The Cure

by Roan Harkin

WeskerXRebecca Non-linear erotic fiction.

11. Chapter 11

Fifty-one

"Sie sind schön…"

He couldn't believe what she had asked him. He hasn't spoken German in years. Now, not only is he speaking a language he barely understands anymore, he's speaking it terribly. Of course, she doesn't seem to mind. His pronunciation is what counts to her, and it's as sharp as ever. He wonders what she's thinking as he cups her breast, gently caressing her nipple so he can hear her sigh softly. Maybe she's lost in the fantasy of a stranger coming back to her hotel room and taking advantage of her. Even when she calls the shots, she gives him complete control. It drives him crazy.

Rebecca starts to giggle. She's lying on her side beneath the hotel's pristine bed sheets, covering her face with her hands. He's behind her; his arm is around her, holding her against him. He's whispering in her ear. She can tell he's smiling. She tries to untangle herself from his embrace, playfully nudges him away, but he doesn't let go. "Sie sind süß und naß…"

"Huh?"

He chuckles, and his hand roams down the front of her body to nestle between her legs. He ignores her request for clarification.

She turns halfway around and looks up at him. His glasses are off, his eyes open, but he's gazing so far down on her body that she can't see them. She can only see his eyelashes move when he blinks. She reaches up and touches his face. He takes a deep breath. "Rebecca..."

"Captain…"

"Ich würde alles für Sie tun... "

The city is in the grip of another snow storm. The flakes are small and sting when they hit the cheeks of the pedestrians below. They can hear the wind whistling outside their room. Rebecca doesn't know what hotel they're at; he wouldn't tell her. But it's classy all the way. The bed sheets are made of thick white linen, and even though she enjoys the fact that he's pulled them away from her to expose her body to him, she loves the feel of them. The light from the fire is casting an orange glow on their skin. If one were to look at them from above, one would see her small, lithe body curled in his arms, and his hand between her legs, conjuring, cajoling another desperate cry of his name.

In a word, it's romantic.

She didn't think he was capable of romance.

She bites her bottom lip as one of his fingers finds its way inside her. She moans when another joins the first and starts to stroke. His smile widens when he feels the extent of her pleasure. She recognizes the familiar sound he makes when he knows she's enjoying herself. His lips press against her ear, and he speaks forcefully. "Du magst das, nicht wahr?"

The worse his language skills, the more he wishes to please her. He can't help but think she knows deep down that he can hardly speak it anymore. To make up for it, he kisses her ears, her neck, her shoulders. He holds her tightly, urging her to stop paying attention. He's waiting for the moaning, the head tossing, the tightened muscles and spasms of delight. She turns her face to him, her eyes closed, and slowly exhales through full, parted lips. "Liebes herz…" he murmurs.

In the last few weeks, he's had her in many ways. Her willingness fascinates him. She understands her own body, takes pleasure in it, yet she never loses her air of innocence. It's when he's fulfilling her requests that he marvels at it the most; she hasn't been completely shy. He wonders how it can be, how she can remain so open. Part of him wants to spoil her, to corrupt her, to bring her to the very edge, simply because she's available to him and vulnerable. Part of him wants to continue bowing to her every whim.

He knows what to do. At this point, it's all a matter of timing.

"Albert..?"

"Mmmm?"

"Thank you."

He smiles, but doesn't say anything. "I love this…" she says softly. She lays her hand on his cheek, and her brow furrows as he finds another sensual spot. "That feels… so good… Don't stop." She puts her hand on his, shifts it slightly. "There… right there…" She shifts it again, feels that his fingers are wet with her. "Higher…" She bites her lip. "Yeah…" Her hand retreats and rests on the pillows above her head. "Yeah…"

"Mm-hmm?"

She nods, her eyes squeezed shut in bridled ecstasy.

