~ Wilted ~

~ Bad Tidings ~

December 24th 1997, Arkly Lab, Arkly Mountains, Outskirts of Racoon City

My Grandfather is a busy man, or so he tells me in his rare letters, but there are three days a year he bothers to grace me with his invaluable presence.

My birthday, my Mother's birthday, and Christmas Eve. Today being the latter.

His visits rarely differ. I am to dress nicely for dinner, in a dress he provides, and then join him at a punctual time. The food is always the best, because it doesn't come from a specific diet sheet, or lab concoction. We talk about research, or breakthroughs regarding myself, sometimes we will slip into casual conversation, and at the end he will give me a present.

So it has been, so it will always be.

So why is it, as I stand and stare at myself in the cracked mirror over the basin in my room, that I feel more ridiculous than ever. The dress he has provided is thick crimson velour, but it cinches in at my waist, and flairs out to just above my knees, resembling something a child might wear. The neckline is high, and my mass of chocolate locks are braided tightly over my shoulder. Grandfather doesn't like it when I let my hair fall in front my face, he says it is unbecoming of a lady, and he would know all about being unbecoming. The man has the moral depth of a teaspoon.

Sighing loudly, I slip on my shoes, the shiny onyx blends in smoothly with my black tights, and I glare hatefully at the image set before me in the mirror.

I look like a doll.

"Well… lets get this over with." I mutter, moving to knock on the door.

It's the signal to tell the security people outside that it is safe to come in.

They do so more promptly than expected, and I am guided into the corridor without a word. One guy in front, and a heavy set woman at my rear. I try to make conversation but I am ignored. I've always suspected that they are not allowed to speak to me on my Grandfather's orders, but obviously I've never been able to confirm.

They aren't the sort to kiss and tell. If they were, they'd be dead.

We walk for longer than I anticipate, though I enjoy the journey through the grounds. Despite the cold, the mansion's gardens are very beautiful; perhaps a little gothic for my liking, but beautiful none the less. Eventually we end up in the main hall I entered on the night of my arrival to Arklay, and I am directed pointedly through the West door.

A long ornate dining room is laid out before me, the only light cast by the candelabras that travel the mahogany table, and the large marble fireplace at the back. The flames dance shadows across the faces of the room's occupants, whom of which are more than I am expecting. Of course there is Grandfather, stern and straight backed in his chair, I look up to find his security team spread around the balcony overheard, constantly watchful. To Grandfather's right is a firm jawed man who I do not recognise, but to his left is William Birkin and Albert Wesker, the latter of which I have barely seen since the unveiling of poor undead Dr. Sife.

It surprises me to find his presence not entirely a terrible thing.

"Ahh, Rosalie! Apologies that this will not be our usual private dinner tonight, but I have asked Birkn, Wesker and Dr. Clemens to join us. There is much to discuss after all, and my time is not plentiful."

"Of course, Grandfather. How are you?" I ask, my reply practised and automatic. I kiss him briefly on the cheek, as is expected, and turn dutifully to the other three. "Gentleman, I do hope you are well this evening."

Clemens chivalrously jumps up and offers me his chair. I thank him politely and sit down, turning my attention back to Grandfather.

"What have you been discussing?" I ask, unfolding my napkin across my lap. Food had yet to be brought out, but I can barely wait. "Anything I might find of interest?"

Grandfather nods, taking a gentle sip from his wine glass. "Birkin's research is coming along nicely. I am happy with it's progress."

I turn to the doctor who has basically become an enigma, and smile lightly. "Yes, Dr. Birkin, I'd heard you'd scurried away to pastures new. Is the grass as green on the other side as you'd thought it would be?"

Birkin offers me what is perhaps the most tired glare I have ever seen, and shrugs his shoulders with about as much energy as a dying slug. Has he always been so shell-like?

"My research is everything, though it has slowed down of late due to lack of subjects. Really, Lord Spencer, if you could speak to Irons? He is becoming more and more obtuse, and we are so close to cracking 'G''s code. The delays are too much."

I frown. What the hell is G?

