Chapter 10: Impregnation
"Turning, yearning, she doused herself in learning - and the latent burn of his final possession."
New York, February
Leon's pulse sped up.
"We should talk. Go wait downstairs. I'll get dressed and be right down."
"No." She lifted her hands and undid the zipper of her coat. She tossed it on the bed. He could taste his pulse now in his mouth. "I like talking like this. No more secrets. No bull shit."
"Sherry, I'm naked."
"Yeah. I can see that." She lifted her hands again and undid the buttons on her creamy camels hair duster. Underneath it she wore a camisole, silky, lacey and very lady like. He wondered why it made his mouth dry to see it. "I like to be fair."
She tossed the coat on the floor and took off her boots, leaving them where they lie.
"Sherry. Don't."
"I decided I like stupid," She repeated and unzipped the little jeans she wore, peeling them down her legs. "Ada Wong, she doesn't like stupid apparently. Maybe she likes smart. Maybe she likes smart like my Dad was. But me?" She lifted her hands and slid the straps of the camisole down her arms, slowly, "I like stupid in a man."
The camisole slid to the floor in a whisper of cloth. "I figure her loss is my gain."
She stood there in tiny white panties and faced him, unabashed. She was slim, petite, and athletic. He build was small, yes, but there was nothing little girl about it. The little girl had become a beautiful, intoxicating woman.
She slid those tiny panties down her legs, slowly, tauntingly. And her beautiful blue eyes challenged him. Naked, she was a goddess. A sprite. A fairy sent to tempt him into things he shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't ever do.
"Be fair, Leon. Lose the towel."
He met her eyes, held them. The tense moment drug on and she felt like she'd pass out from the fear of waiting for him to run away. Now or never, she thought, and knew at least she'd laid it all on the line.
And he was tired of second guessing himself. And even more tired of thinking about doing the right thing.
He figured now he'd either call her bluff..or put them both on a path that ended somewhere scary and sharp and rocky.
He was done playing nice.
"I tend to think of myself as a fair negotiator." His voice was utterly calm, almost empty, "Give a little…get a little."
And he dropped the towel.
Oh, her heart. It tried to lodge in her throat and choke her to death. But she whispered, "You expect me to run away?"
"No." He watched her, predatory, dark...delicious. That was his thing too, she thought, the killer in him. It stalked her now like an animal as her breath came short and choppy with want...and a little bit of fear.
"Your move, Sherry. How stupid are you?"
Oh, god...she couldn't think of any thing she'd ever wanted more in her life than Leon Kennedy.
She moved, he moved. They met with a slap of skin at the side of the bed. He lifted her and dumped her back on the bed.
Nothing calm in this kiss, it was feral. It was hungry and fast.
She barely caught her breath between each plunge of his tongue and the answer of her own. She couldn't find a thought, couldn't keep a feeling. It was all storm and rage and rolling thunder. There was no thought to it, no reason, and no waiting.
Leon mounted the bed on his knees, she opened hers, his hands grabbed her hips to jerk her up toward him. Sherry's breath fell out in a desperate cry. Her hands grabbed his wrists and braced for it.
The look on him...was some kind of possession she craved.
His body slid against the wet of hers. Sherry panted, grunted a little like a rutting thing, and her thighs quivered.
Part of her thought, wildly, that they should get protection, use protection, use something.
But the only thing he used...was her.
He drove himself inside of her with one fast, hard, deep thrust. She came apart, her cry caught by his devouring mouth. And they surged together, found a rhythm that maddened and merged. No thoughts were left, only feeling. The raw, dirty, rugged touch of flesh and fevered mouths filled the silence. It was broken only by the wet, fluid movement of man and woman.
They rolled, rolled again. They mated, lost in the feeling of fire and blood. He couldn't remember the last woman he'd had, couldn't remember the last time his body had felt like nothing more than greed and needy lust. She echoed it, feeling nothing but the taste, the touch, the madness of him and spurring him toward more.
He poured himself through her, into her, pinning her to the bed with each thrust of himself inside of her. She arched, taking him, forcing him faster, harder, deeper until they both exploded together in a shower of skin and need.