He blows lightly in her ear and waits for his chance. He doesn't want to frighten her. If he does it now he could scare her; the last thing he wants to do is cause her an upset. But when the moment is right, he'll have her where he wants her; moaning brazenly, writhing beneath his touch, and begging for more. If she has a penchant for hearing him speak in his mother tongue, he has a weakness for her swearing. He's pretended to be offended, but nothing turns him on more than her sweet, youthful voice demanding things be done to her; especially with a bluish tinge.

Just as the thought occurs to him, Rebecca arches her back and sighs, "Fuck me… please…"

He withdraws his hand from between her legs and eases her back against the pillows. She opens her eyes and watches him straddle and lower himself over her willing, naked body. She watches him intently, waiting for him to select a position that suits him, but he remains perfectly still. She realizes he has something planned for her by the way he leans into her, slowly, and with purpose. He opens his eyes and locks her in his sight. At once, she's helpless. "Becca…"

"Mmmm?"

He smiles devilishly.

"Hold on."

She hears the sound before she can fully understand what's happening. Suddenly he's a blur, a flash before her startled eyes. Then come the sensations; millions of them, all at once, and everywhere. His hands, his lips, his tongue, his arms, all please her flesh at the same time. He's fondling her breasts, fucking her from behind, kissing her neck and stroking her hair, nibbling her knees, her shoulders. She can feel him penetrate her, pin her down, lift her up, turn her over, can feel herself come again and again and again, yet all she can comprehend is the firelight beyond the foot of the bed. She can taste him, smell him, hear him grunting and panting, behind her, beside her, above her, without reprieve. Her body quakes; it takes over her mind, and she's powerless to resist it. She wants to cry out but can't decide on a word; 'stop', 'fuck', 'harder', 'please', 'more', 'no', 'mine', 'yes'.

She's about to scream his name when he stops, his sex thrust deep, his eyes closed, his mouth open, and comes desperately inside her with a lingering, arrant groan.

It's exquisite, watching him come. She listens to the timbre of his voice, hears how it's filled with gratitude and longing. She watches as the sensations tear through his body, igniting his skin, causing him to shudder. Every muscle is tense, bracing him against the shockwave. She doesn't know how much he's missed fucking women, how long he's lusted for her in particular, or all the filthy little things he's thought about doing to her. She relinquishes her body to a final, agonizing orgasm.

The room is filled with the sounds of them catching their breath. He brushes her bangs off her sweaty forehead, caresses her face with the back of his hand. She whimpers as she's brought to completion. He bends down, swallowing hard, still panting, and their foreheads touch. "Liebes herz…"

She shakes her head, can't speak. "Ich liebe dich…"

"Huh?"

He swallows again.

"Never mind. I don't think I said it right."

They laugh lightly, exhausted.

Fifty-two

Of all the areas in the Arklay Facility, the student lounge was the only one that seemed to have been built with the students in mind. There was a bar that was licensed to serve alcohol, a pool and chess tables, a dart board, even a juke box that played the popular albums of the day. The walls were decorated with movie posters, and the pot lights were always dimmed. That Friday night, a group of students had assembled in the lounge to drink and play pool. Andrew Cumberland was among them. He was never any good at the game, but he wasn't there to win. He was there to have a drink, have a good time.

He wanted to forget everything he had heard the night before.

Two other students, William and Albert, were sitting by themselves in a corner, talking quietly. They each had drinks; scotch on the rocks for William, southern comfort for Albert. Occasionally, when one of the students let out a triumphant cry at a particularly good shot, William would look up sharply, irritated by the noise. If had he known the lounge would be that busy he wouldn't have bothered. Albert didn't seem to mind as much. He was used to tuning that kind of noise out.

"So you're adopted?"

"No, I'm not adopted. I'm a ward of the state. That's when nobody adopts you."

"You don't have any family here at all?"

"Nope."

"They're all in Germany?"

"I guess so."

"I'd like to visit Germany one day."

"Think you'd like it. It's really nice. Depending on where you go, it's a lot nicer than here."

Albert turned his head and watched the students play pool for a moment, all the while sifting through what few memories of his homeland he had left.

