Chapter 20: All Things Considered

"I'm in love with the darkness of the night,

I'm in love with all that's out of sight.

I'm in love with the magic of the new,

And the darkness loves me, too."

Claire spent a long time debating what kind of gift she could get Wesker. What did you give the man who had everything? She tried to imagine him in a pair of brand-new Stewie Griffith boxers and – no. Revolting. A box of chocolates and coffee mug that said Long Live the King were going to look pretty dumb compared to the diamond necklace he'd gotten for her birthday, so at long last she gave up the search. After all, it was the thought the counted, so she purchased him a large green card with gilt gold letters. Returning from Paris, she kept it hidden for several days, until it was actually time to give it to him.

Sitting on her couch with a pen, Claire tried to think of what to add to the preprinted verse inside the card. She doubted Wesker would even read it and if he did, she doubted a bunch of emotional mush would matter to him, but she needed to get it off her chest. This was what you did for people you cared about, even if the circumstances were bizarre, so Claire thought long and hard – she wanted this to be a bit more than just a birthday card – and wrote slowly, thinking about every word. She was almost done when her pen suddenly went dry.

Claire gave it a shake. "Oh, come on!"

She milked a little more ink out of it, but not nearly enough to finish what she was writing. Picking up her journal, Claire made a bunch of massive, looping circles in an attempt to get the ink flowing again, but the pen refused to be coerced. Frowning, Claire rooted around for another, but she knew before she started that she wasn't going to find one. She'd only needed one pen for her journal and since she didn't need to fill out reports or do homework, and since the greenhouse was always well supplied with anything she needed at the time, why bother having a bunch of them in her room?

Claire heaved a little sigh. This was so typical. Slipping the card into its envelope, she left her room and made a beeline for Wesker's. She'd been planning to go over and put the card on his desk anyway, so why not kill two birds with one stone? Even so, however, Claire found herself hoping that she wouldn't run into the man. She'd thought of giving him his card in person, but decided against it. Better he find the stupid card and read it when she wasn't around, so she wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of having to explain that she was trying to be nice. Nice and Wesker typically weren't mentioned in the same sentence.

Stopping at his door, Claire knocked and waited, relieved when there was no answer. She used her ID card to get into the room and made straight for his desk, eager to finish and get out of here. On the horizon, the sun had just started to touch the ocean, almost like it was disappearing below the water. Wesker's drapes had been left open, allowing a deep crimson-pink light to spill into the room, casting dark shadows on the floor. Claire pinched the chain on the lamp and turned it on. A lot of folders were stacked neatly on Wesker's desk. Here and there, an overturned CD gleamed with a myriad of rainbow colors. Moving carefully as not to disturb whatever system of organization Wesker had in place, Claire searched for a pen. To her growing irritation, however, she didn't find one.

"I swear, the man's got OCD," she grumbled, pulling the drawer open. She half expected to see the coveted pens neatly arranged by size, or color, or brand, but Wesker's drawer was filled with more paperwork. She carefully shuffled through it, finding a collection of Sharpies and a highlighter, and disposable fountain pens with built-in ink cartridges. Curious, she picked one up and tested the nib on the inside of her arm. The ink came out thick and smooth, and Claire wanted to groan at the luxury of it, but it would stand out too much against the ballpoint scribbles she'd put in the card. If she could help it, she wanted things to match as well as possible.

Replacing the fountain pen, Claire continued her search, realizing that most of Wesker's handwriting had been made using pens like the one she'd just tried. She was a bit surprised. Fountain pens seemed a bit too romantic for Wesker, but then again, a lot of designers and engineers preferred them for their massive ink supply and their ability to switch between thin and thick lines. Practical, but distinguished. Yeah. That was Wesker all over.

"Jesus Christ, isn't there anything normal in here?" Claire exclaimed, brushing aside a box of paperclips. She jammed her hand through all the papers, hoping that a modest ballpoint had somehow escaped Wesker's scrutiny by migrating to the back of the drawer. She felt a roll of Scotch tape, and something else… a hard, squarish lump. Unable to imagine what it might be, Claire pulled it out. It was a battered brown leather wallet, its worn seams a testament to a life spent in service. It seemed incongruously plain for Wesker, so maybe that was why Claire picked it up, curiosity getting the best of her. The wallet felt unusually heavy for its size, and she soon discovered why.

The wallet contained a weighty, stainless silver badge. Inside the decorative laurels, the words Raccoon City Police Department surrounded the familiar S.T.A.R.S. archetype, a round medallion containing three stars and the words Special Tactics and Rescue Service. Claire's hands shook. Oh, dear God. Is this… is this really?

Opposite the badge was an ID card bearing Wesker's photo and signature, along with the simple declaration: Such may make Arrests and Carry Firearms in Accordance with Federal Law. Claire stared at Wesker's unsmiling photo, his ice-blue eyes piercing her to the core. Somehow, the color did not surprise her. She looked through the rest of the wallet, finding other things like forty-two dollars in crumbled bills, a receipt from an ATM, and a folded square of paper. Nervously, she pulled it out and unfolded it. Looking at what it was, however, she almost wished she hadn't.