She felt him roll away from her and lay there, panting. The room was cool now on the sweaty skin of her body.
They lay side by side, staring up at the skylight.
"Maybe not so stupid after all," She said into the silence.
He rolled his head, looked at her, she met his eyes.
And she added, "Although I think you fucked me stupid."
Their mouths quirked with smiles, and they both started to laugh.
Later found Chris and Ada in his apartment. The fireplace flickered lovely red light across the shiny mahogany floors.
The moonlight shimmered, beautiful and pale, a ghostly promise of something sensual and fine. His fingers over hers, guiding, sliding. He danced them across the ivory keys and helped her coax the piano into Chopin's gentle and beautiful Nocturne No. 2. She played it with natural ability, picking up the tune and trade with a master's skill.
After all, she'd been raised in the world of learning things in an instant. And she'd always had a photographic memory.
Afterward, he went immediately into something so haunting, so beautiful, so sad that she felt herself shiver and curl back against his chest. His lips teased gently at one of her ears that still dangled her earring.
She traced the veins on the back of one of his hands as he played, effortlessly. The press of the muscles in his arms against her as he shifted nearly comforted as it aroused. She turned, just a little, one hand shifting to playfully stroke the gentle sprinkling of hair on his chest.
The beautiful song came to a slow, slow end. And she met his eyes in the moonlight.
"Who was that?"
"That was my mother's. A Redfield original. She used to sing it to us at bedtime. Or when we were lost and sad. When...she passed away.." He shifted his eyes a little to the window over her shoulder. It was the only outward sign of the pain talking about her still caused him, after all these years, "...when she was gone...I sang it to Claire...She couldn't sleep. She'd cry and panic. It was the only thing that worked to soothe her."
"You sang to your sister?"
He shrugged a little. "She was so young. It was hard for her."
It was hard for the sister. The little girl. The lost little girl.
And the scared teenager who'd tried so hard to raise her. HE didn't say it was hard for him. Only for Claire. He denied his own pain to protect his sister.
He was such a mystery.
Ada hated the shift inside of her. Hated him even as she wanted him and she let that want spill into eyes as she looked at him. This man who excited and thrilled and aroused and confused her. This man with so many wonderful layers to peel away and still to never find the center.
"Who are you?" And it was spoken so softly in the darkness.
Her knees were pulled up to her chest and one of his hands ran down the length of her shin, the other cupping her face. "I'm me. I don't know who else to be."
She leaned toward him and laid her head on his shoulder. It was so much more than anything else. So much harder to resist then the taste of her or the press of her beautiful body. That gesture meant more than the spread of another woman's thighs. He knew and she knew, what that gestured meant, what it cost…and both of them wondered if the price would simply be too high.
She should go. She shouldn't be here. But there were three thousand things about him she wanted to know. She wanted to know about the parents that made a man so diverse and complex. But she didn't want to go.
She whispered, "Show me your mother."
And felt him tremble, just a little, with a kind of grief she couldn't understand. To still love someone, after all this time, enough to grieve them like they'd just died.
What kind of love was that?
And why did she want to know it?
His fingers shifted to the keys and began again to play. This time the song was Supermarket Flowers by Ed Sheeran. He spoke low and soft, soothing somehow, "Not my song...but the words...the words are right.. with a little tweaking anyway..."
And then he started to sing, quietly, softly. His voice was a rich, low tenor.
"I took the supermarket flowers from the windowsill
I threw the day old tea from the cup
Packed up the photo album that Claire had made
Memories of a life that's been loved.."
Her mouth shifted...just a little...and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. A single gesture that meant more than anything else in the world.
"Took the get well soon cards and stuffed animals
Poured the old ginger beer down the sink
Dad always told me, "don't you cry when you're down"
But mom, there's a tear every time that I blink.."
It had been a long time since something had struck such a long chord inside of her. She wasn't sure what it meant, for either of them. She knew only two things.
"Oh I'm in pieces, it's tearing me up, but I know
A heart that's broke is a heart that's been loved..."