He didn't know why William was taking such an interest. Lately the time they spent together was filled with William asking questions about Albert's life; mostly about his years as a ward. Albert didn't know how to take the consideration. He couldn't tell if it was genuine concern or simply a way of gathering information. Just to be sure, Albert never gave too much away. Most things were better left in the past. Still, he liked the attention.

"Why did you want to be a scientist, Wes?" William asked.

Albert took a sip of his drink and shrugged.

"Well, I was always sorta smart when it came to that kinda thing. I didn't choose it, really. They just reckoned this was the best place for me to be."

William smirked.

"They reckoned that, huh?"

Albert gave him a small smile. He knew what William was about to say. "You should really work on that accent, Wes."

"Why's that?"

"Well, either you're a Southerner or a scientist."

"That so?"

"You know what those morons were laughing at in class today. You know what they call you behind your back? 'Farm Boy'."

"I didn't think it made that much of a difference."

"Of course it doesn't. But you and I are the only ones here who are smart enough to understand that. Bunch of idiots. Sometimes I think this whole thing is a waste of my time." He finished off his drink. "They have a point though. No one's going to take you seriously if you sound like you're right off a horse's back. Maybe you should work on it."

"I got better things to do than hide it, thank you," Albert said.

"Just a suggestion," William replied. The boys playing pool cheered as the last shot was made.

"Why'd you wanna be a scientist?" Albert asked.

"I'm fascinated with it. For as far back as I can remember I've always wanted this. Always." He swirled the ice cubes around in his glass. "It certainly made my parents proud, when I told them. Even more proud when I was accepted to study here on scholarship. They would never have been able to afford this. Their only son turned out rather well, I think. Considering what the other kids on the street are up to at my age." He looked at Albert. "Your parents would have been proud too, I think."

Albert smiled, but tried not to acknowledge the comment.

"Where'd you grow up?"

"New England for the most part. There's a fine accent for you! You should aim for that!"

Albert shook his head and looked away. He was blushing. William noticed it was a habit of his. Whenever Albert was the subject of the conversation, his face would turn pink. It made him look even younger.

The students finished their game and ordered a round of drinks. They drank steadily, knowing they didn't have to get up early the next day. William and Albert tried to carry on their conversation as best they could, but the noise was increasing with every drop poured. Just when they were about to leave, one of the students suggested an arm-wrestling contest. At first it was a friendly competition, with one student trying to psyche another student out in order to win. Soon they were slamming crumpled dollar bills down on the table and placing bets, and the entire thing turned into a match for money. Since they could no longer converse, William and Albert watched the action for a while. Albert was about to suggest they turn in when William looked at him. "You could beat any one of them, easily."

Albert laughed.

"No I can't."

"Are you kidding? I've seen you. You're stronger than all of them put together."

Albert watched as another student lost a day's pay. It didn't deter the others in the slightest; another round of bets was placed. "Go for it."

"No."

"Come on!"

"No way, Will," he said, still blushing.

William's left leg started to bounce restlessly.

Andrew Cumberland was watching too, when he noticed Birkin eyeing the action with keen interest. There was something about the look on Birkin's face that didn't sit well with him. There was an edge there. He watched as the usually calm and arrogant young scientist fiddled with the glass tumbler in his hand. It seemed as though he wanted to get in on the event. Andrew pushed the thought out of his head. There was no way Birkin would want to be a part of things. He isolated himself from everyone; it was rare that he would even be seen in another student's company, let alone in the lounge. The same went for Albert Wesker, once he and Birkin formed a friendship. Perhaps he was reading into it too much, and Birkin was just excited.

The thought quickly faded when Birkin blurted out, "Wes is next. Wes can take any one of you guys."

Albert looked at him quickly when he heard the words. One of the students, a large young man who had remained unbeaten the entire evening, laughed heartily. "What're you? His trainer?"

"Double or nothing he mops the floor with you," William smirked. Albert shook his head.

"No way, Will."

"Come on, Wes, you're gonna win!"

"Forget it."

"Double or nothing?" the student asked. He looked at Albert, who was blushing so brightly not even the dimmed lighting could camouflage it. "Yeah, I can take him."

