Chapter 17: Aftermath

The Queen's Chamber was a large, semi-circular room that housed the island's super computer. Nestled against the far wall was an elaborate computer workstation sporting top-of-the-line equipment – dozens of flat-screen video monitors, massive tower CPUs, and an entire array of hard drives, all of them dead and inert.

Standing behind a senior technician, Wesker's blistering gaze was enough to make the man squirm. Feeling feverish, he loosened his necktie. He'd heard of the chairman's reputation and had no desire to find out if the stories were true, so that meant working fast with absolutely no screw-ups.

"I, uh… ahem," the man cleared his throat sharply. "We found a small device plugged into the main hard drive. We're not sure how, but it was rigged with a sort of delay fuse. At a set time, it delivered a quick pulse to the system, like a miniature EMP, and bingo, Red Queen goes down without so much as a sputter."

"Why didn't the backups come online?" Wesker demanded. Red Queen was equipped with the very best firewalls and viral counter measures in the world, most of them on par or better than what was being used by the Pentagon. If the first system went down, another was supposed to fire up as quickly as possible, thirty seconds being the ceiling, and reroute a lesser-known emergency system codenamed White Queen. The techies had apparently thought to name them after the traditional colors of the Umbrella archetype and Wesker had never disputed their choice. White Queen had only limited control over the facility, namely emergency power and rudimentary security, but it would have been enough to prevent the release of B. in the lower labs. The island was supposed to be able to operate on such a system indefinitely.

"We're still trying to work that out," said the sweating technician. "But I would assume that while the system was rerouting control, the device uploaded another pulse, shorting out the secondary phase. For fifteen to twenty seconds in between shifts, everything's completely vulnerable. I know she's supposed to be shielded against EMPs, but they were supposed to come from outside the island, not from something somebody plugged up her ass."

Catching Wesker's glare, the technician gulped. Being flippant right now was definitely not a good idea and he tried to make amends by offering another piece of important information. "I'm not sure if you realize it or not, sir," he began, mentally cringing at his unintentional disrespect, "but not many people know about the twenty-second lag time between reboots. Whoever did this really knew Red Queen in and out."

Wesker looked like Mt. Vesuvius getting ready to erupt. He'd prepared for a lot of worst-case scenarios and a lot of them had included treachery, having been a traitor himself once, but this was worst-case scenario plus 4. With all the countermeasures he'd put into place, it was literally impossible to interfere with or disrupt Red Queen. At least until tonight. Wesker ground his teeth in anger. I won't forget this, Sergei.

Claire had mentioned seeing the Russian in the lower levels – he reminded himself to interrogate her later, as something had seemed a little off about her admission – but in either case her instincts had been correct. Sergei was gone and so was the last remaining Ivan. Also, there were several vials of T-Virus and T-Virus antidote, as well as samples of G and T-Veronica, missing from the high security vault. It made Wesker sick with fury. He'd always known Sergei had harbored animosity towards him, but he'd never suspected this kind of retaliation. Drastically reducing his rank had been meant to limit his power and access to vital systems, but apparently it hadn't worked. Judging by his past history, Wesker had assumed that Sergei knew quite a bit about Red Queen – a throwback to his days sitting at Spencer's feet – but this kind of intimate knowledge, as well as the means and cunning necessary to exploit it, had been an unexpected blow.

I underestimated him, Wesker realized, furious with himself. Dear heart was correct. He was an arrogant, prideful man, and it had cost him. Only his private militia, men whom he'd forced to train obsessively for scenarios like tonight, had prevented things from expanding into a full-blown disaster. Wesker clenched his hands on the back of a chair, his fingers leaving little dents. Sergei was going to pay very dearly for making a fool of him.

Wesker spent the next few hours breathing down people's necks, coordinating the belowground containment units and generally making demands of anybody unfortunate enough to get caught in his line of fire. Around midnight, Birkin finally took him aside and begged him to let his people do their jobs. It was time to let the technicians go to work on Red Queen, an area of expertise where Wesker fell rather short. Sensing that the chairman was going to argue the fact, however, Birkin jabbed a finger at his cell phone.

"Seriously, Al, if anything comes up, you'll be the first one to know. I'll make sure of it."

