Chapter 5: Maturation

"Gasping, grasping, guileless and lost – she plummeted. And reveled in each helpless breath."

New York, November

The mountains of paperwork that came with a failed field operation were endless. Chris figured, dejectedly, he'd be sitting at his desk until he was old and gray and wizened. He glanced up from his desk to see his reflection in the window across from him.

So maybe he was already old and gray…a little. But he wasn't wizened. Not yet anyway. Maybe he was a little wrinkly. But he'd earned every one of them. He was forty fucking years old…what was he supposed to look like?

The scattering of pictures on his desk answered that question.

Leon Kennedy's perfect face stared up at him from eight different angles. Apparently, the failed mission operative felt the need to snap selfies with the director of the DSO instead of taking pictures of the mess she'd made. Kennedy was what? Five years younger than him? And yet the fucking guy looked the same as he had the first time they'd met after Rockfort Island. Good genes, better grooming, and the right kind of luck apparently.

Leon Kennedy didn't look old.

Chris turned his eyes to the other person in the photos. Ada.

Ada and Kennedy standing side by side against the backdrop of the mess of an outbreak gone wrong in Bangladesh. Ada – looking perfect and unruffled and lovely and timeless. And Kennedy looking like a million bucks in designer boots.

Annoyed, Chris shoved the photos aside.

The little niggle of jealousy surprised him. He wasn't a man given to it. And he wasn't even sure that anything was happening there between them anyway. The rumors suggested they'd been dancing for over a decade, sure. But rumors also said that Albert Wesker had been sleeping with her too.

So, the rumors weren't always true.

He wasn't sure about Kennedy. Leon was a ladies man. He was known to throw it down and leave them happy. Chris wasn't 100% sure that he and Ada hadn't been sleeping together. But he was sure about Wesker.

She'd never outright said they weren't but something in him was sure of it. Wesker was a lot of things, but he didn't diddle those he considered his "underlings" and he didn't stick it to his co-workers either. Excella Gionne had tried and failed. And Chris knew Jill hadn't been touched by him that way either the whole time she'd been in his control. Wesker didn't fuck the help. Ada didn't usually either, so he knew it was a step way outside of her comfort zone that she was currently sleeping with Chris at all.

But he didn't like the jealousy about Kennedy. He didn't like jealousy at all. It was a stupid, baseless, emotion. But there it was anyway.

There was a brief little knock on the door and his gaze turned to see his sister in the doorway.

She had on a little camel hair colored coat and a sloppy red ponytail and carried a pie in one hand. She grinned a little. "You realize it's Thanksgiving, big guy?"

Nope.

He'd forgotten.

Amused, Chris shrugged a little. "Guilty. Forgot. You bring me pie?"

"Looks that way." She stepped into the office and laid the pie on his desk. "It's a bribe."

Laughing, he leaned back in his chair to look at her.

She liked the look of him in this office. He reminded her of their Dad. The half suit he wore was flattering. It was navy slacks and a baby blue shirt rolled up his forearms and missing the tie. The jacket was carelessly tossed over the back of his chair. It made his eyes kind of startlingly blue in the setting sun beyond the wall of windows behind him.

Yeah, Claire mused, just like their Dad. It was insane how much he was the twin of their patriarch. The red hair she claimed came from him too but Chris had their mother's dark Hungarian looks.

If you took their father's face and threw their mother's hair and eyes on it, you had Chris. It was crazy. But most days? It was also comforting.

"What's the bribe, kid? You kill somebody and need an alibi?"

Claire chuckled and perched a hip on the desk. "Nope. I'm taking an impromptu Turkey Day dinner up to Piers at the hospital. I hoped I could snag you as my partner in crime."

No hesitation, he just said, "You bet. I was thinking of doing that anyway. Of course, I was gonna bring him a bucket of KFC."

Claire kept her face deadpan, "Christopher….it's Thanksgiving. You can't bring the guy fried chicken. TURKEY. Not chicken."

"C-Bear. It's all white meat. What dif?"

