Chapter 4: Penetration

"The pain bred beginning, blessing even as it robbed. She made a soundless plea for the sweet torture to go on forever."

New York, October

In the middle of the night, she watched him sleep. The curl of smoke from her perfect lips highlighted the smooth line of her brow. She made a picture, curled like a cat in her white leather chair, her long legs draped lazily over the arm, her perfect breasts shadowed by the line filtered light obscured by the clouds outside of the wide open doors to her terrace.

The eternal mystery of him would never fail to surprise her. Even now, in repose, with sheets wrapped lazily around one leg and hip, the other left beautifully bare and naked...he was never really resting. It was more like a lion, sleeping but alert, ready to spring to defend or devour. The muscles in his back were fluid where he sprawled on his belly. He was painted with scars in a way that spoke of battle and survival.

He wasn't exactly handsome. There was slant of nose or a spill of jaw that was too masculine for that. The body was above reproach, clearly, all muscle and dedication. She couldn't pinch a single piece of fat on him anywhere. This pleased her as she liked her lover's fit.

She was also wise enough to know that she could play him here, now, and forever. Now that he'd shared her bed, she could rule him. Any woman worth her salt knew how to win a man and control him. Chris Redfield was fascinating, volatile, and emotionally messy...yes. But he could be owned as any man, given the right incentive.

Hadn't she been playing Leon Kennedy for years? And he was light years more clever about the game they were playing.

Redfield wasn't playing any games with her. She wasn't sure how she was sure of that, but she was. He was just here. Just with her. Just enjoying her. She could twist the knife and kill him with careful kindness. She could own him with her passion and her pussy and her playful wit. He simply didn't seem the type to stop her. He was so eagerly open about everything he felt.

She could destroy him and make him her puppet. He was NO Albert Wesker.

She could rule the BSAA through him if she pushed hard enough. He was such a fragile thing. He was searching for something. She could take the advantage here and OWN him.

What was it that held her back from that?

A year ago, the promise of ruling through a figurehead like Chris Redfield would have appealed to her.

But she found she didn't WANT to betray him...and it was an interesting feeling indeed.

She couldn't help but remember the moment she'd decided to turn aside from her own game, just a for a moment, and begin to play his.

Island, Off the Coast of China, June -2013

One Year Prior...

The sound of the waves in his ears soothed him. The sweet scent of sand and summer sun, the pleasing aroma the wind in the trees that danced with coconuts, and the promise of a castaway on an island created to give life to literary forays into adventure…these things made the beach on which he lay feel so peaceful, so dreamlike…that he almost forgot why he was there.

He almost forgot why he was alive…and his partner wasn't.

Making a small sound of pain, Chris Redfield opened his eyes to the coastline of some spit of land in the middle of nowhere. The first sound that came from his mouth was a small whine of pain. But it wasn't the pain that comes from having your ass kicked, although that was in there somewhere, it was the pain of knowing what was lost.

How many times was it his fate to survive when he lost everyone around him?

How many times was he meant to the last man standing?

Coughing up water, he rolled to his back to stare up at the cloudless sky above him. A pretty view, no doubt about that, if there was a willing woman jumping on his dick it would be a better moment too. Who was he kidding? The last thing he wanted was a good fuck.

He was already fucked. He'd let the kid die down there. He'd led him first into that goddamn mess in Waiyip and gotten the rest of his unit assassinated out of rage and stupidity…and now this. THIS. The last fucking person to have believed in his useless ass was dead. Obliterated. Blown up after having turned into the very thing they'd been trying to destroy.

For the BSAA, Piers had vowed as he'd pushed him into that pod, I'm doing it for what I believe. You're my Captain. And the world needs Chris Redfield.

Jill, in his ear as she'd pulled him from the clutches of that monster in the Spencer Estate, moments before she'd taken Albert Wesker out the window to save him…the world needs Chris Redfield.

The world needs Chris Redfield.

His fucking heart hurt.

Why?

The world needed a useless drunk?! The world needed a fuck up? A failure? A pathetic mess? What kind of world needed that!?

What kind of world needed a joke? He was a disgrace. A shadow of his former self. A fool. A dumb bastard that couldn't even properly heal his own pain to keep doing that one damn thing he'd promised to do: go down fighting.

But Piers had.