"I'm not gonna arm-wrestle, Will, forget it."

"You're not a very good trainer, Birkin. Your protégé is chickening out."

William leaned over.

"Come on, Wes, there's no way he'll beat you. How much is double or nothing?"

"Three hundred bucks," Andrew called out.

"We're in." He spoke to Albert again in a low voice. "That's three hundred bucks, Wes. We could have a way better time someplace else for that kind of money."

Albert ran a nervous hand through his hair. The other students started cheering him on. Finally, he sighed.

"Alright, alright."

Andrew watched as Albert stood up and walked over to the table in the middle of the room. He tried not to smile as the money exchanged hands. Someone put their hands on his shoulders and gave him a quick massage, then patted him on the arm.

For once, he felt like a regular student.

The other young man sat across from him. They shook hands as the final bets were placed on a nearby table. William stood a distance away, ardently surveying the events. Then they clasped hands, braced each other's elbows, and readied themselves while the other students counted to three. On 'three', the competition began.

There was laughter and cheering as it became apparent the young man was in for a tougher battle than he expected. Albert was very strong, shockingly so, and the student grimaced as he literally tried to get the upper hand. Albert hardly broke a sweat; apart from the small grin on his face he didn't appear to be straining at all. "Holy shit!" the young man laughed breathlessly as he continued to puff and strain. The others couldn't believe it either. They didn't realize anyone who hung out with William Birkin would be much of a jock. Some of them even took his side, cheered him on since he was the underdog.

The cheering came to an end when the student's radius snapped, the bone protruding from his forearm.

The young man let out a tremendous scream. Shocked, Albert let go and immediately saw what he had done. "Oh shit! Oh shit!"

"Holy shit, Wesker, you broke his fucking arm!" someone yelled.

"Fuck! Get him down to the clinic!"

William stepped up behind him.

"For god's sake, Wes, take him down to the clinic. He'll be fine," he said coolly.

The student was too alarmed to put up a fuss; he simply sat in the chair, staring at the broken bone. Everything else was a blur. The rest of the guys backed off as Albert put his arm around the young man and helped him to his feet.

"I'm taking you to the clinic, alright?" he said as authoritatively as he could. "Hold on."

They watched as he led the injured man out of the lounge, then followed them, eager to see how their friend would hold up.

Andrew remained behind.

For a minute no one said anything. Then William strolled over to the table where the money had been placed and scooped it up. He flipped the bills quickly and made sure it was all there before slipping the cash into his wallet. Andrew stared at him. "He broke the guy's arm, Birkin."

"A bet's a bet."

"For fuck's sake!"

William turned his head, locking Andrew in his sights. His glare was enough to turn anyone to stone.

"I told you he'd win."

He put the wallet back into his pocket with a smirk.

Fifty-three

Cumberland is in the alley behind the Facility. He's leaning against the brick wall and having another cigarette. It's his third in a row. His nerves are shot. The last few hours have been trying; he needed to get away for a while, to try and think of other things. Whenever he takes a drag, his hands shake. He'd like to think it's the weather that's causing him to shiver, but he knows better.

There are several green garbage bins in the alley. They're all packed to capacity, and one has several tied-off plastic bags peaking out. The skyline is obscured from Cumberland's view, not that he would be able to see much; the city's bright lights have drowned out the delicate twinkling of the stars. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes, breathes in the cold air mixed with car exhaust fumes. He thinks of his family's estate in the country. If he were there now, he'd be able to see the stars. He'd be able to forget everything that's happened.

The back door of the Facility opens. Claire pokes her head out and looks around, then catches sight of him. She steps into the alley and uses a brick to prop the door open. Cumberland smiles at her as best he can. Claire offers him a quick wave in greeting. "Didn't they teach you the dangers of smoking in medical school?"

"Yes, of course." He takes another drag. "It's very dangerous to smoke in medical school."

Claire chuckles.

"Is she alright?"

He releases the smoke.