"It's Thanksgiving, Christopher. You can't bring the guy a bucket of lard and clogged arteries.."

"Why? Is that foul? Is it foul to bring the wrong fowl?"

Claire kept her face droll.

Chris grinned a little and waited for her to crack.

It didn't take long.

She snorted and rolled her eyes, chuckled, and rose to her feet. "You are dumb."

"You love me."

"Looks that way." Claire shifted a little, "Don't take this wrong but you seem better. You're joking again. You're going out more. I actually swear I saw you at the Opera last week but I must have been NUTS because there's NO WAY you'd go to the Opera."

Amused, Chris rose from his desk and grabbed his jacket. He picked up the pie and followed her toward the door. "I'm fine, kid, really. And I was at the opera, thank you very much. I get the impression you're saying I don't have any class."

"You have plenty of class," They moved toward the elevators together, "It just usually finds you at a Yankees game instead of in a monkey suit watching fat guys sing arias."

"I'm doing this new thing where I go outside my comfort zone and see if I like it."

They elevator chugged happily. Claire liked his face, true, and she really liked the peace on it. He looked…happy. And he hadn't looked happy in a long time.

"How's that workin out for ya?"

"Great." He shifted.

Claire waited.

The silence pulled.

And he admitted, sheepishly, "Opera sucks."

Now she laughed, happily, and bumped his hip with hers. "Yep. Sucks shit. I'm not sure why I went. My date was nice enough. But it's not my thing."

"What about the date? Was he your thing?"

Amused, they crossed the lobby together. Claire remarked, "Nope. Handsome enough. Charming. Makes plenty of money. A doctor. George Hamilton? He was the Chief of Surgery at Raccoon Gen back in the day."

Chris stopped and blinked at her. She realized he'd stopped and turned back. "What?"

"Claire…he's like fifty."

Claire shrugged, laughing with delight, "Soooo? Your point here is what? It was a date, Christopher, not a wedding. He's handsome. He asked. His wife passed a few years ago and he's lonely. So am I, in case you missed the memo. I haven't been out with anybody since Neil. I thought it was a good time to take a chance."

Shaking his head, they moved to climb into the back of the town car she had waiting for them. Settling in, Chris studied her in the low light from the window, "You never said you were lonely."

Claire turned her gaze to his face. They smiled gently at each other.

And she answered, "You've been struggling so much…didn't seem fair to throw my problems on top of that. I can deal with loneliness, Chris. I'm ok."

He lifted his arm and she slid against him, putting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I left you alone, C-Bear. You should have told me. I would have fixed it."

Touched, she laughed a little, "Oh yeah? Gonna build me the perfect man, are you? Maybe you could punch a guy into loving me?"

Chris chortled, kissing her forehead. "I would do it, kid. You know that. You saying no one's caught your interest since Neil?"

Claire shifted, watching the road outside the window whiz by. Someone had, she mused, but it would be hard to explain the why of it to her brother. And it didn't matter anyway…because he wasn't looking back at her anyway. He was so wrapped up in his own misery, he wasn't looking anywhere but at his regret.

She did seem to have a thing for the underdog, for the broken, for the lost, for the nuts. First, there was Steve….poor stupid Steve who'd died so tragically trying to save her. Then there was a series of stupid one night stands and mistakes when she'd had no time to find something real.

There'd been half a shot at something good with Kevin Ryman but she'd blown that by getting scared of her feelings for him and pulling away. She'd left him standing in the airport with two tickets to Spain and three hundred dollars in flight cancelation fees. It was one of her great regrets.

She'd had a horribly brief flirtation with Frederic Downing, who, it seemed, was also a megalomaniacal monster. After getting his ass incarcerated for treason, she'd taken a brief look at her choice in men and panicked a little.

So, she'd been celibate for a while before having a brief affair with a perfectly nice accountant at TerraSave. That had ended with a marriage proposal and her having to decline, politely, and explain she wasn't in love with him. She kept waiting for lightning to strike and to get swept away…instead, she kept getting lost in the emptiness of the wrong relationships.