Scowling, but forced to concede that his colleague was right, Wesker was persuaded to take his leave, much to the relief of everybody involved. The chairman was cold and volatile on the best of days, let alone when his dander was up. On such occasions, his sharp tongue was sometimes enough to make grown men want to cry.

Irritably cracking his neck, Wesker stalked the dark hallways. He didn't carry a flashlight. With his scorching, light-sensitive eyes and his glasses resting midway down his nose, he didn't need one. Wesker briefly considered heading to the barracks, since they would be empty with all the security forces scattered around the island, and slacking his frustration on a punching bag. One drawback to his virus was that it made his rage particularly hard to control, his body trembling faintly with the massive increase in testosterone and natural steroid hormones searing through his veins. He wanted to destroy something, reduce it to dust or a mangled bloody pulp, whichever the case may be.

Growling, Wesker paused at one of the windows, resting his palms on the sill, and worked to control himself. Where he was going, he couldn't afford not to be in control. He needed to speak with Claire for a moment and learn whatever else she might know about Sergei's movements. He doubted she would tell him anything he didn't already know, but it was worth looking into.

Is that all? Is that all I want to see her for?

He could picture her in his mind – pale, bloody and badly shaken, but still standing upright with as much dignity as she could muster. The image sent a jolt through Wesker's body and he forced himself to examine it, just as he would with anything he wasn't entirely sure about. He wanted grab her with both hands, examine her wounds for himself, and make absolutely certain that she'd been properly taken care of. His personal code wouldn't allow anything less. She was important to him, and Wesker wanted to make sure she knew it. The urge was at once both alien and oddly familiar to him, and after several moments of thought he finally placed where he'd felt it before.

The discomfort was very similar to how'd he'd felt watching Chris plummet down a cliff after his climbing gear had failed during a training mission, or during the hellish five minutes he'd spent trying to staunch the bullet wound in Jill's leg after she'd run afoul of a teen drug lord. Wesker growled and shook the memories away. Thinking about that life was like trying to cling to something long after it'd turned to dust in your hands, worthless and wasted. It was why he equally loved and hated Claire, because she had the audacity to make him feel again.

Gathering his composure, Wesker pushed away from the wall. It took him just under five minutes to reach her room, but when he got there an uncomfortable knot formed in his chest. Her door was slightly again, the room beyond completely dark. Wesker went in without knocking. The room bore signs of having been occupied a few hours ago, most notably the odor of singeing and the burnt candle on the coffee table, but other than that the room was vacant. Wesker ran through the possibilities. Why wasn't she here? Where could she have possibly gone? His first thought was that she'd left to spend the night with Sherry, but a quick phone call revealed otherwise. His so-called niece was groggy and unnerved from all the activity, but she hadn't seen Claire in over six hours. Wesker hung up without bothering to answer why he was looking for her.

Wesker began to feel the first spikes of alarm, clinical needles telling him that something might be wrong. He bared his teeth. When he caught up with her – if he caught up with her – she was going to get a severe tongue lashing for putting him through this not once, but twice in one evening. But first he had to find her. Wesker had worked in a police department; he knew how people tended to react to shock. They often sought refuge in places that were familiar to them. Wesker doubted even a Redfield would be idiotic enough to head for the greenhouse amidst all the confusion, so where else did that leave? With a violent storm blowing itself out over the island, the pool was out of the question, as were the labs.

And then, suddenly, the answer became very clear. Spinning on his heel, Wesker marched down the corridor. Arriving at his private suite, he put his hand on the door and tried to open it, immediately encountering resistance. Instead of being irritated, however, he felt relieved. Oh, she was going to pay for making him feel that, too. Eyes glowing faintly, Wesker had only to apply a fraction of his strength to the door before it began to move in earnest. Inside the room, a chair scraped back against the floor.

In the bathroom, Claire was just stepping out of the shower. After sleeping on and off for the last few hours and not feeling any better for it, she'd finally decided to get clean, unable to stand the stench of chemicals much longer. Being careful of her stitches and Band-aids, she'd scrubbed everything else with the kind of aggression that implied she was trying to wash away more than just the smell.