But before I can question him further, Grandfather immediately waves him off.

"I have already spoken to Chief Irons. I've informed him that if he would like to keep his elevated position, then he will be of assistance to you. But, William, if you are going to continue to use the orphanage as a subject source, then you must plan ahead for times when test subjects are few. Funding does not simply grow on trees, and there are other ventures that need my economic support."

"Yes, Sir, but – "

Did he say orphanage?

"You're using children?" The words tumble from my mouth messy and unplanned, and I feel the other's gazes switch to me.

My eyes are wells of deep dislike, but Birkin merely scoffs.

"Save me your judgement. I wouldn't expect you to understand how important my work is. Their forgettable lives are more than worth the sacrifice for a greater future."

My gaze steels. "They're children. How can – "

"Rosalie."

Grandfather's voice is quiet, but it embodies the familiar warning of distant thunder, and I turn.

"Yes, Grandfather?"

"William is our guest. His work will help pave the way to a brighter future for mankind. A goal to which any sacrifice is worth it's moral price. I will hear no more about it."

My hands ball into tiny fists, and I feel my nails bite my palms. Of course he agrees with the mad scientist. He is one.

Grandfather click his fingers, and his manservant Patrick; who had been hidden beside a pillar, dutifully brings forward a bottle of red. He proceeds to refill the emptying glasses, before offering the bottle to me.

"Miss Spencer?" He asks, leaning pointedly over my glass.

I nod abruptly, allowing the glass to be filled before snatching it up angrily off of the table.

"Thank you, Patrick." I mutter grudgingly.

He inclines his head, and informs us he will go and check upon dinner. Watching him go, I take a large gulp of red. It was going to be a long night.

"Clemens, how is the new researcher settling in?" Grandfather asks abruptly, an obvious attempt to change subject.

Like he cares about such things.

"Ada Wong?" Clemens replies regardless, and I can't help but notice the inflection when he says her name. Someone has a crush. "She's fitting in quite well, Sir. Certainly enthusiastic."

"Good." Grandfather nods. "Good. We can't afford to lose any more from the project." I feel his icy gaze turn to me, and I prepare for a lecture. "No more accidents, Rosalie. You were lucky the incident with Sife worked to our advantage. What a waste it could have been, had it not been for Wesker's quick thinking of using him as a test subject."

"Yes, very lucky." I mutter darkly, staring into the ruby contents of my glass. "The luckiest girl in all the world."

Grandfather laughs, but not with humour. It is a malignant thing, mocking, and sighing loudly his mouth gives way to a smile.

"Save us your insolence, child." He warns quietly, subtly shaking his head. He clicks his tongue. "The fates bestow upon you the power of a god, and you – "

"Gods do not spend their lives trapped in sterile cages!" I snap, unable to bridle my irritation any longer.

So much for remaining nonchalant.

He waves me off with the same arrogance he did Birkin, and takes an effortless sip of wine. "I will not waste my time with these petty debates, Rosalie. We are here to discuss business, not listen to your pointless tantrums."

His words incite a flicker of madness, and I laugh, shaking my head despairingly before taking another large gulp of my own wine. The warmth of the velvet liquid spreads across my chest, and I think about how much I hate him. Honestly, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to ram the butter knife straight through his thinning jugular, but alas it is Christmas, and I settle for allowing my imagination to run wild instead.

At least for the time being.

.

"Whatever you say, Grandfather. You are the expert on these things."

My voice is heavily sarcastic, but he allows me my snub, knowing no doubt, that he will ensure it comes back to bite me at a later date.

Eventually Patrick returns with dinner, and we dine. The men continue to talk about the progress of their research, and I continue to pay attention. There is talk of the Military, and Bio-weapons, and the other Umbrella founders. Some things I had already worked out for myself, others are a surprise. The word 'Tyrant' is mentioned, but they barely elaborate. Conversations unfold, and I finish my meal, determined to drink my fill in wine, and discover if I can consume enough alcohol to have it actually have an effect. It was a challenge with my metabolism, but one I was more than happy to accept.

