Chapter 11: Velocity
Claire awoke from a shallow, troubled sleep and her first instinct was to check on Wesker, but the man was not in the bed beside her. She sat up, looking for him, and heard the cascade of water from inside the bathroom. Claire stared groggily at the door. The noise was too loud to be coming from the sink. Wesker must have dragged himself into the shower.
Moaning, Claire slumped back on the pillows. The bedside clock read just after 8am. The damp dishtowel was soaking her t-shirt and Claire pushed it aside, trying to find a place on the sheet that wasn't either sticky with sweat or hopelessly tangled, mounding up beneath her. The sour reek of sweat, some of it her own, rose to Claire's nostrils, mingling with the scent of Wesker's cologne. It was a heavy smell, a sick smell, and Claire rolled over, hoping for some fresher air over the side of the bed. She had a feeling she could sleep to noon and then some.
But there was still Wesker to deal with. Claire wanted to avoid a confrontation at all costs, especially since she didn't know if he'd be angry with her. Hopefully he was feeling better. Maybe that would make things easier, but after listening to him talk in his sleep – combined with everything else she knew on top of that – Claire wasn't entirely sure how to act towards him right now. She wished she could just come right out and ask him who Alex was, but upon remembering how he'd almost attacked her, Claire pushed the thought aside. Not now. Not while the night was still fresh in his mind.
She lay in bed for another ten minutes and almost drifted back to sleep, but then Wesker came out of the bathroom. He'd dressed in a dark navy-blue shirt and a pair of black trousers with knife-edge creases. Although still wet, his thick golden hair was neatly slicked back and his trademark sunglasses were once again glued to his face. Claire smirked. That's better, she thought drowsily.
Turning, Wesker came over to the bed and Claire tensed, looking up at him. It was too late to feign sleep now. "Get up," he ordered. "I need you to come with me."
"Why?" Claire asked, warily sitting up.
Wesker folded his arms, and it seemed to Claire that he was chewing on his words. It was clear his pride made them taste bitter. "By assisting me last night you may have inadvertently brought yourself into contact with the T-Virus," he explained. "I was infected on a massive level, and I would appreciate if you made yourself presentable rather quickly."
He phrased it like a request, but Claire knew it was anything but. Her heart gave a jolt, realizing that her earlier speculations about Ebola had not been far from the truth, and she hurriedly got out of bed, wobbling slightly as the blood rushed to her head. Going into the bathroom, she splashed her face with cold water. Thankfully, the sink was clean this morning. She wasn't sure if her stomach could handle the sight of vomit this early. She fixed her hair without brushing it and decided not to make Wesker wait by changing clothes. The ones she'd fallen asleep in would have to do. Could she really be infected? The thought was a horrifying one.
Her stomach churning with unease, Claire joined Wesker in the corridor and they took the elevator in silence, the doors swishing open to reveal a sterile corridor. Sunlight poured in though the windows, shimmering on the pattern of white and grey tiles. Claire realized she'd been here before. She remembered running down this corridor, or one that looked just like it, the day she'd sprayed Wesker in the eyes. It seemed like so long ago.
Wesker led her to a door further down the hall and opened it for her, ushering her inside. Half-expecting stasis tanks, Claire was surprised to see that the room looked no different from a normal doctor's office. Wesker gestured to the examination table. "Sit down," he told her, reaching into a cupboard.
Claire nervously hopped up to sit on the edge of the table, the papery sheet crinkling beneath her. She needed a lot more than three hours of sleep in order to function properly and would have gladly curled up on the table. To resist that urge, she glanced around the room and took note of the colored charts on the wall, all of them written in jargon she could barely understand. She yawned, watching Wesker as he prepped a syringe. Once upon a time, needles had scared the hell out of her. Not anymore. She'd seen too many of them to be bothered anymore.
"Hold out your arm," said Wesker.
She complied without hesitation, letting him wipe the inside of her arm with a cotton ball. The sharp tang of alcohol rose from it. "…Are you feeling better?" she asked, wincing a little as he poked the needle into her vein and drew a sample of blood.