She'd met Neil and been attracted. They'd had a good run. He was funny and friendly and engaging in bed. And he'd been playing her the whole time. His betrayal had hurt so badly that she'd ENJOYED killing him. The first time she'd ever enjoyed killing. She'd felt JOY the moment he'd died.

And it scared her to death.

She'd gone running away from that like a house on fire and nearly fucked up her friendship with Leon by trying to get him in bed with her in a drunken haze of regret. She'd found him in a bar in Croatia. He'd been a fucking mess himself after a nightmare in the Eastern Slav Republic.

They'd drank too much. They'd leaned on each other.

They'd done it a thousand times before.

They'd hugged.

And her? She'd started groping.

Why not? Her mind had told her. Maybe this is it. Maybe THIS is it. You've been overlooking him all these years. Maybe he's the one. Maybe that's why you can't be happy with anyone else. Maybe it's meant to be Leon Kennedy!

So, she'd pushed her way into the little bathroom in that bar and put her hands all over her best friend. They were both so drunk that, at first, it had been hotter than all holy hell. Leon lived up to his reputation.

He'd pushed her into the wall, put his hands in her pants, and had her screaming and bucking and coming. Both of their heads had been spinning and swirling and their bodies liked it. They liked the groping and sucking and gasping.

Surprisingly, he'd been the one to stop.

He'd had her thrown over the sink on her belly and was going to town on getting her pants off and he'd stopped. She'd looked up, caught his heavy-lidded gaze in the mirror, and seen the moment he retreated. He'd let her go, stumbling a little.

And he'd said, "…shit. SHIT. Claire…this is nuts."

She'd turned and staggered, head SWIRLING, and her hands were all over him again. He was actually retreating from her. He'd tucked her hands against her belly and warned, "Whoa girl. Whoa. What's happening here?"

In her drunken anger, she'd slurred, "It's fucking, Kennedy. You need an instruction manual or something? Take your pants off and fuck me."

He'd kept holding her still against the wall, "You don't want to fuck me, Claire. You're just mad. We both are. Jesus. I'm so fucking drunk. I don't even know what the hell is going on here. Do you?"

"Does it matter? Don't be a faggot. What kinda guy turns down a willing chic? You gay? Or what? Shut up and give it to me."

She might have lost him then. She might have. She was so mean. Such a bitch. Even her drunken brain knew she was a bitch.

But he'd just laughed.

He'd laughed and drug her into him to hold her.

And she'd clung, shaking.

And he'd said, "I'll give it to you, you firey thing, I'll give it to you."

Not the sex, no, the hugging. That's what they both needed. The hugging. The moment he hugged her, she knew it. It was what he was to her. Her best friend. She needed the hugging.

So they'd stood in that bathroom and hugged.

And then? She'd barfed all over him.

And because he was her best friend, he didn't even get mad about it.

But she'd nearly lost him being stupid.

So, in her run of bad boy choices, there was the newest one: Piers Nivans. The possibly resurrected, potentially still infected, emotionally destructive, physically deconstructed mess of a former protégé to her brother. He was all kinds of wrong for her.

For one, he was like eight years younger than her. Which…wasn't a big deal, exactly, but it meant he was ten when she graduated high school. So that…was kinda shitty. It was also a double standard because it shouldn't matter at all. And if Chris was sniffing around a girl eight years his junior, nobody would even give a shit.

She was a cougar.

It was pretty amusing.

They were greeted by the happy staff at the Rehab Hospital. Piers had been here for so long that he was basically indoctrinated as part of the building. He was able to leave. He'd been cleared for months now.

Claire had just recently gotten him to even leave the building.

They took walks around the campus. They had lunch together. They went down to the pond and lingered. They talked and worked on his physical therapy.

But he'd only left the premises ONCE and he'd stayed in the car while she'd gone to the store alone to get something.

He'd gotten out of the car to walk with her on the trail she'd chosen for them. But she'd been careful to be very VERY aware of any other people. It broke her heart.

The year that had passed since he'd been back had been kind to him.