"She's fine. She's exhausted, that's all."

"So he took care of her."

"As best he could, I suppose."

"What kind of tests did you do?"

"The usual. Checked to see if she was dehydrated or malnourished or injured in any way."

"She wasn't injured?"

"Not in the least."

"So dehydration, injury…"

"Standard stuff."

"… pregnancy?"

He looks at her, his eyes wide.

"What for?"

Claire doesn't want to explain herself. She looks down at her boots. "You're not serious?" he says, decoding her gaze.

"Yeah I am."

He looks away.

"No... not that test."

Cumberland butts out his cigarette and turns to face her. "I finished examining Wesker a little while ago," he says.

"How'd he take it?"

"He wasn't too happy about it, let me tell you. But he kept quiet. I don't think anyone has been that close to him in a while. Well, except…"

Claire looks at the wet asphalt again. She doesn't want to be reminded. "I can't believe what great shape he's in. He's hardly aged since the last time I saw him. Now I think I know why. In fact, I'm pretty sure I know why." He waits until Claire looks at him. "He's technically dead."

Her face goes pale.

"Fuck."

"He has no heartbeat, no pulse, no bodily functions or fluids, nothing that indicates life. That's why he's so strong. The virus lives for him. Now, he's able to think for himself for the most part, but his body, even his brain, can be affected by other things."

"What do you mean?"

Cumberland reaches for another cigarette. Claire isn't too quick to chastise him this time.

"Two people came in during the examination. First it was Rebecca."

Claire makes a mental note to speak to Rebecca again. "At first she just stood next to the door and watched. Then she offered to help me. So I said sure, she could assist me if she wanted. The minute she got within ten feet of him, his heart started beating."

"How do you know?"

"He was hooked up to the monitor. It wasn't beating until she got close to him. Then it's like he came back to life."

Cumberland taps his cigarette a couple of times before lighting it. Claire occupies herself with her zipper.

"What do you think that means?" she asks.

"I'm not sure exactly. But after what you just told me, I think I have an idea." He takes a long drag off the cigarette, then continues. "When I was still with Umbrella I did some research into the reproductive nature of the virus. I was in the middle of working on it when I knew I had to escape, so it's still just a theory. But I think he's…" He looks away. "Shit…"

"Go on."

"I think he's trying to breed," he says. "Or… it's trying to breed… with a human host… shit..." He closes his eyes, suddenly feels nauseous.

Claire's heart starts to race.

"Who else came in? You said there were two people."

"Your brother."

"What happened?"

"His heart started beating again."

"Fuck…"

"No, no, it was different. When your brother came in Wesker's heart rate was almost off the charts. And he was getting uncomfortable, like he was enraged but trying to control himself. Chris was only in the room for a minute, but Wesker's heart rate was equivalent to someone panicking, someone in a state of fury."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Wesker more than hates your brother. He physically can't stand him."

Claire can't stand still any longer. She yanks the back door of the Facility open, then turns to speak to Cumberland. "Don't mention this to the others, whatever you do," she says.

"Of course."

"And under no circumstances is Rebecca to be left alone with Wesker." She's about to go back inside when she catches the brief look of panic in his eyes. "You performed the examination in the cell?"

"Yes."

"What happened when you finished?"

His face goes white.

"Rebecca said she'd stay behind to clean up…"

For a moment, Claire's heart stops.

"Oh my God…" She turns on her heel, breaks into a run, and heads for the holding cells.

Fifty-four

Everyone is staring at Rebecca.

They can't believe what she's just said, just admitted to. At first they think she's lost it, that she doesn't know what she's saying, or that maybe she's just being facetious. But she's just standing there, not moving, not looking away, and not denying a thing. Their jaws are all dropped, their cheeks flushed; they're all holding their breath.

All of them except Chris.

He hasn't gotten up off the floor yet. His gaze is narrow. He's debating whether or not to speak his mind. Rebecca is looking right at him, waiting for it. He knows if he speaks up he can pretty much kiss their friendship goodbye.