Wesker didn't answer right away, but went over to the counter and placed the blood into an agitator, setting the computer to look for little T-cells munching away on her brain. As the machine went to work, Wesker turned to look at her again. "My illness has passed, if that's what you're asking," he said, though Claire knew this wasn't entirely true. Despite the sunglasses, the harsh lighting made it easy for her to see the shadows under his eyes. She nodded anyway, stifling another yawn. Wesker's condition had frightened her, but she did not tell him that.
They waited until the computer spat out a sheet of paper, indicating that the test was complete. Claire shifted nervously as Wesker picked it up. "So, I'm infected, right?" she asked, wondering what happened next. No doubt it involved more injections.
"No," Wesker rumbled, scanning the document. "Despite the fact that you were in contact with me the entire night, there's no sign of infection in your bloodstream." He gave Claire an appraising look and she forced herself not to squirm.
"How's that possible?" she asked. She was no doctor, but she knew that Wesker had been a bloody, sweat-soaked mess and it wasn't as if she'd been wearing gloves. It just didn't pay to be nice.
"…I believe it has something to do with the virus in your system," said Wesker, thinking hard. "As you may be aware, exposure to T-Veronica causes severe mental degradation, which is why Miss Ashford spent fifteen years in stasis, allowing the virus to bond with her gradually. You, on the other hand, carried the virus for three years before the first symptoms began to manifest and that should have been impossible."
Claire was growing very uncomfortable under Wesker's scrutiny. "I don't get it," she said blankly.
"The best explanation I can offer is that you possess a very rare natural immunity to the T-Veronica strain, possibly because you carry a latent version of the same genetic marker I do, or perhaps because some external stimulus caused the virus to go dormant. Either way, it makes you very special, dear heart… in more ways than you know," Wesker purred, coming to stand between her knees.
Seated on the bench as she was, Claire was roughly level with him. He wasn't wearing any cologne this morning, but his natural scent seemed much stronger in its absence. To make matters worse, Claire suddenly noticed the top button of his shirt was unfastened, revealing a wedge of his hard chest. Claire stubbornly snapped her eyes back Wesker's face, ignoring the flush mounting in her cheeks. He smirked and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, but then seemed to catch himself. His jaw hardened, he stepped back.
"By the way, you will be moving into your own room later this evening," he said, and Claire noticed that his voice had grown noticeably cooler. "Your infection has been stabilized to the point where I don't have to keep you under constant observation."
Claire was shocked. Was he really that angry that she'd helped him? But no… no, there was more to it than that. Staring at Wesker, Claire suddenly thought she understood and ice formed inside her stomach. "Look, you were really sick," she said. "Last night, I mean. You weren't even in your right mind, so about what happened… I'm not going to hold it against you."
Wesker's head snapped around. "No," he stated coldly. "I could have severely injured or even killed you, Miss Redfield, and you will not make light of it out of some grossly misplaced sense of pity."
Claire recoiled. "I… I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were," Wesker interrupted. "I'm having your clothing and the rest of your possessions moved out of my personal space and that's my final word on the matter. While I'm grateful for your assistance last night, I can no longer guarantee your safety with me."
"Why?" Claire challenged, unsure why she was sticking up for the man like this. If Wesker had managed to get hold of her last night, he would have snuffed the life out of her and she knew it. "I know what T-Virus does to people. It's not your fault!"
Wesker rushed at her and Claire gasped, certain she'd pushed him too far. His snarling face was now mere inches from hers. "You enjoy testing my limits, don't you?" he growled. "You wouldn't be so inclined to defend me if I'd actually harmed you last night, or do you like feeling powerless?"
"Do you like being an asshole?" Claire retorted, feeling defiant. " You. Were. Sick."
Wesker's lip curled. "That is no excuse," he hissed bitterly, and Claire gasped as Wesker seized her arm, dragging her off the table. "Get out," he growled, pushing her towards the exit. It was an order, not a suggestion.