He was still recovering emotionally, it was true, but physically he was at the top of his game. He had full control of his hand again and the virus in his blood had actually given him an innate ability to turn the lights on and off without trying. He seemed to have retained some preternatural control on electricity. It was fascinating to watch him generate lightning from his fingertips like an X-Man or something.

It was the face; she knew that it was entirely his face. It wouldn't get any better. The last consult with a plastic surgeon had confirmed that there was nothing else they could do for him. The last two grafts hadn't taken and he was still badly scarred.

It was better, some, than when he'd first come back. A series of procedures had restored the vision and the beauty of his hazel eyes. They'd taken a good portion of the scarring from his jaw to his nose and smoothed it out. But the eye and the forehead were still badly marked.

Honestly? It had never mattered to her. Ever. He was beautiful. She kept telling him that and meeting with his derision. He couldn't get past the fear of her pity.

There was no pity.

None.

But he didn't believe her.

She wasn't sure how to get through to him. He was so worried about scaring people. He was ashamed of his face. He called himself a monster.

He was happy to see them. They had turkey. They had pie.

He laughed.

They went for a walk in the warm sunshine. It was a cool day, bordering on the evening; the sun was a metallic glow of gold and orange. The grounds were turning brown as they headed toward winter.

Piers wore gray sweats with the sleeves pushed up his arms. Claire held his hand as they walked. The gesture wasn't lost on her brother.

And he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

He wanted her happy. He wasn't sure Piers the right choice for that. The kid was a mess. Worse than that, he was a basket case.

Lips pursed in thought, Chris tailed them as they walked toward the pond.

Piers was saying something to make her laugh. And that helped a little.

Whatever else was true, he cared about her. That was written all over his ravaged face. Would it be enough to keep him from slipping into a depression so deep and wide it killed them both?

There was no telling.

Some kids in the recovery ward were outside playing. The sun was high, it was a good day…and then Piers saw the kids. He froze. He panicked.

He ducked behind her. He cowered a little. He whispered, "Let's go back, Claire. Hurry. Before they see me."

Claire felt the shiver of anger and sympathy. She glanced over her shoulder at her brother. Her expression was so grief stricken. It was asking for what?

Help. And he knew how to give it to her.

Piers started to turn back and Chris grabbed his arm at the elbow. They locked eyes in the dying sun. Piers looked like he'd bolt if given the chance. He begged, softly, "Please, Captain. I can't."

"You're not a coward." Chris spoke coolly, holding that panicked gaze, "Stop being an idiot."

The children playing in the sun looked up as he escorted Piers over to them.

The moment they were close, Piers' whole body, previously contorted in fear and panic, relaxed.

They were kids from the burn unit. They were scarred and missing hair and one only had use of her left hand. The other was mangled and in a cast.

The difference?

The kids were laughing in the sun.

Not cowering.

Chris let go of his arm.

Piers knelt and started talking. The kids gathered around him to listen and laugh.

Chris felt Claire step up beside him. Her hand slid down his arm and gripped, palm to palm. She breathed, softly, "…thank you."

And she sounded choked up. He kissed her temple.

Chris didn't look at her.

If he did, he was afraid they'd both cry. Instead, they watched Piers Nivans play with children in the sun. And, for a brief moment, everything was ok.

He asked, quietly, "Are you in love with him?"

And her answer was soft and earnest, "I think so. How could I not be? He saved your life. He loves you enough to protect you. Maybe that's always been the thing that's missing, ya know? Maybe it needed to be somebody that loves you as much as I do."

Yeah, he thought, if they looked at each other – they were both going to cry.

So to avoid that, Chris laughed a little and teased her, "That's pretty fucking sappy, C-Bear. They're gonna take away your BITCHES WITH BALLS OF STEEL card for saying it."

Claire pinched his side and got a yelp from him for it. "You are a gross misogynist Chris Redfield. And I am ashamed you are my brother."

But she laughed anyway and held on to him while they watched Pier Nivans emerge, just a little more, from the shell of what he'd been.