At last, her skin pink and glowing, Claire had gotten out and was wrapping herself with a towel when she heard it, a dull clunk from out in the main room. Freezing, Claire listened hard. There was a pause, then the chair she'd put under the doorknob began to shift, grating against the floor. Somebody was forcing their way into the room. Claire's heart leapt into her throat, closing off her air. She grabbed her pistol off the toilet seat and backed into a corner. If the intruder looked even remotely dead, or if its ethnicity was in any way Russian, she was blowing it away without a second thought. Eyes locked on the door, Claire pointed her gun directly at it. Her hand was damp, so she forced herself to grip it tightly, releasing the safety with her thumb.

Muffled footsteps sifted into the bathroom. The doorknob began to turn. Claire shrank against the wall as a dark figure stepped partway into the room, looking around for her. For the second time tonight, she recognized the combed golden hair and jet-black sunglasses. Claire released the breath she had no idea she'd been holding.

"Is there a reason you're pointing a gun at me?" Wesker asked, facing her with one hand still on the doorknob.

His intense tone should have sent her crying for cover, but all she felt was relief. Remembering that it was his bathroom she was currently occupying, Claire could have kicked herself for being so insecure. It made sense that Wesker would eventually return to his room. Stupid, stupid! She could have blown his brains out, and Claire had absolutely no desire to find out if he was fast enough to dodge bullets. Gulping, she hastily pointed the gun at the floor. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't know it was you."

"Were you expecting somebody else to come into my room?" he asked coolly. He regarded her through the steam permeating the dimly lit bathroom. The flashlight Claire had propped on the edge of the sink was their only illumination, casting shadows across his face. "Did you believe it was safer in here?"

Claire scowled at him. "So?" she demanded, daring him to challenge her. He didn't, but his stare grew intensely critical. Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of water dripping in the shower. Claire nervously reset the safety on her pistol. She didn't need to slip and shoot Wesker in the head. However, it took her two tries to get it right.

"You're shaking," Wesker noted dispassionately.

"Screw you," Claire gasped. "You didn't just experience a taste of hell."

Wesker tipped his head to the side. Damn those sunglasses, but it felt like they were boring right through her. "Correct me if I'm wrong, dear heart, but you've survived through much longer and dire situations," he said, frowning. "Would you care to explain why tonight was worse?"

Claire swallowed, but said nothing. She wasn't going to tell him. She just wouldn't. It was too raw, too personal. Behind his glasses, Claire felt rather than saw Wesker's eyes flick to the wound on her arm, then to the one on her face. Neither showed any signs of laceration or tearing. The edges of the wounds were clean and precise, not from the brutal tearing of infected fingernails, but from a knife. Claire was horrified to see understanding suddenly appear on Wesker's face. Crimson light welled out from behind his glasses.

"What did he do to you?" Wesker growled, his voice vibrating on a perilously low octave.

Claire cast a shocked look at him. How could he possibly have figured it out? No! No, no! A rock wedged itself into her throat, joining the dozen others suddenly weighing down her belly. "What are you talking about?" she asked hastily. Her voice was even, but there was no hiding the shudder that crawled its way down her arms.

Moving so fast she barely saw him, Claire cried out as Wesker flashed across the bathroom, seizing her by the shoulders. "What did he do?" Wesker roared, shaking her back and forth. Horror and fury honed the lines of his face into razored edges, and his eyes were hot sparks of light. Frightened, Claire wanted to scream, or wail, or fall into Wesker's embrace, but all she could do was stare. Wesker's hands suddenly moved from her shoulders to the sides of her face, thrusting his fingers through her wet hair.

"Claire," he gritted her name through clenched teeth. "Whatever it is, you WILL tell me."

Harsh as they were, his words struck a nerve. He called me Claire. Not Miss Redfield. Not even dear heart. Claire. She trembled openly, her composure beginning to crack. Unable to face the naked fury in Wesker's eyes, Claire turned her face away. "He… he found me in the corridors," she whispered, the memory making her want to vomit. "I guess he heard me on the radio. Sick, depraved son-of-a-bitch. He cut me and he tried…. to do other things to me."

Wesker's body tensed. "Go on," he urged, grinding the words.

Claire gulped for breath, focusing on the fibers of Wesker's cashmere turtleneck. Expensive but practical, like most everything the man owned. "I didn't have a chance," Claire whispered, tears brimming in her eyes again. "But he heard some stuff on the radio and decided to leave me for that ape. He tried to, but he didn't actually touch me, I swear to God!"