Claire spent the remainder of the day holed up in the greenhouse – as if she could go anywhere else – trying to act cheerful for Sherry's benefit. In reality, however, she was confused and maybe even a little hurt. She'd lost count of how many times Wesker had grabbed her, but Claire had to admit that it had never phased into an outright attack before last night. In hindsight, she almost wondered if the edge in Wesker's voice had stemmed, not from anger, but from something closer to guilt. Of course, she was never going to find out. Wesker dropped by later that same day and in a few cold words informed her of where she'd be staying from now on.
In comparison to Wesker's king-sized suite, the room was small, lending itself to being cozy rather than grand. It contained a small couch and matching coffee table, a dresser, and a small kitchen. The bed was a double and set with a pale green quilt. Sitting on the edge of it, Claire fingered the embroidery as she glanced at a small bathroom off to the side. The room had no window.
For some reason, a feeling of misery was making itself felt in Claire's chest. A stack of books was on the nightstand, along with a note. Thought you might like something to read! Let me know if you like these. If not, I've got more. Love Sherry.
Claire set the books back on the table. They were all heavy textbooks on chemistry and biology, with a smattering of human anatomy. Claire knew Sherry meant well, but she'd have been much happier with a real book, or even a magazine. Heck, she'd even take the newspaper. At least the crossword would be interesting. Sighing, Claire flopped back on the bed – her bed, she reminded herself. She'd been sleeping on a hard couch for the past month, and yet the thought that she now had her own bed did little to lift her mood. The room smelled sterile, like laundry detergent and cleaner, not at all like the well-used scent of leather and cologne that permeated Wesker's room.
With some trepidation, Claire realized that she did not want her own room. The idea was absurd, but she didn't feel comfortable here. Four weeks ago – hell, maybe even a few days ago – she'd have jumped at the chance to get away from Wesker, but now that she had a space of her own Claire wondered why she wasn't happy with it. Gritting her teeth, she told herself to get over it, forcing away the crazy urge to apologize to Wesker even though she hadn't done anything wrong. The man had made his position on the matter quite clear.
And yet, he'd only done so out of a reluctance to endanger her. Wesker had frightened her last night, Claire was more than ready to admit that, but wasn't this a little extreme? If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought Wesker was being hard on himself, not because she'd been stupid enough to get in his way. Claire felt okay excusing him for being sick, but he obviously was not, no doubt because he viewed it as a humiliating weakness, a lapse that needed corrected lest it happen again. It was typically Wesker.
Draping an arm over her eyes, Claire kicked at the ruffled bed skirt, another item that would have never made its way into Wesker's abode. The maids must have tried to decorate the room special for her, or else they'd cleaned out one that had been previously occupied by a girly-girl. In either case, Claire decided that it was going to spend the rest of its existence in the dresser or under the bed. Getting up, she examined the room some more, but there was little else to see. All of her clothes had been packed into white shopping bags and left by the dresser to put away as she saw fit.
Claire was surprised to see her journal shoved into the corner of one of the bags. She picked it up and tossed it on the bed before mutely putting the rest of her things away. It was past dinnertime, but she wasn't hungry. After taking a quick shower, Claire just crawled into her bed and pulled the covers up. The mattress was too soft and she found herself missing Wesker's couch even more. Also, the room was far too quiet and Claire realized that she'd acclimated to the sound of Wesker working at his computer, though she had no idea when that annoying clickity-clickinghad become her bedtime lullaby. She'd have to try to get a radio from Sherry, because there was no way she could sleep like this.
As soon as he walked into the lab, Wesker was attacked. He was unsure what had tipped Birkin off to his condition, but true to form, he endured the younger man's vicious tongue-lashing in stoic silence. After about five minutes, Birkin caught Wesker's blank expression and angrily threw up his hands, declaring him an arrogant fool who bordered on being a masochist. "After I told you, TOLD YOU, to take the antidote!" Birkin fumed, glaring. "Jesus Christ, Albert, you could have died!"