New York, November

Leaning on his balcony, elbows akimbo, Chris Redfield tried to see the flickering lights of the New York skyline amongst the rapidly surging swell of clouds. The twinkle of bright spots was a bit like bombs over Raccoon City on the morning of its destruction or the sanitation of Valkoinen Mokki...or the suggestion of something less depressing and more beautiful. Perhaps it was the twinkle of lights on a Christmas tree in Times Square or a pretty suggestion of a constellation high in the velvety richness of space.

Amused with his prose, he thought about his sister and her interest in Piers Nivans. The protective brother in him wanted to steer her away. Piers was a good kid but the nurturing side of Claire would try too hard to fix him and he'd end up sucking her dry if he continued to digress. What they'd seen today was hope, true, but Piers had taken a year to come this far. How long would it take before he'd leave that god forsaken shit hospital and get on with his life? Claire would range herself beside him and be sucked into his misery. Chris could hardly abide the idea of it.

"Are the answers to the universe in the dark, Chris Redfield?"

Surprised, he turned. And it was a rare thing to find him caught off guard.

The pleasure of seeing her welded to the annoyance of knowing she'd penetrated his various levels of security without batting an eye to reach his inner sanctum. The BSAA building at night was a fortress. But here she stood, unfazed, in a swirling red duster that looked like good leather and holding a tiny plate in one long-fingered hand. The humor of it spilled out of his mouth with a sharp laugh.

Because the plate had tater tots and a corndog beneath a veil of sheer plastic wrap.

"The Redfield family special?" She teased and twirled the plate a little with a saucy little smile.

The shoes were silk, stones, and sin with straps and ice pick heels. Her legs looked twelve feet long in them.

His mouth watered and it had nothing to do with the tots.

For Ada, it was a curious feeling to see him here. In the moonlight, his chest was a marvel of modern masculinity. It was framed by the dress shirt left carelessly open and the slacks left temptingly unbuttoned. His bare feet were adorable and made a lie of the rest of what had once been a respectable business suit.

She'd been gone for days on assignment and come back to find her machine empty, her voicemail vacant, her cell phone without a text and her email void. A fascinating thing since they'd rarely gone a day without communicating since they'd begun their little affair. The shift of power had happened somewhere here. And she found herself amused and a little unnerved by it.

She couldn't let him think it was all his. That was not how she did business. It wasn't how she did relationships. And it wasn't how she left things. She was the bitch in red. She left no job unfinished and no man in control.

He mused, "I have half a pumpkin pie in the kitchen that Claire let me take home with me. Care to indulge in a slice?"

He was leaning in reverse now on the railing of the balcony. The cold air tickled his chest and left his nipples turgid and excited. She wanted to put her mouth to him and sample. And so she set the plate she carried down on the table beside her and said, "Not exactly what I'm hungry for."

"No?"

"No."

"It's Thanksgiving, Ada. What are you thankful for?"

She tilted her head, studying him. His face was so very alight with amusement. It was time to take command of him again.

Her hands shifted and untied her coat. She pursed her lips on a cat-like smile. "Winning." And she opened the coat.

The teddy and garters she wore were red and black, red and black, red and sex. She was pale skin and torture, lace and silk and satiny temptation. She was a mouth-watering thing that roared into his blood and left him light-headed.

The cold air fanned out of her mouth in a smooth white cloud, he shifted toward her, and her laugh of delight tinkled musically around them.

His arm hooked under her coat and around her narrow waist, he lifted her against him and brought her mouth open with a gasp of need, and turned her toward the railing. She let him set her on it, opened her legs to allow him between, and watched the dense crown of his hair as he savored the flavor of her collarbone and put his teeth to her waiting nipple beneath the cup of the silky teddy.

Ada's breath fell out on a sigh, her fingers gripped the banister beside her hips to hold on, and she let him devour the taste of her while her body was inches from plummeting off the tower to her agonizing death below them. This high, there was nothing but them and the night. It spilled around them in a dark embrace, offering a perfect backdrop to the sinful delight of doing something nefarious and just a little naughty in their place of work.

