Author's Note: I don't usually do these, but I felt I should explain that the reason updates have been so sparse is because I've been hard at work on a novel of my own. If you're curious you can check my website and look under Paper Masks, which is the title -- the first chapter is posted online. Anyway, it's been kind of consuming me, so I apologize if I've kept you waiting. Let me assure you that I will finish any story I start. It might take a while, but I promise not to leave you hanging! Having said that, thanks for all your wonderful reviews, and let's get on with it!
Chapter Twenty Five
Dominance
It was a long day.
Fortunately, Wesker shut up after an hour or two, but a couple hours of silence almost had Claire begging him to start in again. Actually it wasn't silent. Silence, she could have dealt with. It was the damn bloody wind, the constant roar and howl. Every time she started to drift off, the wind jerked her awake, heart in her throat, fumbling for a weapon. It sounded too much like Umbrella.
And every time she caught Wesker watching her. Sometimes he smirked, sometimes shook his head. She didn't care about any of that. But every now and then she found him with a thoughtful, calculating expression etched across his face, and that worried her. What was he up to now?
She resisted the urge to cry, but it didn't mater because she cried in her sleep. She knew it when she woke with sore eyes, damp hair, her cheeks broken and peeling. Wesker didn't say a word. She didn't know whether to be grateful or not.
He forced more food and water on her. She ate mechanically, beginning to wish she'd told him to kill her when he'd offered the choice. No doubt remained in her mind that Wesker would kill Chris. Whatever she'd once thought of her brother, he wasn't Superman. Neither was Wesker, of course. No, she thought Wesker might have given even Clark Kent a run for his money.
Chris would die, and it was all her fault.
Her fault: chasing him down in Antarctica, bringing herself to Wesker's attention.
Her fault: Running to meet Wesker equipped with a single gun -- one gun! What had she been thinking?
Her fault: Letting Wesker manipulate and frighten her to the point where he could use her to infuriate Chris even further.
Her fault: Placing that damn phone call.
And that's what she was really mad about. She realized now, too late, what she should have done: coldly informed her brother that she was happy with Wesker and that she'd kill him if she ever saw him again. It would break his heart, and hers -- but he'd live, damn it.
And what about Leon? Her heart sank at the thought. She'd never been sure where she stood with him. Now, because of her, he'd been transformed into... well, whatever. He'd seen her in Wesker's arms -- probably. And then there was Ada.
Oh, God. She dropped her head to her arms and gave herself freedom to cry as she pleased. What did she care? She had no pride to salvage, no weaknesses she hadn't revealed. She was pathetic.
Long after she'd thought she could bear, she continued to sob into her folded arms. A sick kind of pleasure emerged as her face froze, her eyes burned. She wondered if she could make herself die from too many tears.
But before she had the chance, she felt him beside her. "Leave me alone," she choked.
"There, dear heart." He sank gracefully to the ground and shoved another bottle of water into her hands. "You'll dehydrate yourself."
"What do you care?"
"I told you: it's all about convenience for me."
She shivered in spite of herself: the temperature was dropping steadily. So, finally, was the sun. Darkness and cold seeped into the cave, edging past Wesker's fire. "Go to hell," she whispered, tossing the water aside.
He caught it before it hit the ground and extended it to her again. "I'm not a patient man, Claire. I've treated you with remarkable restraint thus far. Don't push me."
More threats. She almost refused again, but the indignity of being forced to drink outweighed the pleasure of scorning his threat. She drained the entire bottle in a single swallow, even though her stomach cramped and her lungs burned. The second she finished, she promptly threw it up again.
"Lovely." Wesker hauled her across him, shoving her to the ground on his left. He edged over, distancing them from the pool of vomit -- although really it was only water. She'd taken more than she could handle, that's all.
It seemed to be a habit of hers.
Of course he went for another bottle -- she was half-surprised he didn't make her recycle what she'd already drank, and figured the thought didn't occur to him. This time he wouldn't let her touch the bottle, though. He insisted on holding it while she drank, monitoring her sips like she was a child. The further humiliation brought burning tears to her recently dried eyes, but this time she didn't let them fall. She'd already cried for longer than she thought possible; if she started again, she didn't think she'd stop.
He made her feel like a recalcitrant child. She hated him with a weary disinterest. Real hate, the kind that burned in your chest, took too much energy, too much emotion. Claire had exhausted her reserves of both.