Piers had died fighting for him.

And now he was the last man alive, lying the sand, mourning a boy that had been like a brother…or a son.

The pain of that echoed.

He'd never stopped to think about children. Not in years. Not since Jill had refuted his marriage proposal after Raccoon City and they'd dedicated themselves to the fight. They'd lost each other in the fray of it, the relationship had died a peaceful death, and the fight had taken over as their only real passion.

But children were not something one risked in their line of work.

So the fatherly love he felt for Piers annoyed him.

The kid wasn't young enough to be a son to him anyway. Yeah, he was older. But he wasn't THAT FUCKING OLD. Chris stopped to think about the age difference.

He was kinda afraid he was wrong about that. He was half sure he was TWICE AS OLD as Piers had been. Lord.

It was TIME TO RETIRE.

But he'd made a vow to that kid to keep going.

He had to honor that.

He didn't want to get up off the beach.

A rustle of leaves disturbed his maudlin reflection and Chris rolled without thinking. It was training, skill, and instinct that had him on one knee with his pistol pointed at the face that waited in the tree line for him.

A bird cawed happily somewhere behind her.

But she was DEAD.

The gun went off, the woman dove to avoid it, and he tracked her as she moved.

He shouted, loud and commanding, "You BITCH! I don't know how the hell you survived that fall. I don't care! I'm gonna watch you die choking on your own blood!"

From behind a tree, the soft sound of her voice echoed, "Mr. Redfield – perhaps we should try a different foot to start off on here. I'm Ada Wong."

"I know who the hell you are!"

"No. I'm afraid you don't. You are, I'm sure, acquainted with Carla Radames. She wore my face it seems, but didn't possess my brains. She was a dumb shadow of me, I assure you. And a heartless bitch. I can claim, of course, to be a bitch and often quite heartless…but I'm not responsible for her actions any more than you are."

Chris rose to his feet, considering. She was still behind the tree. It would be easy enough to kill her the moment she emerged. But she hadn't offered him violence.

In fact, she'd stood there looking at him before he'd shot with her hands UP. She'd been showing herself unarmed.

Chris, breathing hard and slow, inquired, "I'm just supposed to trust you?"

"Of course not. But you did see her die, correct? Unfortunately, she didn't. Her body simply transformed. I covered you to be sure you escaped, for which you're welcome."

He said nothing.

Ada continued, "But I made sure doubly sure she was eradicated before I torched the ship and the lab and the lies she'd brought with her. I'm afraid I stole your revenge, but I'll make my mea culpas by saying I deserved a bit of revenge myself…she did, after all, steal my identity and make quite a mess in my name."

Chris waited, breathing in and out. It would be easy enough to validate what she was saying. So, he lowered the gun and called back, "Come out. I won't shoot you."

"Very considerate of you." The tone was mocking. It was a little amused. It was dry and sarcastic.

The moment her face appeared, he wanted to blow her away.

That goddamn face of hers had haunted him for so long. The betrayal. The rage. It stole his breath. He dropped the gun into the sand to be sure he wouldn't shoot her without meaning to.

Ada approached him, carefully. She wore red; a smooth red shirt, a pair of clinging leather pants. There was something different about her then the woman who'd died on that ship. What was it?

Ada answered the question for him. "If Carla had really been me, Mr. Redfield, she wouldn't have gotten caught."

The second the gun hit the sand, she moved closer to him. She had something in her hand. He backed up and she stopped, tilting her head.

"It's gauze. You're bleeding."

She held out the gauze and he took it, watching her like a hawk. She remained motionless, harmless, if a snake in the grass could be harmless.

He pressed the gauze above his right eye, stopping the bleeding there.

Ada mused, "You can contact anyone you want to verify. But Simmons is done. Birkin and Muller were retrieved. Leon Kennedy and his partner are safe. The world is right again."

Chris laughed, harshly. "Yeah? My partner is dead. My team died in China chasing your doppelganger. Right again? I'd say the world is shit, lady. No question about that."

Ada smirked a little, amused. "So it would seem. Although I think you don't give your partner any credit."

Chris felt his chest hitch, hard. "What are you talking about?"

"I came upon him before the lab exploded. He was mostly dead, yes, and the virus effects may not be reversible…but he's alive. I managed to get him onto the escape pod that remained before the final explosion."