But he figures she's already finished with it, considering what she's done.

He laughs bitterly and shakes his head. "You're a fucking piece of work, aren't you?"

"Yeah," she says. "And you'd know, huh?"

"You're damn right I know."

"Chris, stop it," Claire warns him.

"Only you, huh?" he continues, ignoring his sister. "Only you would be stupid enough to fuck Wesker."

"Hey!" Leon says sharply. "Shut up!"

"Only you'd be stupid enough to believe his bullshit."

"Fuck you!" Rebecca snaps.

"Did he tell you he's just misunderstood? Huh? Is that all it takes with you?"

"You tell me, Chris," she says.

"Apparently not much."

He stands up, but doesn't take his eyes off her.

Jill is finding it difficult to breathe. She catches herself holding her breath and has to make a conscious effort to exhale. Every word Chris says rips through her, even though he's not directing his anger at her. Of course she's upset too, but she still wishes he wouldn't do this, now or ever. She watches as he braces himself against the wall, watches him glare at Rebecca, watches as he ignores everyone who tries to get him to stop. She wishes he could try to understand, but knows how hurt and angry he must be.

There's something in his voice, however, that tells her there's more to this than meets the eye.

"You have no fucking idea what we've gone through for your sake," Chris says to Rebecca. "No fucking clue."

"I have an idea, don't treat me like an ingrate!" she replies. Her throat is tightening.

"The hell you do! We've been risking our lives to get you back and you've been who-knows-where fucking the guy for weeks!"

"Shut up, Chris," Leon cautions him as he takes a step forward.

"What the fuck goes through your head, Rebecca? I wanna know."

Rebecca can't speak. If she does, she'll start to cry. "Do you think about the people he's killed at all? Do you remember Forest?"

"Shut up now Chris," Leon says.

"Remember Joseph? Enrico?"

Leon keeps coming towards him.

"Chris, please," Claire says.

"Remember Steve?" he says, more for Claire's benefit than Rebecca's.

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone…" she says quietly, hoarsely.

"No, of course not, you just didn't fuckin' think, did you? Huh? Not once!"

Leon stands between them as Claire puts her arm around Rebecca. The caring touch is enough to release a flood of tears. Rebecca starts to sob.

"Shut up," Leon says to Chris.

"And you don't find anything wrong with that, do you?" Chris says, turning his attention to Leon.

"Shut up," he repeats, his face turning red.

"So I'm alone in thinking this is fuckin' disgusting?"

"Shut up!"

"Am I the only one who finds anything wrong with this?" He looks at Claire. He looks at Jill. They don't answer him.

"Shut up Chris," Leon says again.

"This is fuckin' bullshit!"

"Shut up."

"I can't fuckin' believe you guys!"

"Shut up."

Chris points at her over Leon's shoulder.

"We put our lives on the line for her and she fucks the guy!"

Leon shoves him back.

"Shut up, Chris!"

Chris looks at all of them, then laughs contemptuously. He can't believe they're in this situation now, after everything that's happened.

And they have no idea how betrayed he feels.

"Thanks a lot," he says, to all of them. "Thanks a whole fucking lot."

Leon glares at him for a moment.

"Claire, can you take Rebecca upstairs and clean her up?" he asks.

Claire is about to lead Rebecca out of the room when Chris calls out.

"Yeah, wash her up, Claire. She's real fucking dirty."

Rebecca lunges at him, her face red and streaked with tears. Claire has to hold her back.

"You have no right!" she screams. "You have no right, Chris!"

"I would never do this to a friend!" he snarls as Leon holds his arm out. "I know what side I'm on!"

Claire holds on to Rebecca.

"Come on, honey," she says as gently as she can. "Let's go upstairs."

"Fuck you!" Rebecca hurls at Chris.

"Let's go upstairs. Come on…"

Rebecca puts her hands over her mouth and bends over, as if she's been punched in the stomach. Claire crouches down to see if she's alright. Rebecca's sobs sound hollow from behind her sweaty palms. "Come on." She puts her arm around the medic and succeeds in ushering her out of the room. Rebecca is weeping so hard, she can barely walk.

