't care. They make out like teenagers in a study session. They stop after a moment, to catch their breath.
"How are you feeling?" he asks her, caressing her cheek with his knuckles.
"I'm alright. I feel a little…" She takes a deep breath and lets it out. She can't finish her sentence.
"It's all those noodles," he says, kidding. She smiles.
"No, it's not the noodles. I feel guilty."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"About what?"
"A lot of things. Not picking Rebecca up in time, for one." She looks at him. "He really broke her heart, huh?"
"I guess so," Leon replies. "Looks like it, anyway."
"I feel bad for her," she confesses. "And I feel bad that we left her standing in the rain for all that time."
"We have to make it up to her."
"Yeah." She leans her head on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"
"Honestly?"
"Yeah."
"Guilty."
"About what?"
"Same things you feel guilty about," he says, stroking her head with one of his big hands. He finds the elastic and starts to ease it out. She chuckles and helps him along. Soon, her auburn hair is down on her shoulders again. "And other things."
They look at each other. He's gone melancholic. She recognizes the look.
"Ada?" she murmurs.
He nods. Claire nods too. "And Steve," she says.
"Yeah."
He takes her hand, squeezes it.
"Maybe we should cool it for a while," she says.
He shakes his head.
"I don't want to cool it," he says. "Why would I want to do that?"
"I don't know. To figure out… what you want."
He grins, a sad kind of grin.
"What makes you think I don't know what I want?"
She shrugs.
"I just figured you'd need time…"
He shakes his head.
"What about you? Do you need time?"
She leans against him.
"No."
He puts his arm around her.
Relief washes over them. This is the talk they've both been afraid of having; the talk where they mention the obvious, the elephant in the room. Leon's been in love with Ada for as long as Claire can remember. She knows he's slept with her, thought of her almost constantly, told her he loved her. She remembers the fight they had at the Facility, when he missed a meeting to make love to Ada at a motel on the outskirts of town. She thought their relationship, if they ever had one, would start off rocky, filled with angst and twists and turns, filled with painful revelations. Leon thought he'd have to baby Claire, to make her realize the shit she's gone through isn't necessarily her fault, despite the fact that she was there in the thick of it. Claire brings everything on to her shoulders and clings to it, to punish herself for everything she deems a failure. He thought he'd have to hold her and listen to her try to fight back tears. They were both prepared to go through the worst, to be with the other.
But things have just kind of settled between them, fresh and quiet, like a blanket of snow.
For now.
"What are we gonna do about Rebecca?" Claire asks.
"Wait until she's ready to talk, I guess."
"I'm worried about her."
"Me too."
"Something's happened to her," she says. "I don't know what."
"She'll tell us eventually."
"If it was me," Claire says, and he looks at her. "If it was me, you know what I'd do? I'd tell myself it's Wesker, over and over again. I'd remind myself of who he is and what he is and all the suffering he's caused. And try and work it out." Leon smiles. "But you know what?"
"What?" he asks.
"I don't think it would do much good."
He kisses her forehead.
He finds her lips again, collects her in his arms. They lay back on her bed, kissing, legs entwined. Leon pushes Claire's shirt up, higher and higher, until she pulls it up over her head and throws it aside. She takes his shirt off, hears the static cling as she runs her hands through his hair. He moans softly as her hands travel down his back, as one of them grabs his ass. His hips start to churn. He unbuckles his belt.
The door to the bedroom opens.
"Hey Claire Bear, I bought ice cream," Chris says with a bowl in his hand.
He looks up as Leon and Claire whip their heads around to look at him.
He stands there for a moment, startled, then reaches for the door and slams it closed behind him as he leaves.
Leon and Claire look at each other.
"I'm fucked," Leon says, with a determined nod.
They start laughing, then return to each other, their hands everywhere.
"Stay on his right," Claire says between kisses. "He's got a weak left hook."