His breath was warm on her ear, "Did you come to feed me, Ada?"

And her musical laugh put fire in his blood for her, "Yes. I'll come...and feed you."

Lord.

His hands slid her panties away. His palms parted her thighs. The garter, red, red and wanton. Red and wicked. It framed the delight of her body as he knelt in the cold and put his mouth to her.

There was power here that was undeniable Ada thought, desperately surging against the skill of his tongue inside her. Power. The most powerful man in the B.S.A.A. was kneeling between her legs to pleasure her. The power of that was so evocative, so erotic, so catastrophically exciting that she threw her head back and cried out in pleasure with each stroke, each plunge, each swirling skillful pulse of him.

She came hard, gasping, jerking - watching the sinful sight of him now as he licked at her body with a lover's gleeful hunger. His hands played with her breasts as he savored, his mouth left nothing but the throbbing need for him behind. She bucked against his face, grabbed handfuls of his hair, and jerked him up to her.

And commanded him, "Now."

His hand grabbed her throat, startling her, and it wasn't easy. It was rough. Possessive. His other arm looped over her hips and jerked her to him. She barely grabbed handfuls of his arms to hold onto and he surged into her.

Again, she thought madly, not gentle. Not here. Not now.

An animal.

Feral.

The hard, wet, thunderous slap of their joining ripped a shout from her. Too hard, in a way, it throbbed and almost hurt. She pushed a little into his arms as if she'd stop him. And that amused her. Because, if he stopped, she'd kill him.

She gasped, desperately, "Wait."

But he didn't.

It impressed her.

He was, without a doubt, the most tactile lover she'd ever had. His thrusting was as hard as his body. He was, by turns, at her every command or willing to disobey her to please them both. She dropped her hands from his arms to grab the railing again as he shoved himself into her body.

When his pants fell to the balcony, he kicked them away and kept going, never faltering, never losing his rhythm. Maddened, Ada held on while he obliterated her. When he slowed as if to offer her respite, she shouted, "Don't! More!"

And he delivered.

He jerked her off the railing and against him. Her legs wrapped. He kept on thrusting into her as he carried her out of the cold and into his office.

She bucked in his arms, he spilled her over the desk and pushed her legs open at the knees, crudely.

Her nails dropped, dug into the wonderful shape of his ass, and drove down on him. Grunting, he surged forward like a racehorse commanded, thrilling them both with his speed and greed.

Ada felt her body tighten, felt her breath jerk, and she saw the reflection of them in the window beyond his desk. A sight, erotic and arousing and raw, the flap of his shirt still on his torso. The spill of her coat. The sight of her smoky stockings and the red of her shoes.

Power.

There was POWER here between them. A powerful man, a powerful woman - a powerful game she played to see how far she could ride the madness of it and keep him at her command. She craved it.

And him.

He'd commanded her to come once...she did so now, gasping, low and raspy and dark. "Now. Chris - now."

His name on her lips. What was it that made his blood boil to hear it?

He pushed her down on her back on the desk, one hand splayed over her groin, the other anchoring her hips. She widened her legs, she shifted to take the hammering of him into her deeper, faster. And the sight of her pale and flushed, bucking and beautiful, long and lean and lost in satin and blood red silk...it stole his last conscious thought.

And he simply became hers, a rutting beast of a thing at her command.

He ground himself into her body so hard it hurt them both and came there, crushed against the end of her, buried inside of her. He wanted to claim her but it wasn't that, it wasn't, it was HER claiming HIM somehow. Somehow. And they both knew it.

She arched, willowly and graceful, to meet and merge with every murderous plunge.

The echo of her voice ensorcelled him.

He cursed out her name and the wet of her body milked him while he rode her through his release.

Unceremoniously, his shaking thighs dumped him back into his office chair while she lay used and resplendent across his mahogany desk.

They both were still; gasping and shaking and spent.

And Chris realized the thing he was most thankful for wasn't winning. No. It wasn't.

It was losing...to Ada Wong.