Wesker fixed him in a cool glare. "I highly doubt that," he drawled.
"Oh, really? 'Cause I'm betting dollars to donuts you were up all night sick as a dog!" Showing an unusual amount of fearlessness towards his colleague, whom he normally maintained a healthy amount of respect for, Birkin got right up in Wesker's face, poking him in the chest as if he was addressing his daughter. "You should be in bed, but no! No, you've got to come down here like the sick workaholic that you are and pretend nothing's wrong because THAT would prove that yes, you can get sick and yes, you can be hurt. And we can't have that, now can we?"
A spark of anger made itself felt in Wesker's chest. "You're out of line, Will," he gritted.
"Oooh, scary. I'm not seventeen anymore, Al. You can't just send me one of your dirty looks and I go scampering into a closet," Birkin shot back. "How did the poor girl react? Or did you lock her in the bathroom so she didn't see that you're not invincible after all?"
"She's been dealt with," said Wesker flatly.
Birkin's eyes flashed. "Let me guess, you threw one of your fits because she had the gall to try to make you feel better. She sat up with you all night, didn't she? Didn't she?" Birkin jabbed him in the chest so hard, even Wesker felt it throb. "What the hell is wrong with you, Al?"
Growling low in his throat, Wesker took a step forward, ruthlessly invading his colleague's personal space. "I'm giving you one last chance to back off," he hissed. "In case you failed to notice, I am in no mood to put up with your useless evaluations. I almost lost control last night, Will. I almost LOST CONTROL!"
Birkin's eyes widened, his face draining of the flush it had acquired during his rant. "Al… did you… did she?"
"No, but another second and I would have seriously harmed her," said Wesker, his voice strained. "You're correct in assuming that she tried to assist me, and that's precisely the danger. I'm having the staff prepare another room for her."
"Does she know?" Birkin asked, licking his lips.
Knowing that Birkin wasn't referring to the change of rooms, Wesker shook his head. "She believes it was a result of the infection and was willing to overlook my transgression because of it," he said bitterly. "I can't afford to have her around me."
There was a long and awkward moment of silence. "Al," Birkin began gently, and with the utmost caution. "Did you ever think about telling her the truth?"
Wesker's glare should have reduced him to ash. "No," he growled flatly.
Birkin sighed. It probably went against all logic, not to mention a slap in the face to Darwin's theory of self-preservation, but he genuinely cared for the man. Not that Wesker was grateful or even had the tact to notice, but that didn't change the facts. "Why not?" Birkin asked, valiantly trying to get through to him.
Wesker's lip curled in a manner Birkin could only describe as animalistic. "Because nothing will change what I've done, not your worthless advice and especially not my apologies," he snarled.
"Why don't you let Redfield make that choice for herself? Or are you afraid she'll reject you anyway?" Birkin demanded.
It happened so fast, Birkin was on the ground before he knew what happened. It felt like somebody had forced a knife into his jaw and was trying to pry it off his skull. Stars winked and popped in front of his eyes, and his ear was ringing so badly he wondered if he'd ever hear out of it again. Groaning, he picked his face off the linoleum. Wesker was standing over him and Birkin wanted to cower under the force of anger.
"Don't push your friendship with me, Birkin," he growled, his voice cold. "You will regret it."
Birkin touched his jaw. He already did regret it, but he couldn't bring himself to hate Wesker with the vehemence the man insisted he deserved. Early in his medical career, Birkin had worked a stint Raccoon City's hospital in order to gain some hands-on experience. He'd seen a lot of people come into the ER, people who been stabbed, shot, raped, or abused in some other nameless way. They never ask for help. You know that, William. It means admitting they're hurt. Admitting they're lost.