Chris felt the thunder of his pulse in his ears, "He's alive?"

"He's alive. And currently enroute to a hospital in Beijing with a contingent of your men."

Their gazes held in the sunny heat. She told him an impossible story. It started in Tall Oaks. It ended in Lanshiang. And finished on this beach.

Would he ever be able to look at her and not see the horrible woman that had once held her face?

She'd saved Piers. She'd come here to save him. She'd saved Leon Kennedy. She'd finished the woman who'd killed in her name and ruined her reputation. She'd taken care of Simmons. She was a bad guy…? Was she?

Did a bad guy save the day?

Chris queried, quietly, "What do you want from me?"

Ada studied him, curious about the hatred still flickering around him. For her? Or himself? "Nothing. Save that you clear my name and free me from the shackles of her stupidity. My reputation is worth dying for."

Curious, he watched her eyes. "You're a spy, Ada. What kind of reputation do you think you have?"

"Maybe I'm underhanded, Mr. Redfield. But I'm not without conscience. I don't kill for sport. I don't kill at all if I can avoid it. And I don't serve Albert Wesker, his son, or his purpose…I never did. I played his game. But I did it for my own reasons. And I don't hurt people around me that don't deserve it. Not if I can avoid it. A spy I might be, yes, but not a killer. I won't let the world see me like that. That bitch doesn't get to die and take my reputation with her. I've worked too hard to make a name for myself in the right circles, I won't see that destroyed because Simmons had a crush."

They remained facing each other in the salty sea air.

Finally, he remarked, "Who do you work for, Ada?"

With a small laugh, Ada shrugged a shoulder, "Whomever I want. Currently? I'm freelance."

The gauze was soaked through. The blood spilled into his eye and had him cursing a little. He went very still when her hands touched his face and wiped at his skin.

He let her, watching her controlled expression.

And his voice said, "I want you to come work for me."

Amused, Ada released his face. He pressed the fresh gauze to his weeping head laceration. They held gazes, one amused, one dead serious.

Finally, Ada drawled, "I don't think that would be a good fit, Mr. Redfield. Your face says you hate me."

"….not you. Not you." He turned, sighing. "Not you."

"Yes. Not me. But me." She waited, watching the struggle on him. A big man, she mused, and often touted amongst their world as a handful of things: dedicated, resourceful, skilled, professional. And lately? A mess. A disgrace.

She found herself intrigued that he would offer.

It surely cost him something to offer to work with a woman he clearly despised. Again, not HER, not exactly. But her face. He was a fascinating thing, to be sure.

Ada mused, "Convince me."

Chris turned, meeting her eyes, "What?"

"Convince me. They say you are a ruthless force. Convince me. Why should I work for you?"

There were a lot of things he could have said. A thousand. A million. A gazillion ways he could have won her.

He went for the jugular with a single phrase and defeated her where she stood. "Because I'm not Albert Wesker. And I may be the only person on Earth who hated him more than you."

Ruthless indeed. And maybe a mess, Ada mused, but also a man. Just a man, trying to make a difference. She didn't care about altruism, not on a given day, not usually…but she cared about dedication. And he was dedicated to what he did.

So she was interested to find she respected him.

And at the end of the day? The enemy of her enemy was her friend. Working WITH Chris Redfield would afford her opportunities that working behind the scenes didn't. Business wise, it was a good move to work beside him. It would allow her to move in legitimate circles without fear of exposure or censure. It would grant her the ability to keep the US Government at bay about her dealings. She wasn't opposed to dealing her cards in the dark, but playing them in the open was so much better. It meant she didn't have to watch her ass quite as diligently.

Ada finally answered him, quietly, "I accept…on a conditional basis and under the guiding premise that I may, without notice, quit being your ally."

Chris laughed now. The first laugh he'd had in so long. He just laughed and felt a little better. "Agreed. You saved Piers, Ada. And me. And by extension, my company. With the exception of murdering a bus load of school kids, I can't think of anything I won't let you do at your own behest and of your own free will here. I'm a fucking mess, Ada, but I'm a good man to work for I promise you that."

"With."

His gaze turned form the horizon to her face.

She said it again, quietly, "With, Mr. Redfield. A good man to work – with."

