I guess I'll have another try at this... Sorry for the ridiculously long time between updates...
I know this chapter isn't the most exciting one, but I'm just trying to set the pace, and the whole evolution of their relationship.
Day 135
Another day at the lab followed by another night in this tiny apartment. What was the point in even staying alive anymore? As if she did not already know that the day he no longer needed her skills anymore was the day he would simply "dispose" of her. There was no "after", or even just a small hope to retrieve her old life; unless she escaped somehow. However, he was obviously ensuring that specific possibility would never come to life.
As soon as the door was closed, she knew where her "place" was ; she sat on the bed then waited for him to tie her to the bed frame. Usually as soon as that was finished, he would grab a bottle of water and two granola bars, toss them at her and proceed to ignore her for the rest of the night while he busied himself with work. The only moment he acknowledged her presence was when she asked to have access to the bathroom. He had provided her with great entertainment such as a few bioengineering and biochemistry books, periodicals and articles. As if after working twelve hours of her day on the subject, she would have felt like entertaining herself with more… So the different books and articles had been lying on the floor next to the bed untouched for the last couple weeks.
As her meagre dinner was being tossed at her for the 20th time, she knew she just could not stomach it anymore. Did he ever eat anything else? How could she be expected to muster swallowing those things days after days after days…? If at least sometimes he would give her something interesting to drink with it… Soda, juice… Beer… God, she would kill for a glass of wine right now. No, screw that, a whole bottle of wine… She eyed the granola bars then sighed heavily and winced in disgust.
"Is there a problem, Miss Reynolds?" he asked, his tone patronizing.
"I'm sick of always eating the same revolting thing everyday for the last three months."
"Well, this is all I have that does not require preparation, so you will have to satisfy yourself with it," he answered, a touch of annoyance in his voice.
"You could cook something," she asked him, more out of defiance than actual inquiry.
It made him chuckle.
"This isn't a five-star hotel, Miss Reynolds. You are my prisoner."
"I won't eat anymore of these."
"Very well, it is your choice if you want to starve yourself to death," he answered coldly to her poor attempt at conjuring a threat.
He turned around and sat down in his chair as usual, more than happy to proceed ignoring her for the rest of the night.
"I hate you…" she whispered.
He smirked with satisfaction, not bothering to raise his eyes and acknowledge her.
"You're cruel, mean, insensible, manipulative and selfish!"
"Well, that is exactly what I have been trying to explain to you for the last two weeks, Miss Reynolds, I am glad we finally come to an understanding on the matter," he stated refusing to give away his stupid sarcastic smile. He was enjoying himself, her insults clearly not affecting him.
"Fuck you…" she whispered to herself, almost hoping he had not heard.
He kept smirking, then eventually looked up at her, his patience slowly running thin.
"Miss Reynolds, your poor attempt at provoking me won't work. Although, I would highly suggest you change your attitude with me, because this might be the last time you are allowed food. You wouldn't want to get the chance to miss the delicious taste of those granola bars, would you?" he mocked her.
She sighed, throwing the bars pettily on the floor. Lying on her bed, she stubbornly fixed her gaze upon the wall; her pettiness was amusing him heavily. She dreamed of a steak, of a comfortable bed, of her old office, of her apartment, of her freedom… She sighed again, the sound of her exasperation starting to irritate him. He sighed heavily himself and rose. She looked at him walking slowly in her direction and realized she might have gone too far. Her pulse accelerated, anticipating being physically abused if he felt the need. She looked at him taking something out of his pocket.
"Fine," he let out, bending down to remove the handcuffs. "If you want to eat something else, you will have to cook it yourself. Make something for me in the same time; a change wouldn't hurt," he added heading back to his famous leather chair.
She stood up, angry.
"What? Am I going to be your servant now?" she almost yelled.
"Is this not what you already are, Miss Reynolds?" he asked amused, sitting down, clearly not flustered by her little display of angst, then got back to reading his files.
Standing there in awe, she finally realized she was free…
"Does… does that mean I can move around freely…?" She asked anxious, hoping strongly for a positive answer.
"I suppose so," he answered casually.
"Not just for tonight, right?"
"No, not just for tonight."
"Aren't you scared I might try to escape?"
The idea seemed to amuse him more than surprise him.
"Not that I doubt your extraordinary strength, Miss Reynolds, but I would be highly surprised if you could break through a heavy locked door with your meagre 100 pounds. Of course, if you try to harm me, which I can assure you is quite impossible, I will not only tie you back to your bed, but I will also cut every one of your toes off one by one and feed them to you. Is that clear?"
She nodded quickly, the disturbing idea making her hands shake, or maybe even her toes...
"Now, Miss Reynolds, I have work to do," he stated firmly, bringing an end to the discussion.
"Sorry," she added nervously. She stayed still for a moment, enjoying her new freedom. "Thank you," she finally muttered her voice soft and grateful.
He raised his eyes from his report, nodded, acknowledging her gratitude, then resumed his reading.
Emily proceeded to take the tour of the small apartment Wesker had never offered her. She had looked at everything from the comfort of the bed she had been tied to sometimes wondering what the bookshelves or the kitchen cabinets contained. She had not have much to do when lying on that bed after work, so any activity other than staring at the boring white wall could fill her free time. She walked slowly to the bookshelves to the left of Wesker as he was still occupied reading his report, not even bothering to acknowledge her as she was standing only a couple feet from him. As expected, the bookshelves contained more bioengineering and biochemistry books, periodicals and articles, except for a couple shelves which appeared to be some of his more personal stuffs. Wesker deeply focused on his reading, she started going through the papers. There was a whole section on the T-Virus, the Progenitor virus, a couple folders on the G-Virus and the T-Veronica virus, everything being sorted by date from 1980 to 1999. She randomly opened a folder from the Progenitor virus section and started going quickly through it. She recognized his handwriting right away as well as a few other people's handwriting. Some of the papers were a complete mess, but the majority was readable and most likely understandable if she was willing to give it the proper time to read it. She replaced the folder on its shelf; this could definitely come in handy, she had to take a closer look later on.
The kitchen had intrigued her the most; she had never seen him use it. All she ever saw him drag out of there was the granola bars and the bottles of water from the refrigerator. The few cabinets contained all the amenities required to cook a decent meal: pans, pots, utensils as well as some canned food, oil, spices and baking supplies. Surprised to find out the apartment was well furnished with things he seemed to refuse to use, she turned over to Wesker to ask him why he would stock on things seemingly useless to him.
"How come you have all that food and never use it?"
"It came with the room. Those were the possessions of the person that occupied this room before me," he answered casually, not even taking his eyes off of his report. "The linens, this chair and even some of the books were his as well. The rest is provided by the company."
"And why didn't he leave with his belongings?"
"Because he is dead, Miss Reynolds. He infected himself with his own work, he had to be put down," he stated, as casually as if he was small talking about the weather outside.
She swallowed nervously, realizing that, one day, her own belongings might be given out to somebody else too…