And that's why he never punched Wesker back. It wasn't his fault that his virus pushed his testosterone levels through the roof, making him this blatantly aggressive. At least that's what he always told himself. Wesker was easily strong enough to dislodge a man's head from his shoulders, or at least overextend (and subsequently snap) several vertebrae, so the blow had been a mere love tap compared to the bone-crushing roundhouses Birkin knew the man could deliver. He attempted to get back on his feet, the floor of the lab pitching and heaving beneath him, and felt Wesker's long fingers bite into his forearm, steadying him. Birkin swallowed, but said nothing. The rough gesture spoke for itself.
His expression hard, Wesker turned and walked out of the lab, resisting the urge to pummel a wall until the concrete and plaster were lying about his feet in complete submission. Since childhood, Wesker had avoided forming close friendships, a tendency only exacerbated by the Arklay fiasco. He'd spent five years as the captain of S.T.A.R.S. and in that time his shields had wavered. Somehow, the motley crew of retards and cretins had found their way into his heart, if he had such a thing. He'd had more than their respect. He'd had their loyalty, maybe even a form of their love.
Wesker grit his teeth so hard the bone was in danger of fracturing. He should have known better. He did know better. But somehow he'd been distracted, let down his guard, and the unforgivable lapse had resulted in tragedy. Since then Wesker had retreated into a bleak, bitter world that nobody, least of all himself, could rescue him from, though God-only-knew that Birkin tried. If the virologist hadn't forcibly dragged him out to dinner at least twice a month, Wesker would literally go weeks without engaging in a civilized conversation outside of the lab.
And then Redfield had been dropped – yes, dropped – into his life.
Wesker growled, unable to deny the pull he felt towards her, urges that were both mental and physical. She'd slammed the door on his half-joking suggestion of joining Umbrella – or rather, the suggestion to join him – but Wesker knew that her intelligence could easily expand into more scientific fields. Dr. Redfield, indeed. For some incomprehensible reason the thought made Wesker's stomach tighten, joining a few other parts of his anatomy. Always the gentleman, he'd only threatened her with more intimate relations, not actually carried them out, but he couldn't deny that he'd wanted to.
Stalking into the lounge, Wesker angrily poured himself a cup of coffee from the dispenser, consciously making an effort to keep his strength in check. He'd long-since discovered that his fingers could easily puncture the flimsy Styrofoam, thus sending a deluge of whatever fluid the container held all over his clothes. How dare Birkin think he could judge his actions? He'd sent Redfield away, not because he was angry with her as Birkin had mistakenly assumed, but out of a desire to protect her from the darkness he'd allowed to consume him once before, with disastrous results.
He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't let it happen again, but the fact that he'd come close had unnerved him. Despite a lingering feeling of being unwell, which was still rather strong regardless of what he'd said to Birkin, Wesker was ready to continue his investigation into the death of the IVAN prototype, but the image of blue eyes and red hair kept superimposing itself into his thoughts. Wesker growled, hating her for affecting him like this and flat out denying that it had anything to do with love rather than another checkmark on his ever-growing list of conquests.
He'd been patient with her, showing her the greenhouse, letting her speak to Sherry, all in an attempt to persuade her that his empire wasn't some venomous monster lurking beneath the world's bed, which was when a deceitful little voice reminded him that while he was trying to convince her that something wasn't evil, that something wasn't Umbrellaand the unconditional love he knew only a Redfield could give was very seductive indeed. Snarling, Wesker crushed the empty cup and tossed it in the garbage.
The days dragged by. Despite the seven-year age difference, Sherry was reveling in having found a friend and often invited Claire over to watch a movie, help her study, or just sit around and talk, maybe paint their fingernails. She'd even asked the older girl for her birthday, her eyes glittering with a positively devilish air. In all probability, however, these activities were the only thing that kept Claire from going quite mad, so when somebody knocked on the door later that week, she immediately assumed it was Sherry. Stuffing a piece of toast in her mouth, Claire went to open the door.
Needless to say, she was taken aback to find Wesker standing on the doorstep. "Good morning," he drawled, his voice cold and formal, like he merely using the appropriate social response instead of actually wishing her a good morning.