There. She'd said it. Finally looking up at Wesker, Claire desperately tried to read him. Why would he care what had happened unless… wait, that was the point, wasn't it? He cared. Wesker actually cared about her; it was obvious even if it was unspoken. The knowledge made Claire weak and watery on the inside, her knees threatening to give out and send her sprawling to the damp floor. "I… I thought I was okay," she croaked, the tightness in her throat giving way to actual pain. "But I'm not."

With a savage groan, Wesker suddenly pulled her against his chest, his powerful arms wrapped tightly around her. Shocked, Claire instinctively grasped at his shirt. "It's alright, dear heart," Wesker growled thickly. "It's alright. You were right to come here to me."

Claire's throat constricted, her eyes blurred and burning. She'd lost track of how many times Wesker had grabbed her, but he'd never injured her, never taken a knife to her face or attempted to force himself on her, and in that moment Claire gained a sudden shard of understanding. No matter how arrogant or inconsiderate or domineering, Wesker wasn't a monster like Sergei. He was a flawed person, but he wasn't evil or sadistic, and that was all she had ever needed to know.

Claire sagged against him and buried her face in his shirt, clinging to his strong shoulders. Wesker was holding her so tightly it was as though he was trying to force her into his chest. It made it a little hard to breath, but she didn't care. Squeezing her eyes shut, she was forced to take shallow, shuddering gulps of air, her tears finally spilling over to darken Wesker's shirt. The scent of Wesker's body enveloped her, the intense heat of his chest radiating fiercely through his shirt. She could feel his silent desperation in the way he held her, but after a long moment of standing in his embrace, Claire sniffed as quietly as she could and picked her head up, not wanting to appear weak or clingy. Wesker allowed her to step back, but did not let go of her shoulders. Looking at him, Claire saw that Wesker's clothing was noticeably damp. She flushed, embarrassed. "Sorry," she whispered.

Wesker brushed her apology aside. "Did you bring any clothes?" he demanded.

Claire pointed to the jeans and torn blouse she'd tossed in the corner.

Wesker shook his head. "Put something of mine on. There, on the shelf," he said, leaving the bathroom to give her some privacy.

Feeling drained, Claire roughly toweled herself off and selected a black t-shirt and a pair of black flannel pants from the shelf. The garments were too big for her, and she had to fold the pant legs up several times in order to use her feet. She picked her scrunchie off the floor, sniffed it, and then dropped it in disgust. Her hair was obviously going to stay down for now. Leaving the gun on the toilet seat, Claire picked up her flashlight and went into the next room.

Wesker got up from the couch when he saw her and went into the bathroom to change his clothes as well. Exhausted, with the heat of the shower rapidly dissipating from her body, Claire slumped into the corner of the couch, propping the flashlight on the table so it provided some light to the rest of the room. A moment later, Wesker came back wearing a fresh t-shirt, the hem tucked into his pants. Wondering how he could even see with those sunglasses on, Claire watched as the man knelt in front of the fireplace. In the past century it would have burned wood, but some modern architect had fitted a metal stove into the hearth, perfectly sealing it up. Nowadays, the fireplace burned gas.

Taking an unused book of matches off the mantle, Wesker struck one, filling the room with the pleasant aroma of sulfur, and reached in to light the pilot. There was a rush of displaced air. The power outage obviously hadn't affected the propane lines. Shaking out the match, Wesker straightened to adjust the thermostat. Claire heard something click deep within the mechanism and a moment later, the stove filled with flames. They jumped and danced, licking at a pile of fake logs. For some reason, it made things feel even more dreamlike and surreal. Claire reached over to turn off the flashlight. No need to waste batteries.

Sitting on the couch next to her, Wesker swung his long legs up onto the coffee table, one arm on the back of the cushions. He seemed perfectly relaxed, but there was a muscle ticking in his jaw. He reached down to grasp at his cell phone, then seemed to change his mind. His gloved fingers beat an irritable, restless tempo on the cushions.

Claire swallowed nervously. "…How bad it is?" she asked, deciding to take the risk.

"Bad enough," Wesker answered, staring into the fire. "The outbreak has been contained, so you don't have to worry about the island, but Sergei's little stunt cost me a dozen highly-trained men and more problems then I can count right now." Claire was a little surprised. She'd thought tonight's fiasco had been the result of human error. Now she realized this wasn't true.