From time to time, I catch Wesker looking at me, the others don't seem to notice, too busy reorganising the world, but I do. Clemens is also strangely quiet. The research talk appears to make him increasingly uncomfortable, and I can't help but feel that perhaps he is out of his depth at this table.

The sheep should never meet with the wolves.

More time passes, and Grandfather grows weary of talk. He snaps his fingers, and two of the security team are beside him, a small parcel in each of their hands. Nodding, he gestures to me.

"Take Rosalie back to her quarters, I wish to retire." He orders abruptly, motioning for them to give me the parcels.

I stand and pile them carefully into my arms. "Thank you, Grandfather." I say, though even I can hear how grudging undertones.

He shakes his head. "It is only a small trinket. Wesker informs me you appear bored of late. Perhaps this will help to alleviate that."

"Oh." I look at Wesker, who is now standing himself, checking something on his pager. "Thank you."

I am about to politely make my goodbyes, when the former interrupts me.

"Lord Spencer, my apologies, but it appears I am needed down at the lab. Perhaps I can save your team the trouble, and escort Miss Spencer back to her room myself?"

I frown at Wesker's uncharacteristically servile demur, and expect my Grandfather to refuse him. I am not only his Granddaughter, I am a priceless research specimen, and security is paramount. Yet to my surprise, my Grandfather allows it, barely giving me a second glance, as we go our separate ways, and Wesker and I smoothly make our way out into the hall.

We are back on the elevator before Wesker speaks again.

"I like your dress." He murmurs, and I do not miss the subtle mocking beneath the compliment.

I can't blame him, I look like something from the Victorian era.

"I hate it." I reply, subconsciously pulling at the collar. "He dresses me like a doll."

Wesker chuckles. "You could refuse to wear it."

"Yes, that's likely to work out well." I answer sarcastically, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the dress' restricting nature. I tug irately at the bodice. "What happened the last time you refused my Grandfather?"

"I never have." He replies quietly, and I cannot help but roll my eyes.

Of course. You don't get to be where Wesker is by pissing off Lord Spencer.

Finally the descent ends, and we travel the corridors to my room in silence. To my surprise, the rundown but familiar surroundings comfort me. I spy my loose sweats folded neatly where I left them, and disregarding my gifts, I eagerly reach for the corset tie at the back of my dress, desperate to be free of it.

"I would have thought you'd prefer me to leave before you get undressed, Miss Spencer?"

I freeze, realising I'd forgotten myself and Wesker's prescience. I glare over my shoulder, as if to say 'duh', and he smiles.

"However," he takes a bold step forward. "I am aware that these types of dresses can be difficult."

My lips part to argue, but before I can object he is behind me. I feel the heat his body tauntingly emits, and my own rises rather pathetically to my cheeks.

Words do not come easy, and I drop my gaze to the ground.

"What would you know about such things." I breathe, trying and failing to sound superior.

He laughs softly against my ear. "You'd be surprised."

I swallow hard, and he appears to take my silence for assent, as his fingers begin the steady task of unfurling the tight ribbons of my corset. I remind myself to breathe, but he is more skilled than he should be, and I soon feel the cool air tingle my skin as it reacts to sudden exposure.

I hold the front of the dress against my chest. "Thank you." I mumble quietly.

Wesker doesn't reply. Instead I feel his fingertips brush my spine, inciting a barely concealed shiver from me, before drawing a slow and purposeful path down.

I clear my throat, try to distract myself. "What are you doing?"

"Checking for scars, Miss Spencer." He lies, and my eyes close as his touch continues to explore with feather-light caresses. I hear him hum with approval, and I fear I imagine him pressing himself closer, because then in the next breath he is away, standing with his key card at the door, and leaving me once more.

"No scars, doctor?" I question softly, though we both know what the answer will be.

"None." He answers.

I frown. I do not fully understand what is happening, what just happened, but I nod my head thoughtfully.

"Goodnight then."

"Goodnight, Miss Spencer."

He turns to leave, and I try to regain my composure.

"Albert?"

He looks over his shoulder.

"Merry Christmas."

R&R!

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