Affaire de Coeur
"We were hooked when we woke.
We had arms for each other.
But I yearned to resume
My dreams of another."
― Roman Payne
Raccoon City - 1998 - Two Weeks Before The Mansion Incident
He awoke from a dead sleep to sit bolt upright in bed. His hand scrambled blindly for the remote control to his television as he muted the sound of the news droning monotonically before him. He had such trouble sleeping in the silence lately. The television granted him just enough sound to slumber.
Although his slumber was broken by the nightmares.
It was a curious thing to experience them. All his life, he'd been immune to the trials and tribulations that came with the human psyche. When others fell prey to romance and ridiculous conjecture, Albert Wesker had always stood apart as a master of his own emotion. He wasn't known to be a man given to responding on a whim, or without a purpose, or on a feeling.
He was calculated, driven, and controlled.
But lately the nightmares were reminding him that he was also, it seemed, mortal.
He kept picturing Marcus begging for mercy.
"Albert...this isn't what you want. Spencer is playing you. He's using you. Don't you see it? Don't you both see it? William...William please...resist him or he'll be the end of you."
Marcus had begged so pitifully. In a pool of blood and surrounded by his failed leeches, he'd looked like an old man and nothing like the genius that Wesker had hoped one day to sit beside on the throne of greatness.
William, nervous but excited, had leaned over him and laughed, "I will take over your research, Marcus. I will do it gladly."
Marcus had reached up at him with one blood hand, the other half blown away by the gunfire that had started his inevitable death.
"Albert...I beg you...show clemency...show mercy..."
And Wesker had tilted his head, rather like a curious dog, as the shiver of pity had arrowed into his chest to remind he wasn't devoid of all emotion. "...time to die, doctor. Rest in peace."
Marcus had cursed him, gasping, "...you'll join me. He'll see you dead...Wesker."
The guilt surprised him even now as Albert rose from his bed to move into the kitchen and reach for a glass of water. To his surprise, his hand trembled as he lifted it to his lips. The trembling upset him worse than the nightmares.
The mind was one problem; the body another.
If he started to manifest symptoms, physically, he was done for. He needed something to take the edge off. He needed something to help him crush the feelings of remorse and regret that had started to crop up in the last few days.
He needed to remove the yearning that had settled painfully around his heart like a vice.
There was a shuffle of sound as he turned his head toward it. Not a monster. Not a creature. Not the taunting memory of Spencer setting himself up as a god among mortals.
No.
Just a girl.
Just a girl that didn't belong.
Just a girl that he couldn't let go of.
She tilted her head, "Al? You ok?"
He wasn't. He hadn't been since he met her. She was opening some door, crumbling some wall, eliciting some kind of psychological response. He wasn't a man given to things he couldn't see or understand. He didn't believe in witchcraft - but somehow she'd put a spell on him.
He wasn't even sure how he felt about it all.
His mouth said, "I'm fine. Go back to sleep. I'll be there in a moment."
She shifted in her little white panties and her black tank top toward him. His arms opened and she slid against him, looping her arms around his waist. His face turned down and hers turned up so they could kiss, softly.
"I can wait," She leaned her ear against his chest, "Want to tell me what's bugging you?"
Bugs. Leeches. The leech project created by Marcus was weighing on him. They'd eradicated the Queen Leech and dumped her in the swamp with Marcus' decomposing corpse. Why was she haunting him?
Was she stuck to his mind the way Claire was stuck to his soul?
Curious about the thought, he studied it. Did he believe that he had a soul? That was Marcus' thoughts as well. A devout christian, he troubled sometimes with the work they were doing.
"Do you believe in hell, Albert?"
"I believe hell is empty, Dr. Marcus. I believe the devils are already here."
Marcus made peace with his science when he convinced himself that he was saving mankind from the devil. He was using his genius to give birth to the long dead hope of a world fit for the resurrection of his lord. He believed in one god, one utopia, one peaceful end. Some days, Wesker wished he'd had belief in anything like Marcus believed in God.