When they've left, Leon turns to Chris.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"With me?"

"That's your friend, Chris. You talk to a friend that way?"

"Anyone who fucks Wesker's no friend of mine."

"You don't talk to anyone like that again, you understand?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I don't want to hear any of that shit come from you again. You leave her alone."

"Figures."

"Chris…" Jill says.

"What figures?" Leon says, daring him to continue.

"Figures you'd have no problem with it."

"Chris, please…"

"The fuck does that mean?"

"It means a guy like you has no problem with someone sleeping with the enemy. It means any guy who's fucking Ada Wong shouldn't be too quick to judge."

Leon pulls his fist back and slams Chris in the face.

Chris throws himself at Leon, and the two men begin fighting. "Stop it!" Jill screams, but they're too infuriated to listen. Leon blackens one of Chris' eyes before Chris punches him in the face, splitting Leon's lip. Jill runs forward and wedges herself between them, eventually forcing them apart. Their breathing is heavy, their faces bashed and bruised, and they glare at each other so savagely that Jill is petrified.

"You fucker!" Chris growls.

"Fuck you!"

"Chris, PLEASE!" Jill says angrily.

The men back off. Leon turns around and heads for the door. Just before he leaves the room, he bashes his fist against the wall beneath the light switch, smashing through the cheap plaster and drywall.

When he's gone, Chris looks down at Jill. She's staring at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend why he's become so angry, so belligerent. Chris can't look her in the eye. He turns away and catches his breath. "Why can't you try to understand?" she says softly.

"I don't know," he replies. He looks at her again. His eyes are red and welling up with tears. "I'm sorry, Jilly…"

She puts her arms around him. He doesn't say anything else. He knows that if he speaks, he'll start to cry.

It's all too familiar.

Fifty-five

Rebecca is lying on top of him, listening to his breathing through his chest. He's stroking the back of her neck with his fingertips. They're listening to an album of his. It's The Velvet Underground. The song is slow and sweet. It's sung by a woman. Rebecca has never heard it before, but she likes it. The music crackles and pops as the CD spins, the characteristics of a recording straight from vinyl. She closes her eyes. "Albert?"

"Yes?"

"Is this your favourite band?"

"I'd say so."

"What's your favourite movie?"

"Movie? Hrmmm…" He pauses, considers it. "I've never thought of that before. 'The Hustler', if I had to pick."

Rebecca smiles. She likes where the conversation is going.

It's a quiet afternoon on a Sunday. The sun is streaming through the windows and warming up the penthouse. She's happy he hasn't drawn the blinds. It sounds as if the world outside the windows has stopped. There aren't the usual shouts and car horns. If she tries hard enough, she can forget why she's really here and picture a more ordinary life.

"What's your favourite colour?" she asks.

"Black." He looks down at her. "Can't you tell?"

"I guess, huh?"

He smiles. "Favourite time of year?"

"Winter."

"Favourite snack?"

"Favourite snack…" he repeats, shifting his position, stretching his legs. "My, my, you're inquisitive today."

"Aren't I always?"

"Indeed you are. Favourite snack…" he says broadly, teasing her. "When I was young, very young, they used to make spaetzle and onions for us on Sundays. That was my favourite for a long time."

"What's that?"

"German dumplings. You boil them first and you can put them in soups or fry them. Sundays they'd fry them with caramelized onions and give them to us for lunch. I loved it. Didn't tell anyone I did, though. I was afraid they'd stop serving it. It was the only meal I looked forward to."

"Well, today's Sunday. Maybe you can get whoever to make it for you."

He shakes his head.

"No, that's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because I don't eat anymore."

Rebecca looks up.

"You don't eat?"

He shakes his head. "Why not?"

"Because I don't have to."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"No. I haven't been hungry in ten years."

"Wow… no wonder I never see you eat," she says. "And you don't get tired."

"No."

"You don't sleep."

"No. Not for a long time now."