And so it began, the start of a very interesting partnership.

New York, August -2013

The sounds of rage spilled up and down the narrow hallway. It chased a crying girl from the room in a clatter of breaking furniture and curse words so filthy they singed the ears.

Curious, Claire Redfield watched the fleeing girl in the maroon scrubs with interest.

She'd come to see the recovering partner that had helped her brother survive beneath the ocean. She'd felt like it was something a good sister did. She knew Chris came to visit twice a week when his schedule allowed. She knew the partner, Piers Nivans, was progressing through his rehabilitation well and often tried harder on days when Chris would visit.

She knew, also, that he was resistant to suggestions about leaving the facility. His deformity prevented him from being willing to look in mirrors or brave the world beyond the hospital. He needed a firm hand to guide him.

He needed a Redfield kick in the ass.

Chris was babying him. It was the wrong tactic.

So sometimes it took a woman to do a man's job.

She eased open the door to the physical therapy gym. The place was wreck. Nivans had through balls and broken shelves with weights. He'd kicked over a row of benches and was currently trying to over turn the therapy pool.

To stop him, Claire mused loudly, "Wanna tell me what good it would do to flood the gym?"

He stopped, panting hard, and turned to face her.

It was worse than they'd let on.

They'd reffered to his form as traumatized.

He wasn't. He was worse. He was a fucking mess.

His bio picture had shown a man so handsome that he was nearly painfully pretty; young, eager, and beautiful in that way that reminded her of Leon when he was young. Piers had that sharp intelligence and careless good nature that made his gorgeous face shine. It was nowhere on the defeated man before her.

The body was still in excellent shape. He was tall, muscled, and mostly naked save for the pants he wore low on his hips. But the damage from the virus that had ravaged unchecked through his body was obvious. The arm that had converted was still covered in scales and scars. The hand at the end of the arm was weak, they said, and couldn't even hold a cup. He had it curled up and under as it were hurting.

From the wrist to the elbow, the skin was ravaged in scars and shiny webbed scales like a fish. It tracked across his upper chest and collarbone, ending in an almost pretty lacy web of marks on his neck. All of that marked him as a warrior. It wasn't so bad.

Not really.

The face was bad.

It was really bad.

He was half model beautiful, half melted nightmare.

His face was almost running candle wax on one side. The pretty eye on the good side of his face was mirrored by a red veined, filmy, angry brother in the ruined one. There was blood circling the iris that told the story of intense trauma to the face. It looked like someone had dripped oil down just one side of that lovely expression.

The skin was boiled, red, inflamed and puckered. The lips curled a little from the scarring, showing a nice set of white teeth beyond. Claire eyed him without a single thing on her face.

No pity. No sorrow. Nothing.

Although she felt both.

But neither would help him now.

Instead, she walked into the room. "I'd heard you a good patient, even friendly. Not seeing the good part here. You wanna talk about what's making you so mad?"

Piers snorted and spun away. "Like you care? I don't need some little nurse coming in here to stop me. Go away and leave me alone."

Claire stuck a hand on her hip, watching him. "Not a nurse, thank god for that, as I don't do well wiping asses. And I don't do well wiping boogers off boohoo babies either. What are you sniveling about in here? You're alive, aren't you? You'd rather be dead than fucked up? That's just stupid."

Piers spun back now and the rage on his face was legion. She liked it. It showed he wasn't completely lost. The rage was GOOD. The rage was ALIVE.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, lady!? I ask your opinion on my problems? Get the hell out of here!"

"Turns out your problems are kinda mine too, angry guy. Since you're in them because of my brother."

He stopped and turned back, panting, face dawning now from rage to horror.

"Oh yeah. That's right. I'm Claire Redfield. Chris' sister."

Piers made a small sound of regret. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't know. Just…don't tell him ok? Don't tell him about this."

Interesting.

Why was he afraid of that?

Claire moved to help him as he went to start straightening the gym. "Ok. You want to tell me why it matters so much that I don't?"

Piers shook his head, using his good hand to right the fallen shelf. She noticed he kept the bad one pressed to his chest. "I don't want him to blame himself. It's not his fault. Any of it. I know he comes by out of guilt. I know he hangs around out of loyalty or misplaced regret…or something. I just…I don't want him to think I'm struggling. It will make it worse for him."