"Oh. Uh… good morning," Claire fumbled, taking the toast out of her mouth. Given Wesker's cold, pissed-off demeanor and the circumstances in which they'd parted last time, Claire had felt certain she wouldn't be hearing from him for a long time. Now that he was here, she wasn't sure what to make of it.
"I trust your new room has been satisfactory?" Wesker asked.
"Yeah, satisfactory. As if I like doing nothing but listening to the radio. You are aware that the reception sucks out here, right?" Claire wisely refrained from saying that she'd rather be listening to him peck at his keyboard. She didn't know what Wesker would make of such an unusual statement, and quite frankly neither did she.
"You'll adjust, I'm sure," said Wesker lazily, "but that's not what I came here to discuss with you. I've been studying your rose and would like to see if others of its kind could be produced. It could be nothing more than a happy genetic accident, one that will be impossible to recreate."
"Okay. So? What do you need me for?" Claire demanded. "I'm sure Dr. Connors would be a lot more helpful."
"Circumstances have changed, Miss Redfield. You are the key to everything." Wesker took hold of her hand and pulled it forward, exposing the faint scratches on her palm. "You cut yourself while tending the rose, didn't you?"
Claire eyed him warily. "Yeah, I did," she said. "So what?"
"Your blood was the catalyst that made the hybrid possible, or did you think that an orchid and a rose would actually breed?" Wesker asked, smirking at her sudden discomfort.
Claire felt her cheeks burn and she wondered if Wesker was deliberately insulting her or if he was just being his typical, not-very empathetic self. She fixed him in glare, but for some freakishly obscure reason, she'd missed having him around to antagonize. Or maybe it was the other way around, that she missed having him antagonize her. The concept strayed dangerously close to an unwanted topic, one that Claire had been working hard to ignore.
"I have to get dressed," said Claire, stepping away from him.
Wesker snorted. "Typical Redfield. Up at the crack of noon."
Claire shut the door on his face, very nearly depriving him of a nose. Five minutes later, she immerged from her room wearing a red blouse and black pants, not to mention the hated lab coat. There was an entire row – seven or eight plants in total – of healthy Black Magic roses waiting for them at the greenhouse, including another rare purple orchid. It was clear that while money couldn't buy health or happiness, but it sure as hell could take care of everything else.
Claire found a pair of gloves and put them on. Working as a team, though Wesker made it plain that he found no enjoyment in it, they carefully harvested a vial of pollen and used it to dust each one of the roses. One or twice, Claire realized that people were watching them from a distance, but they did so only briefly and nobody actually came over. In one fell swoop, Claire had won herself a dozen 'friends' and at least as many enemies. This had bewildered her at first, until she'd remembered that Wesker was still the chairman of Umbrella and working with him was doubtlessly considered a privilege. Even Dr. Connors had jokingly admitted to being "a wee bit jealous". Claire had tried once more to convince the woman that she was nobody special, but Dr. Connors had only smiled.
"Of course, Claire," she said, and it was clear that Claire was striving for a lost cause. The woman clearly believed she was being excessively modest, since she was obviously a scientific genius whom Wesker had brought to the island to work as a consultant, among various other reasons.
She glanced sidelong at Wesker, thankful he couldn't hear what she was thinking. Unlike before, when he'd been all smirks and smug-ass smiles, the man was all business. Not that he was rude, but his demeanor was decidedly unwelcoming and although Claire had thought she didn't care, she felt confused. It was like trying to interact with a statue made of ice. Cold, bitter, jagged ice.
At that moment, Wesker set the brush he'd been using aside and turned to her. Taking envelope from his coat pocket, he unwrapped it to reveal a scalpel. Claire swallowed, her thoughts evaporating as she eyed the wicked instrument. "You're not seriously going to use that on me, are you?" she asked.
"Don't be nervous," said Wesker, though his cool voice did little to reassure her. "The incision will be very small, I assure you."
Not quite sure if she believed him, Claire stepped closer and rolled up her sleeve, offering him her arm. He shook his head and, pinching the finger of her glove, pulled it off her hand. Claire screwed up her face, but the scalpel was so sharp there was barely any pain at all. A fat drop of blood welled up and began to roll into her palm.