He'd prayed while he'd died.
"Yay though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me."
That faith had stayed with him while the light had left his eyes.
Claire turned her face up to him. "Is it me?"
It was. And it wasn't.
He was afraid there was no light left in his eyes, but her.
He wasn't even sure anymore how she'd gotten in.
Raccoon City - 1998 - Four Weeks Before the Mansion Incident
The bar wasn't his scene at all. He was never the type to set foot in one. Ever. The mouth breathers that attempted flirtation and copulation within such establishments bored him.
But she'd asked him to meet her.
After their brief lunch, she'd left him feeling alert for first time in a long time.
He was like an addict, it seemed, chasing that rush to feel it again. Was it simply her innocence that captivated him? Or the feeling that she'd survived something that had left her a little scarred but alive? Alive.
It was a word that simply resonated when he was near her.
Claire Redfield was alive. She took things as they came. She had a filthy mouth and a strong right hook. He watched her punch a would be suitor clean in the mouth when he relentlessly hounded her across the smoky bar.
The man recoiled to the laughter of his friends.
Claire, holding a pool cue, and wearing cut off shorts and a pink vest over a tight black shirt, caught sight of him standing near the door. Her face lit up as she waved. The angry look she'd given her overly handsy victim vanished under a wash of amused delight.
"You came!"
He moved toward her, shifting the sunglasses off his face to tuck them on the collar of his shirt. Claire shook her head, watching him effortlessly navigate the room. He moved like a tiger or something, stalking instead of walking. He always wore black. Always. She was wondering if he owned another color.
But it was ok. Black suited him. Some men made black look boring. Wesker made it look retro or something. Rock stars wore black. Like David Bowie or Mic Jagger, he wore it like he owned the night.
And maybe he did.
After all, he wore sunglasses in the dark. It took a hard core guy to pull that off.
She leaned on the cue as he approached, grinning. "I'm flattered you accepted."
His mouth curved up on one side. "I'm trying to invent a reasonable response to why I did, but clever retorts fail me."
Claire winked at him, "Save clever for someone else. I'll take honesty."
Wesker nodded and put a hand out to her. "May I?"
"Please." She offered him the cue and watched him turn toward the balls on the table.
"Two in the corner pocket." After a quick assessment, he leaned over and carelessly sent the balls scattering. The two ball rolled happily into her pocket and clanked against the other balls there.
Claire laughed, shaking her head, "I should've known you'd be good at this."
Wesker nodded, shifting to perch on the stool while she took over the table. "Billiards is really just mathematics. It's geometry and the use of simple shapes."
Claire paused with a beer halfway to her mouth. She laughed, shook her head, sipped her beer and tucked the pool stick against her to aim. "You're a weird guy, Al. I have to admit."
"Weird is relative. I'm simply unconcerned with social normalcy when it comes to conversation." He sipped the beer she'd ordered for him. "You'll miss your shot if you aim that way."
Claire paused and glanced up at him, "Yeah? I'm pretty good myself."
"You could be better."
Her laugh echoed in the pool hall. She tugged the stick up and invited, "Alright, smart ass, come on over here and show me."
Shrugging, Albert shifted toward her. He leaned against her back and adjusted her arms, speaking gently, "Locate your target point on the ball.."
He trailed off as he adjusted her arms and her hands on the cue. She was watching his face instead of what he was doing. She watched his mouth as he spoke, "Visualize the table as a graph, reduce it to squares of twelve by twelve. If you do, you can see how the line of your ball correlates with the line of your destination. If you're aiming for the center left pocket, for example, you'll cross two grids in the process - controlling the angle on your ball helps you control its path across those grids."
Claire was so quiet that he turned his head toward her. "Are you listening, Ms. Redfield?"
His eyes were so blue up this close it was like looking into the sky on a clear snowy day. She answered, softly, "No. I'm sorry. Al?"