One – that she should walk away. That he should. That this was something best left in the darkness of the night. That nothing like this ever lasted. And it wouldn't, couldn't, end well for either of them.
"So I'll sing Hallelujah
You were an angel in the shape of my mum
When I fell down you'd be there holding me up
Spread your wings as you go
And when God takes you back we'll say Hallelujah
You're home"
And Two – She wasn't going to run. Because she wanted to hear the end of the song. And because she wanted to keep touching the man playing it.
"I hope that I see the world as you did cause I know
A life with love is a life that's been lived.."
And part of her? Wanted to know the kind of love that spawned a man that grieved people who'd died decades before and raised a girl that needed him to sing her to sleep at night. The kind of man who raised a girl...that stood between him and the world like a flame haired protectress, ready to strike back anyone that wanted to cause him pain.
What kind of love was that?
And why was she terrified to feel it...even as part of her craved to share in it? Just for a moment...just for...a song.
"Hallelujah
You were an angel in the shape of my mom
You got to see the person that I have become
Spread your wings
And I know that when God took you back he said Hallelujah
You're home..."
Ada waited until the music ended. The quiet breathed around them. And, finally, she said softly, "You are a good man, Chris Redfield."
He glanced down at her face. When she didn't look up at him, he angled her jaw to see her eyes. There was a softness on her that was nothing he'd seen before. Hell, he thought, if he'd known a little tribute to his mother was going to turn her to goop and mush, he'd have played it the first time they'd met.
She turned her mouth to his and pressed, smooth and soft. Her earrings tinkled musically.
His thumb swept her mouth, "What do you want from me, Ada?"
Their eyes held. Her mouth dipped, sipped sweetly at his. And she said, "Play me something else, Chris Redfield. Give me your music."
Without looking beyond her eyes, he did just that.
And he kissed her while the music rolled around them.
It was a good kiss. Maybe the first real kiss between them.
Because it was the first one that she didn't try to resist. It was the first one she offered without restraint.
After it ended, she stroked a thumb over his chin. There was nothing painful on his face. Nothing raw. Just a softness that she was drawn to, like a moth to a flame.
No...like a butterfly. Was it that simple? Was the butterfly in her drawn to his flame? The moniker had always suited her. The butterfly: the symbol of power and spirit; the symbol of passion and promise. It had always suited who she wanted to become. She was always moving from one flower to the next and reaping the rewards of a brief, profitable, and fortuitous landing.
She'd never applied it before to her love life. Not until this moment.
Was her landing here, with him, meant to be brief?
Ada slid from the bench. Chris tracked her movement, spinning on the bench until he faced her. Standing, with him sitting, she was taller.
Her hands brushed his hair back from his face and gripped it, tightly, holding his gaze for a long moment. She pressed a kiss to his mouth and asked, "What do you want from me, Chris?"
He smiled, gently, and their mouths kissed, delicately, eyes open and watching the other.
But he didn't answer.
She gripped the hem of his shirt and divested him of it. His hands worked the zipper on her dress and let it fall to the floor with ruffle of expensive cloth.
A lady, as always, she wore thigh highs and a garter with a corset and panties in bold red. Red beneath the black of her dress. Red. The strapless corset lifted the pleasure of her small breasts to maximum advantage.
His fingers played at the links of the corset, a smile tickling around his mouth. "Ada...you are so slim. Why bother to wear a corset at all?"
She smiled back, tracking her nails against his nipples until they peaked for her. His breath fell out in an excited quiver of air. "A lady wears many things beneath her gown, Christopher. Didn't you know that?"
"Ada..." His fingers flicked and tugged until the corset joined the dress in a heap on the floor. And those fingers? They spread against her skin to smooth and knead. He was easing the tension on her skin from the tight device.
Touched, she rose and let him. Her fingers traced his beard as he touched her, almost delicately, sweetly.
He helped himself to her breasts while he worked, lifting and stroking her, almost medically, almost impersonally...until his hand would shift, just a little, just a touch...and his thumbs would stroke her nipples while they dimpled for him. His face was so very soft, as his touch was, as his beard was. Soft, she thought desperately, the whole moment of it. Soft.