"After you, Miss Redfield," said Wesker, gesturing to the roses.
Unsure on what exactly she was supposedly to do, Claire let a tiny amount of her blood drip on each of the roses in turn, sometimes on their leaves, sometimes on their thorns. Looking at the crimson liquid, she thought about the virus in her body. What was it doing to her on the inside? If she stopping taking her shots, would the infection come back? Or was it settling down inside her, becoming a part of her like Wesker's virus had with him? After all, it had supposedly been inside her for years without her knowledge. Frowning, Claire noticed that the cut on her hand had begun to clot. She reached up to give it a squeeze, but Wesker stopped her.
"I believe that's sufficient," he said, offering her a Band-Aid as Claire wiped off with a tissue. "Do you think it'll work?" she asked, nodding towards the roses. These ones were healthy, without any trace of disease. Maybe her blood only worked if they were sick.
Wesker shrugged. "There's no way to tell," he said. "I'll check again in a few days."
Claire stared at the roses for a minute, feeling a small thrill of excitement. I want it to work, she realized, though she was a little unsure why. The whole thing stank of a typical Umbrella-esque experiment, one that she should be avoiding like the plague, and yet Claire knew that she'd be checking the roses for the next few days, waiting for those breathtaking ebony-red blooms. Nightwish, she thought proudly, tasting the name. My Nightwish.
Packing up his scalpel, Wesker turned to leave. No smug farewell, no parting comment, and Claire's shoulders slumped, unsure why she felt a little hurt. "You really don't have to be so pissed-off, you know," she mumbled to his back.
Wesker stopped, turning to look at her. "What gives you the impression that I'm angry with you?" he asked coolly and Claire swallowed. She hadn't thought his hearing was that good.
"Look, I know you're still sore about the whole T-Virus thing, but I," she flushed, murmuring the next words more to herself than Wesker, "I liked it better when you were nice."
Wesker stiffened imperceptibly. "What?" he demanded.
Claire blanched and hung her head, blushing furiously. "Nothing," she said hastily.
"No," said Wesker, taking a step towards her. "I want to hear what you said, and I want you to say it to my face. Are you saying that you miss my attention?"
"No," Claire hissed, sensing the hidden trap. "I just… I just meant…"
What did she mean? Claire wished desperately to vanish, but unfortunately it didn't work. Wesker continued to favor her with an intensely critical stare and she shifted her feet, her mouth working soundlessly. Not saying anything was no longer an option and neither was trying to leave the greenhouse, since Wesker was blocking the only way to the door. Taking a deep breath, Claire forced it out in a humiliated rush:
"I liked it better when you… when you treated me like dear heart," she stumbled over the nickname, her cheeks flaming, "not Miss Redfield."
A heavy silence fell between them. "Is that so?" Wesker asked, his voice resonating on a perilously low octave. "I have already expressed my concerns to you, yet you continue to brush them aside. May I remind you that if you play with fire, you will eventually get burned?"
He's talking about himself, isn't he? Why's he so damn hard on himself? Oh. Right. I seen him when he was weak, when he was vulnerable, and gods aren't supposed to be vulnerable, now are they? The stuck-up, egotistical prick needs professional help.
"I'll wear fire-proof gloves," Claire grumbled in spite of herself, looking anywhere but Wesker, and was surprised when he chuckled. She snapped her gaze back to his face. A hint of a smirk, the first she'd seen all day, was coiled around his thin lips. "Very well," he said quietly. "If that's the way you want things. I should warn you, though. Once I make my decision, I will not back down… dear heart."
Shivers racked Claire's skin at the predatory edge to Wesker's words, and yet his deep voice remained mellow, in direct contrast to the threat he'd just uttered. Or maybe it was more like a warning. Claire bit her lip, unsure whether to be relieved by this or downright scared. It would have been better if she'd just kept her big mouth shut. Since when had the way Wesker treated her gotten so high on her list of concerns?