"Sergei left the doors open, didn't he?" Claire asked, hating the Russian.

Wesker grunted. "Either he planned to use the escaping B.O.W.s to cover his escape, or perhaps he hoped to cause an outbreak that would eventually encompass the island. Either way, it'll be days before the damage is cleaned up."

"Aren't you supposed to have security protocols for this kind of thing?" Claire demanded. She hadn't meant for her voice to sound so accusing, but her emotions were still a little raw. She listened intently as Wesker gave her a brief explanation as to what had happened with Red Queen. Claire blinked at him, feeling queasy. "It shouldn't have happened," Wesker hissed, clenching the arm of couch. "I made it impossible!"

Obviously not so impossible, thought Claire. She wanted to point out the old axiom of building a better mousetrap and creating a better mouse, but taking cheap shots just wasn't her style, even where Wesker was concerned. He'd planned for the worst, but tonight had been the worst plus 2. If anything else had gone wrong, his hired guns would be evacuating the island right now. Claire looked back to the fireplace. She wasn't going to forgive him right away – it was his sordid little empire that made this kind of hell possible – but there was no need to rub salt in the wounds.

Propping her elbow on the couch, Claire dropped her cheek into her hand and stifled a yawn. She'd thought the leftover adrenaline would get her through the night, but the shower had apparently washed away more than just the smell. Eyes drooping, she stared at the fire, watching the mesmerizing orange light it cast on the ground. Claire's head began to fill with those strange, disjointed visions that appear on the edge of sleep. Wesker's arm moved, his hand slipping off the back of the cushions to gently cup the back of her neck. Claire stiffened, unsure.

"I told you that I'm not a good person, dear heart, but I would never harm you. Not intentionally," Wesker added, his deep voice low and unrelenting. "Besides, I'm reminded of something you once said to me. I'm trying to help. Or are you going to tell me you don't need it?"

Claire stared at him, surprised. "Pompous prick," she muttered.

"Stubborn Redfield," Wesker shot back, as if this explained everything.

Claire's smile was watery, but totally genuine. Too tired to protest what was being offered, she gave up on the mental gymnastics and leaned across the couch, resting her head on Wesker's shoulder. Relief coursed through her, warm and radiant. "Don't get any ideas," she mumbled, getting as close as she could without clinging. "This doesn't mean you're off the hook."

The corner of Wesker's mouth twitched. "Of course not," he agreed.

Claire sighed as his arm went around her, holding her close. Closing her eyes, she let herself drift, basking in the sensation of being protected – not that she was some Southern Belle, thanks very much – because on some level and for whatever reason, Wesker did care and that knowledge was worth everything right now. A few minutes later, Wesker shifted to look at the beautiful woman asleep on his shoulder and anger boiled inside him like something hot and poisonous. Nobody was allowed to lay hands on his dear heart. Nobody.

You'll pay for it, Sergei, he thought viciously. So help me, you are going to pay very dearly.

Feeling deeply possessive, Wesker put his other arm around Claire, adjusting her to his liking so they both were more comfortable. Having the right to be a god meant he could rise above many restrictions of normal morality, but gods also had a disturbing weakness for falling in love with mortal women. It would have been amusing if it didn't make him feel so vulnerable. He heaved a heavy sigh.

Queen, consort, business partner, lover… she had the potential to be all those things and more. Claire was definitely worth more than just his time. She was worth his heart, what remained of his humanity. She shifted in her sleep, unconsciously drawing closer to his reassuring warmth and strength. That's right, dear heart. You belong here with me, Wesker thought with a smirk, savoring her soft weight. Satisfied that she was taken care of, he stared into the fire, his thoughts finally turning to revenge.

A/N: Finally, some real Claire/Wesker fluff! I know you guys were waiting all week for this, so here's hoping it lived up to every one of your expectations! What's that? Two whole chapters without an obvious cliffhanger? GASP. Say it isn't so! ;) Anyway, I made a new illustration on DeviantArt, too. I've wanted to do that scene since forever! WARNING: Side effects may include minor drooling. Please move your keyboard to a safe location.

Hope you enjoy, and see you next week! ^_^