Her hands fisted in his hair. She tugged and he rose.
His hands slid down her back and into her tiny panties. He cupped the curve of her buttocks in his big hands and stole her breath as he drew her into his body. The smooth touch of her to the tickle of hair on his chest delighted them both.
Her arms curled around him, like a cat that nearly purred, she was feline and feminine in her submission. It aroused even as it raised their hair on his body in answer to the call of her skin.
The layers of clothing seemed to melt. The whisper of cloth and breath, the gasp of excitement, the spill of flesh and fingers as they tumbled to the soft down comforter on his bed.
They rolled once, kissing, hands stroking and smooth.
Her legs opened as he settled between - an age old ritual, the most natural thing, a woman and a man and a surrender. But not hers, not entirely, THEIRS. Because there was power in being conquered and power in surrender. It took strength to do both.
They both surrendered, maybe for the first time ever, to a battle they hadn't even known they were fighting. It was a moment as surprising as it was precious for neither had ever before relented, to anyone or anything, even near death. The victory was won for both even as the battle was lost together.
His hands scooped, pulling hers above her head. Their fingers interlocked, linking together to blend in perfect unison.
She wanted to see him, she realized, and watch him while they merged. And this was a first for her as well.
He shifted, lifted, and she spoke, softly, "Chris?"
His eyes opened to find her watching him. His jaw lowered, his head tilted just a little. His heart sped up in his chest as he realized that one word had the power to change everything. He'd always enjoyed his name from her lips. But this time? It had something more powerful than a bullet in the heart. It was almost...pleading.
She breathed, softly. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts, watched the moonlight on the pale stretch of her collarbone and the soft part of her lips. And he held her eyes as he slid inside of her.
Those eyes hooded, her lips opened on a smooth gasp, and her feet slid against his calves as her thighs opened wider to receive him.
He dropped his mouth to kiss her as he slid out and into her again. The warmth of her embraced him, slick and hot around the length of his need as it claimed her, as she claimed him.
She realized what the difference was as their eyes stayed locked, as their bodies slid together and apart, as their breath merged with tongue and lips and lazy need...this was lovemaking. It was smooth and slow, soft and sensual, it was all passion and pleasure.
It was love.
She'd known, in moments of listening to him, that he was full of love. It fairly bled from his body and from his mouth when he spoke or breathed. It was part of who he was, in his bones, in his guts, in his eyes. He was a man raised on it, bred from him, built for it. A fighter, yes. But a lover too.
A lover. Who'd raised a girl that was his sister and built a company from the seeds of betrayal from a mentor and saved the world from a corporation that tried to bring his world down in infection and death. A fighter...who fought for love.
A lover who used tenderness to win the fight without even trying.
He shifted, his hands sliding from hers. His hands cupped her face, hers slid over the impossible girth of his biceps to grip, the angle sharpened, the plunge of his body increased. The tender edge turned raw with hunger.
Her hands slid down the corrugated sides of his ribcage, over the sharp jut of his hips, and around to grip his muscled backside as he plunged relentlessly between her legs. The wet sounds of their completion were nearly musical in the quiet dark.
He pulled her chin up, angling it there with his thumbs beneath to anchor them both, and keep her eyes on his. Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting for the taste of his mouth. And his eyes flickered in response.
Ada breathed, "No..please. Please."
Jesus. She was begging him not to look away.
There was no greater moment than the victory of that.
Chris dropped his mouth, pressed it to hers, and answered her need with his own, "Ada...I love you."
Her heart stopped. It drove a gasp from her mouth that was absorbed by his, his body hit the spot in her that brought her to the edge and sent her spinning, and she came apart with a bow of her back and a clench of her body around his. His hand shot down between them, found the wet heat of her, and stroked her mercilessly as she came, pushing her needy body into the clutches of a release so powerful it had her body spasming like a seizure in his arms.
From chattering teeth, she rasped, "Oh, god."