"Whatever makes your boat float," she said. "Now would you mind getting out of my way? I've got stuff to do."
Wesker grinned. "Ask me nicely," he purred.
Claire flashed him a vicious glare. How dare he use that stupid line again? "Would you please get out of my way before I grab a shovel and beat you to death with it?" she asked, her voice like poisoned honey.
What happened next took Claire totally by surprise. Wesker actually laughed, his teeth flashing in an unnervingly shark-like grin. For a startled minute, Claire was sure he actually thought it was funny, not that he was mocking her like he usually did. She frowned and squared her shoulders, brushing past him as roughly as she could. Disconcertingly, however, his laughter only grew louder.
Claire went back to her room for a few hours, scribbling the day's events in her journal, before finally heading back out to meet Sherry. They were going out to lunch down on the island again, something Claire had been looking forward to all week, and her uncertainties concerning Wesker were not going to ruin it. She really wanted to explore the island some more, so after numerous slices of pizza and several delicious cappuccinos, the girls took a walk down to the shoreline.
The beach was rocky and strewn with pebbles, but there was just enough thick brown sand for Claire to take her shoes off. After a moment's indecision, Sherry followed suit. They walked a little ways down the shore to where a jagged finger of rock jutted out into the ocean. Claire picked up a rounded stone, weighed it in her palm, then sent it bouncing across the tide. Three… four… no, five skips! Sherry grinned appreciatively.
"You should've seen my dad," said Claire, throwing another one. "He could do seven or eight at least. Here, you try."
Sherry picked up a rock and hurled it as hard, splashing the both of them with a sizable amount of water. Claire laughed at Sherry's pout. "Use your wrist," she said, handing the younger girl another stone. "And get down low. Yeah, that's it!"
After a while, they sat down in the sand to watch the ocean, dipping their feet into the foamy streams left behind by the tide. Having been raised by two preeminent scientists, not to mention the amount of school she currently had to uphold, Claire got the feeling that Sherry didn't get to do this often. Not that she herself had any more experience. What with college, work, fighting zombies, and getting abducted by the living, breathing version of Jonny Bravo – not to mention that she and her brother lived in landlocked Utah – Claire didn't get to go to the ocean much either. Digging her fingers into the sand, she tipped her head back with a sigh, fighting a snigger as Sherry tried to copy her movements.
It's really not so bad here, Claire thought, looking back up at the island. Far above on the mound, the citadel gleamed in the sunlight. Once she viewed it as an ostentations prison and now… well, now she wasn't so sure.
Roughly a week later, Wesker took a sample from each of the new roses and tested them for the presence of T-Veronica. As he'd hoped, the virus had already begun to bond with the plant's DNA. Despite their perfect health only a few days ago the roses had begun to loose their blooms, which confirmed that the process was well underway. Wesker was 90% sure that within another week, the plants would begin to display the unusual flowers indicative of their parentage. This meant that the project he and Birkin had been working on could proceed without further hindrance, as the last obstacle in their path had been cleared away.
"We've done it, Will. After all these years… all our research… we finally have it."
"Are you going to tell Redfield?"
Wesker smiled darkly. "Of course," he purred. As the treacherous little voice inside him had predicted – and as Claire herself had so foolishly ensured – he couldn't stay away from her for long. Her scent swirled in his mind, taunting him like blood would taunt a shark. In fact, I'm looking forward to it…
A/N: Hello, again! This chapter was one of the hardest for me to write and don't ask me why. I kinda wanted to drag Wesker's attitude out for a little longer than one chapter, but in the end I didn't have enough ideas to pull it off, so I hope the brief hostility between him and Claire didn't come off as being resolved too fast. He's starting to love and desire her in more ways than one, but for your own safety, don't ask him to confirm it. He'll just rip your head off and stuff it someplace where the sun don't shine. What is he looking forward to telling his dear heart?
As it's been said, we writers do love them cliffhangers. *evil chuckle* ;)