"Wow…"

"I know," he says. "Bummer, huh?"

He looks at her. They start laughing.

Rebecca keeps her eyes on him as his laughter dies away. He sounds different for some reason. Then it suddenly occurs to her. His voice, his laughter, sounds as if he's genuinely happy, as if he's actually amused by their conversation. He sounds, for lack of a better term, kind.

"Albert?"

"Yes?"

"What's with… the laugh?"

"The laugh?"

"Yeah."

At first he's confused. Then he understands.

"Oh… you mean…" he starts chortling. "Gwa-hahahahaha!"

She puts her hands over his mouth.

"Stop it! Ugh!"

He stops and she removes her hands. "Yeah, that."

He sighs, his smile remaining.

"Well," he says. "I learned a long time ago that if you really want to get under someone's skin, laugh at them." He looks at her. "The louder, the better."

"That's a shitty thing to learn."

"But it's true," he says, holding her close. "It works."

They're quiet for a moment.

"Do you remember when we were still in S.T.A.R.S.?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Do you remember when I passed my final test and you came to congratulate me?"

He starts twirling her hair with his fingers.

"Yes."

"You hugged me."

"Mm-hmmm."

"No one could believe it when I told them."

"I suppose they wouldn't."

"I felt special." She sighs. "It never happened again, though."

"I apologize. I had other things to think about."

She listens to his heartbeat.

The CD changes. Ziggy Stardust starts to play over the speakers. He chuckles, but doesn't say why. Rebecca smiles.

"I like this song. But it reminds me of my first kiss," she says.

"Really?" He's intrigued.

"Yeah. I was eleven. It was at my friend's birthday party. Her dad picked the music, so this is what we had to listen to. We were playing Seven Minutes in the Closet, and this boy kissed me, and he tasted like dill pickle chips, and it was so gross."

"Charming," he says with a grin.

"How old were you when you had your first kiss?"

"I was pretty old," he warns before giving his answer.

"How old?"

"Nineteen."

"Wow," she says. "What was her name?"

"His name."

She stops.

"His?"

He nods.

"Does that bother you?"

She shakes her head.

"No, no, it doesn't bother me." She looks up at him. "What was his name?"

"William."

She blinks.

"William Birkin?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

They're quiet.

"I didn't get out much," he says, trying to make light of it. She laughs uncomfortably.

"I didn't think… was he..?"

"Gay?"

"Yeah."

He shakes his head.

"No. He was a bit of a womanizer, actually. When he wasn't working, he was talking about girls. Funny thing this is playing too," he says, referencing the music. "He loved David Bowie. He introduced me to it. I suppose it could be seen as pauncey, but then he was the one who got married."

"He kissed you?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"Why?"

"To see what it was like, I think." He looks at her. "He was a scientist, after all."

"Don't say that," she says sadly.

Her curiosity begins to grow. "What was it like?"

"It was nice," he admits.

"He was a good kisser?"

"He was a pretty good kisser, yeah," he says, nodding and smiling at the absurdity of it all.

"Who's a better kisser, me or him?" He laughs.

"By far, you."

"Good."

He scratches the top of her head. "Albert?"

"Yes?"

"Did you love him?"

He takes a deep breath.

"A little," he says softly. There's a pause. "But I hated him more. He was like a brother that way."

"Do you ever miss him?"

He nods.

"Sometimes." He turns his head. "Sometimes I think of what happened to him. I think of how frightened he must have been… in those final moments… he must have been terrified…"

They don't speak for a while. "You're quiet now," he points out.

"Yeah."

"No more questions?"

She shakes her head. "Trying to make sense of it all?"

"Yeah," she says.

He strokes her cheek with his knuckles. "I didn't think I'd ever be here… listening to you…"

"Neither did I," he says.

"Things could have been different."

"You're right."

"Isn't it funny?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"What would you have done, if it was someone else that night?"

He pauses.

"I don't know," he says. "But I don't want to think about it."

"Okay."

They lay there together, quietly, for the rest of the afternoon.