And his his hands shifted, angled her hips to him, and pushed so deeply into her body that it caused her to jerk as if she'd touched an electrical current. Her nails dug into his ass, her muscles quivered, and Chris grunted. Just once. Just a little. The only sound he'd made besides his avid confession of love. It was poignant somehow, underlining the need of him for her, even as he pumped her full of his release.
He collapsed atop her, her arms and legs sealed around him, and they trembled together - clinging.
Against her ear, Chris whispered, "I love you, Ada. Don't run."
She smiled into the lingering dark above them. Her face nuzzled his until it lifted.
Their eyes locked.
Ada answered, softly, "Chris...I won't run."
For a butterfly, it was almost like I love you.
Claire put her hand out again, "Come out the front door. Just into the yard. Please?"
"Stop pushing, Claire. Ok? I left the fucking hospital. I did that...please...just stop pushing..."
She hesitated, watching the kids across the street playing in the snow.
He was in a sweater, covered from toes to nose. He was just hazel eyes over the turtleneck he wore in pale red. She gave him a narrow look.
"Get up and walk over here, Piers. I mean it. Do it, or I'll drag you off that couch and throw you out this door."
He eyed her gruffly. His stubbornness was rivaled only by her idiot brother.
What was it written in the rules that you had to be as hardheaded as a mule to be in the BSAA!?
"You wouldn't dare. You don't have the balls for it, sweetheart."
Oh. OH. He had CLEARLY never met a Redfield.
There was a scuffle of sound. Someone shouted. There was a clunk. A thunk.
A clatter.
The kids in the snow stopped to stare at the noise.
Screaming. A shriek.
The front door was thrown open.
...and Piers Nivas came flying out of the house like he'd been kicked by a horse.
Maybe he had been.
She didn't have the balls, no...but she had the strength.
He hit the railing on the porch, teetered, and spilled over it to land in the snow on his ass. The fluffy white poofed up around him in a cloud.
The kids in the neighboring yard stood there blinking. The smallest one, a girl in a pink coat and hat, called, "You o'tay?"
Piers, soaked and cold, bested by a skinny redhead with a heavy kick, lifted his hand to give her a thumbs up. The little girl grinned a little. "You gots beat by a girl."
Annnnnd his shame was complete.
He felt his face split into a big grin. "Looks that way."
The bigger kid, the boy, called out to him under his camouflage beanie cap, "You in the army?"
Piers tilted his head, still ass deep in snow, "Kinda. Why?"
"I heard you killed bad guys and got blowed up."
Amused, Piers laughed lightly, "Something like that."
"That stinks. But at least you got some cool scars huh? So, everyone knows you're the toughest."
The little girl nodded in agreement with her brother. "Oh yeah! A WARRIOR!"
Piers felt something in his chest release a little. He grinned at them. "I am...I am indeed. Know what else?"
They shook their heads, looking star struck a little. He grabbed a handful of snow.
"I am also the warrior...of snowball fighting."
In the house, Claire heard the shrieking laughter.
She shifted to the window.
He was launching missles at the neighbor's kids. They were screaming for cover and firing back at him. The little girl shrieked, "HERE HE COMES! HIIIIIDE!"
And her heart? It swelled like the Grinch at the sight of them. Three sizes too big for her chest.
She leaned against the glass, watching.
And let the hope settle in her belly like a warm drink on the very, very, very cold day.
Outside, in the snow, the ravaged warrior of the snowball fights was scaling the tower made by two little children...and he'd never looked so perfect doing it.
Her hand lowered, shaking a little, and settled over the flat expanse of her belly.
And the woman who never showed fear, trembled a little, as she felt the first stirrings of real hope - and something wonderful inside.
Russia, February
"The first phase is complete. We...are ready...for the trial."
Laughter, light and sweet. Syrupy. Scary.
Scary.
SCARY.
"Good. GOOD. Get me the roster again. Get me the names."
"Which ones?"
"The ones from the beginning. The ones that are left. The ones from the birthplace."
"...Raccoon City?"
"Yes...YES. The ones...FROM RACCOON CITY."
Somewhere in the darkness, someone had started to scream.
It filled the quiet room and was answered by the laughter that followed.
And the beginning...of the GAME.