"Hmm?" His gaze drifted to her mouth as she rolled her lip under.
"I think math is super fucking boring."
She pressed a kiss to his mouth before he could find a suitable retort. It didn't seem relevant anymore, really. She meant it to be soft and sweet. But a handful of seconds after it started, she realized she was out of her depth here.
Their noses brushed as they kissed. He kept his eyes open to watch her reaction. She felt obligated to do the same.
After a breath wheezed into her lungs, she stopped kissing him. He watched her, so quietly, until she murmured, "...well, shit."
And they both realized no one had let go of the pool cue.
Claire whispered, "You are not my type at all."
To which Wesker replied, softly, "Types are relative to the chemical reaction process of the brain to the hormones characterized by prioritizing the need to mate and inseminate their chosen partner." (*1)
Claire blinked, twice, and laughed soft and low. "Al?"
"Yes?"
"You're a big dork." She pressed another kiss to his mouth and lifted her hands from the pool cue to cup his face.
As they seperated, Claire turned in his arms. He pressed her against the table and stole her breath as she queried, "What about love? Where does love come from?"
A good question. He wasn't sure he had the answer. He wasn't sure he believed in love anymore than he believed in attachment as a human response. He'd tried, once upon a time, to attach to a woman in a consistent fashion.
But he breathed, "Love is characterized in building a nest, defending mutual territory, and producing offspring to facilitate that compensatory nature."
Jesus his nerd talk turned her on. She nodded, shifting her hands under his shirt to touch his belly while he talked. "Oh, yeah? Does that feed the sex drive? Because mines hungry for you."
His common sense scrambled, surprising him. It was his ordinary response to a female aggressor. But, biologically, it made sense for him to be drawn to her. She was young and fertile, her body sending off signals to copulate and reproduce. Her breasts were full and ample, allowing the male ego to be drawn to the image of her breastfeeding their shared young and similarly using those breasts to satisfy his sexual cravings.
She had wide hips that were clearly meant for birthing, spanning beyond the scope of his outstretched palm in a way that signaled the delivery of an infant would be easy for her. Simply put, Claire Redfield had a body made for conception.
It made sense she would trigger urges to mate within the male populace.
So he told her, "The libido is chemically represented by the craving for sexual gratification and associated primarily with the hormones. It evolves into the search for the sexual capable that the body deems appropriate."
Claire tilted her head at him, "Am I appropriate?"
He watched the flush of her skin in her neck and bosom. His gaze followed his hands as they curved around her hips. "You're fruitful and young. The age of the male is irrelevant, usually, for mating. And it reasons that we primarily seek out women of child bearing age."
Her eyes sparkled, "Hmm. You asking me to have a baby with you?"
His hand slid around her hip and palmed flatly over her taut belly. Her smile cracked a little as something moved behind her eyes. They held the look until he answered, softly, "I've never considered having a child with a partner and raising it."
Claire tilted her head again, studying his face. He looked so..confused? Afraid? What was it? Something. Something on his face that made a lie out of the heavy intelligence he was spouting. He was saying all the things a scientist would say, but he was doing all the things a man would do. It made him, again, like no one she'd ever met before.
"No? Never? No kids?"
He shook his head, brow furrowing. "I don't relate well to children. And women are often...cumbersome."
Her brows winged up, "Cumbersome? Like a coat in summer?"
He shrugged, and couldn't stop the smile. "Perhaps." His hand slid against her belly and he watched her eyes hood and her lashes tremble, "Would you like to copulate with me, Claire? Perhaps we might find I'm your type after all."
Jesus. She'd never had a man ask her to copulate before. It was almost ridiculous. What was the most ridiculous? She didn't find it ridiculous at all.
She was attracted to him. She had no idea why. He was handsome, sure, but lots of men were. He was older, which always flipped her switch, and a bit of a bore - but he wasn't. He really wasn't. He wasn't boring. He was almost - misunderstood? Something. She got the feeling he was just the type of guy who didn't quite understand friendship or dating or...love.