Claire felt something shift in her chest a little. He'd died trying to save his Captain. The eager puppy he'd been had followed Chris like a little brother to a hero. He'd sacrificed himself…and survived. And now his hero was coming to sit by his bedside and make him feel like his sacrifice had been for nothing.

He felt like Chris was visiting him out of guilt.

It broke her heart to know it.

He didn't know Chris at all. Guilt wasn't his motivator here. Loyalty? Yeah. It was loyalty. But if he was coming to visit this kid twice a week unprompted, it was also devotion. And love.

Love.

And not the kind that had pity behind it.

How to explain to the kid the level of love in Chris Redfield?

Claire mused, quietly, "When my parents died, I couldn't get out of bed for three days. Chris was barely grown himself. A baby really, looking back on it, young and scared. He didn't get to grieve because I stole that from him. I fell apart, badly, and he had to put me back to gether. Sometimes…"

She sat down beside Piers on the bench they righted together. He was watching her now, so quietly, "Sometimes he had to put me in the shower when I'd be too drunk to do it myself. I started drinking really bad after they died. And I was bad about it. I was twelve, angry, and looking for somebody to blame. Chris was eighteen and fighting so hard to keep me when DFS wanted to put me in a home…"

She shifted, remembering, "I stole booze from gas stations. I robbed my friend's parent's fridges. I started getting hammered nightly. If DFS found out, I knew I was done. They'd take me from Chris. He never…he didn't push me. He just kept picking me up. One night…I came in so wasted, throwing up and crying. He held my hair and cleaned me up off the floor. He put me to bed. And he could have yelled. He could have smacked me or let DFS take me, god knew I deserved it. I was a fucking mess. My parent's, wherever they were, were ashamed of me."

Claire shifted to meet his gaze now. Piers held it, unflagging. She liked the interest on his face. It was engaging. And there was no pity. Just understanding.

Claire intoned, "He didn't do any of those things, Piers. He cleaned me up, got me dressed, and put his arm around me. I struggled, afraid of that kind of comfort, and he just kept holding on. He didn't let go. Even when I started sobbing and shaking. He kept on holding on. Humming this song my mother sang to us when we were little and scared. He kept holding on."

She shifted, feeling the spark of tears in the memory of it. In one hand, a good memory. It had been the moment they'd bonded together. The age difference had been hard for them growing up. Chris had always been kind of a disaster. A trouble maker, arrogant and rude and disrespectful. She'd been a good girl to counteract his legacy of making a mess.

When their parents had died, he'd stepped up and became the best thing in the world to her. The bond had shifted, grown, and clung. They were now inextricably linked, more than brother and sister, he'd finished raising her. He'd paid for her college, bought her the first box of tampons she'd ever needed, held her when the first boy she'd ever loved had dumped her. He'd come across the world to save her, she'd run into Raccoon City to save him.

He was her brother, her best friend, her hero. She understood Piers feelings about him. The worship, the love, the need to earn his affection and his respect. She was still doing it. All these years later, she was still trying to atone for being a fucking asshole after their parents had died.

And she finished her statement to the boy that needed hope now, like she'd needed hope all those years ago….and found it in her brother. "He sticks, Piers. When he loves you? He sticks."

Piers shifted a little, red faced now with embarrassment.

Claire touched his arm and stole his breath. He tried to find any kind of pity on her face and saw nothing but kindness. He noted that they had the same eyes. Her and his Captain? The same eyes.

And the same kindness in both sets.

Claire avowed, softly, "You saved his life. And now he comes to sit beside you while you're healing. Maybe it's not perfect…but it's love, Piers. It's love. The kind that comes from a man who never asked me for a damn thing after my parent's died. Not a damn thing. And kept right on holding on even when I couldn't."

Piers felt something in his throat that scared him. He felt the squeeze of a single tear from his ruined eye and wanted to panic. But she was so calm. So calm.

And then she whispered, "It's ok. It's OK. Feel it. That's how this gets better. It's how you get better…and how you give that love back to him without him ever really knowing."

The small sob cleared his throat and made her lean a little closer. His hand lifted and laid over hers…his bad one. And it touched her to feel it.

They sat together while he wept, softly, so softly, and silently shared the love of the man who'd saved both their lives…and never let go.