Watching her, he must have seen her thoughts reflected in her eyes. "Remember what I told you before, Miss Redfield. There's no such thing as rock bottom: you can always be brought lower."
"Thanks for the lesson," she muttered. Speaking made her want to vomit all over again. She prayed he wouldn't force food on her; there was no way she'd keep it down. She glanced at his solid bulk on her right. "Go away."
"I beg your pardon?"
She swallowed. "Please. Please leave me alone."
He regarded her thoughtfully. "No, I think not. The mood you're in, there's no telling what you'll do."
She hated how his arm brushed hers. She hated how she depended on him for everything, like a pet. "I won't do anything, I promise." In spite of her resolve, tears slid down her already chapped face. "Please, please, please go away. I can't take it anymore, I can't..."
"Shh." Perversely -- she was, after all, begging him to leave -- he caught her in his arms and drew her into his lap.
Claire wanted to struggle, but exhaustion overwhelmed her. Besides, what was the point? "Why are you doing this?"
"You know the answer."
"Not that. This. Staying with me. Keeping me alive. You said it yourself: you have no use for me now that I've baited your trap."
"Ah, but there are always things one fails to plan for. I may need to set another trap in a hurry."
She tilted her head and looked him in the eye, or as close as she could manage. In the cave's increasing darkness, the gleam behind his sunglasses was becoming evident. "I've changed my mind."
"I'm sorry?"
"I want you to kill me now. Don't make me watch this. Let me die."
His arms tightened around her. "I told you at the time, Miss Redfield: it was a one-time offer. I gave you the chance to meet your demise on your own terms, and you refused it. Your life is mine now, and I'll do with it as I choose."
She wanted to cry. She wanted to shout and scream and rail against him, but it was all pointless; nothing she did mattered. She only stayed limp in his arms, staring blankly at the lengthening shadows.
He gave her a gentle shake. "Don't check out on me, Claire. I need you for a while longer."
"Is that why you're holding me? You think it'll what, comfort me? Encourage me?"
"Hardly." He laughed softly. "There's actually a very simple explanation: I don't want you to freeze to death during the night."
"Corpses don't give off much warmth."
"You do have a way with words, dear heart. I quite enjoy you. I may even miss you when you're gone; I've become... accustomed to your presence."
She shuddered. But in spite of what she'd said, he did give off heat -- not as much, she was sure, as a mortal man, but enough to draw her close as the night-time cold crept in. She despised herself for pressing against him but she couldn't resist.
Claire opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. "I know. You hate me."
"No. I hate me."
"Whatever for?"
He sounded genuinely surprised, and she tried to pull back to look at him. He wouldn't let her. "Are you kidding?"
"You're a foolish young woman, Claire, but it's not worth hating yourself. You know you're likely to die in the near future. I suggest you make peace."
"You're a bastard."
"Hardly that."
She tried once more to twist free, but he anticipated her move and kept her locked in place. Heaving a sigh, she gave up and sagged against him. She might as well try to sleep. At least then she could forget about her whole wretched situation.
But she'd forgotten that, for a time at least, she'd found Wesker attractive. Now, wrapped in his arms, held on his lap, surrounded by his warmth, she found those same feelings stirring. What the hell is wrong with you? she screamed at herself. This man is a monster at best! You're sitting here now because he forced you! He's planning to kill everyone you love and then you! How can you possibly be attracted to him?
Stockholme Syndrome, a voice at the back of her brain informed her. She told it to shut the hell up. That might be fine for some people but she was Claire Redfield and Claire Redfield didn't get Stockholme Syndrome, damn it, especially not with Albert Wesker.
Her exhausted mind was flip-flopping so fast she could barely keep up with it. Hovering on a precipice, she teetered between curling into his neck and trying to plunge her fingers into his eyes. But then all at once, he made the decision for her. His hand curled in her hair and drew her, gently but firmly, onto his shoulder. She froze as his fingers brushed her neck. "Sleep, dear heart," he commanded quietly. "Give yourself a night of peace."
"I don't understand you," she whispered, accepting his dominance because it cost too much effort to fight.
"No," he agreed, holding her close. "Believe it or not, that's for the best."
"But why?"
His hand brushed her hair again. A chill raced down her spine, and her eyes drifted close of their own volition. "Sleep," he repeated, and whether because she'd exhausted herself or because she'd become accustomed to obeying his orders, she did.