He thought love was chemicals, but it wasn't. It was hugging and holding and having...and copulating. She kinda wanted to know what it was like to love him. Because he was the strangest man she'd ever met.
And so she mused, "Maybe you should tell me how you copulate, Al. And convince me."
His mouth twitched a smile as he answered, "You wish for me to tell you about sex?"
Claire shivered and shifted toward him a little more. HIs hand slid down her belly to the front of her jeans and she whispered into his ear, "First you talk it, then you do it. Ok?"
Wesker leaned back to see her face. She was watching him with trembling lashes. Her body's response was clear and intimate. She wanted him to talk dirty to her and talking, on a good day, always came uncomfortably for him.
He didn't think he'd talk the way she wanted.
So he just said, "I'm very good at cunnilingus. I can show you right now."
And she laughed. She just laughed and gripped his face to kiss him. Yes, she thought, he was strangest man she'd ever met. But he was also, somehow, the cutest.
So she took him for a ride on her motorcycle to reward him for his effort.
He was surprisingly easy on it. He didn't object to holding on to her in the back position. He leaned into curves and handled the speed well. He didn't complain about the bumpy ride.
And on the side of the road in the dark, he proved he was as good as his word. He was very good at cunnilingus.
To his immense surprise, the flavor of her aroused him.
He wasn't much on the uselessness of oral sex. Annette had enjoyed performing it on him. She'd enjoyed receiving it, but it had never interested him. To perform sex without the purpose of reproduction was a mystery. It wasn't something he'd been taught as he'd grown up in the program.
Spencer wanted children to populate the Earth in his image, of course, but by means of science and rebirth of the race - not by the simple act of human intercourse.
The first time he'd lain with a woman, he'd almost wept that he'd been able to enjoy it. He'd been afraid that he never would. But the experimental sex between himself and Alex had netted a response from both of them that they were, indeed, still human.
She'd spread her thighs while he took her and moaned. They'd both climaxed, proving their bodies were still in need of such things, and he was certain Spencer had intended for them to be the Adam and Eve of his new world.
But Alex was missing something he was seeking.
He didn't know what - until now.
The flavor of Claire Redfield moved something in his mouth, in his belly, in his...heart? It moved something in him. She gripped at his hair and gasped, bowing on the bike while her thighs trembled around his face. She enjoyed each flick, lick, and curl. She panted his name and whimpered.
He craved her responses to him.
That was what was missing - his responses to any other woman. So he used his mouth to lay claim to her in a way that felt almost feral. Possessive. It wasn't like him to bother.
But he wanted to own her reactions to him.
He was running out of time.
But he wanted to keep her.
She wasn't his to keep.
Two Days before the Mansion Incident
"Do you love me?"
He paused where he stood in the shower. He turned to find her watching him in the foggy air.
She pressed him back against the wall and scooped his hair back with her hands.
"Do you love me, Al? I think I love you. But I've never loved anybody like this. So I don't know. Is it real?"
It was all real. It just wasn't the kind that lasted. It was real.
And he hated them both for it. He couldn't go back. He couldn't walk away. This was the only way to free himself from Spencer and Umbrella, forever. The cost had never been so high.
He kissed her, softly, and answered, "Attachment creates partners, Claire. Are you my partner?"
She leaned back to see his face and laughed, shaking her head, "I want to be. Are you asking me to go steady?"
In two days, he'd lead her brother to his death. His mouth moved on it's own, "I'm asking you to be mine."
She answered him with a kiss.
The last kiss of a woman betrayed by the man she loved.
He was Wesker.
He was Judas.
The crucifixion was at hand.
The only question was which body would be nailed to the cross.
Post Note: (*1) Fisher, Helen P.H.D. -Brains Do It: Lust, Attraction, and Attachment