The photo was heavily creased from the years, but the subject matter was clear. Claire's throat tightened. It was a picture of the S.T.A.R.S. office, with its mismatched oak desks, tottering stacks of equipment and paperwork, and general feeling of organized chaos. Claire recognized her brother immediately and her heart began to ache. Chris had smiled much more often back then, before the fear and worry had etched itself into his face. He was holding a polished gold trophy, his arms draped around the shoulders of his teammates, Jill on the right, Wesker on the left.

The ache in Claire's chest became real pain. Wesker was smiling. Not his usual smug grin or disdainful smirk, but a real smile. His arms were folded only halfway, as if he'd been wrenched into the picture the moment it was taken, but he was leaning into the spontaneous hug, not trying to escape from it. And there was something else in his expression, too. It was pride. Another moment and his hand would have settled on Chris' shoulder, of that Claire was oddly certain.

Turning the photo over, she saw that someone had written the date. July 21, 1997. One year before Arklay. Gulping back a sudden lump in her throat, Claire turned the picture back over again, gazing at Wesker's smile. How could that be the same man who'd betrayed his team in cold blood? Was it just acting, a cruel veneer to cover his true intentions, or had Wesker actually cared? Tears welled up in Claire's eyes. Now that she looked, she realized that the wallet wasn't soiled with ground-in dirt as she'd once thought.

It was blood.

Dried, rust-colored blood lay in the deep groves of Wesker's badge and stained the edges of the photo Claire's was holding, indicating that it'd been folded carefully inside the wallet when the damage had happened, not after. Claire swallowed back the pain in her throat. The wallet had been with Wesker the night the Tyrant had killed him, soaking up the torrent of his blood while he lay dead on the floor. But why was it here in his desk? Claire didn't peg Wesker as the sentimental type, so why would be keep such an obvious memento? Was it some kind of sick trophy?

Claire shook herself. No, the stain inside the wallet didn't match where she'd found the photo, meaning that it'd been taken out and then put back in long before she'd found it. In fact, it was probably taken out and looked at dozens of times. Chills danced along Claire's skin, her stomach twisting. At that moment she heard an electronic chime and the sound of the door opening behind her. Gasping, she spun around to see Wesker come into the room already starting to remove his lab coat. Catching sight of Claire, Wesker paused, surprised, then his eyes slid to what she was holding.

She was terrified to see a violent blaze of crimson light behind his glasses.

"Is this what you do when I'm not around, go through my personal belongings?" Wesker demanded, his voice edged with menace. Claire didn't think she'd ever seen him so pissed off, his presence forcing her back against the desk as he tore – no, ripped – his property from her hands. She half expected him to tear the photo in half, so she was shocked to see him carefully fold it up and shove it back in the wallet, glaring at her with an expression that bordered on apocalyptic. Claire swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand her ground.

"I wasn't going through your things," she tried to explain. "I… I wanted to give you a card for your birthday and my pen ran out of ink, so I was looking for a new one." Flushing, she gestured at the open drawer. To her utmost relief, the card she'd wanted to give him was still in her hand. "I'm sorry!"

Wesker's eyes lingered on the card for a minute, then snapped back to Claire's face, his hands clenched into fists. Claire held his gaze, refusing to be a coward and look down. She'd thought she was ready to accept – to forget but not forgive – what had happened with S.T.A.R.S. even without knowing the whole story, but now, with the old wound rudely torn open and bleeding between them, Claire realized that she'd just been fooling herself. She'd never be at peace until she knew the truth.

"What really happened at Arklay?" Claire whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. Wesker's teeth bared in a snarl, but she forced herself to keep going. "If you don't want to tell me, I swear I'll never ask again, but please… I need to know… what Alex did." Her voice quivered slightly as she spoke the name that had seldom left her mind since the day Sherry had uttered it to her.

A horrified expression came over Wesker's face. "Where did you hear that name?" he demanded, his voice pinched thin with anger, maybe even a little fear. Claire shook her head at him. "Does it matter?" she asked evasively.

Wesker took a step towards her. "Don't play with me," he snarled, gripping her shoulders with iron fingers. Claire gasped and instinctively crossed her arms over her chest as Wesker roughly pulled her forward. "Where did you hear it? And don't lie to me!"

"From Sherry. She…" Claire hesitated, thinking about it. She didn't want to get Sherry in trouble, but something told her that lying to Wesker wasn't a good idea. "She saw you the morning after Arklay. You said something about how Alex had ruined S.T.A.R.S."

Wesker looked furious. His crushing grip was growing increasingly painful, but Claire forced herself to endure it. Gathering herself, she put both hands flat against his chest, wondering if she'd left her sanity in Paris, because it definitely wasn't with her right now. "What happened?" she repeated, pleading with him.

"I know what you're thinking," Wesker growled, "and it won't be the shining redemption you have in mind. There are things you don't want to know about me, Claire."

"I don't care," Claire plowed on, her face washed of all color save for the two feverish blotches on her cheeks like dabs of paint. The air around her was suddenly unbreathable. "All I want to know is what went on. I deserve at least that much… don't I? Please?"

For a terrible minute, Claire thought Wesker was going to tear her in half, but after a moment his grip slackened. The inferno behind his glasses dimmed to a smolder. "Yes, I suppose you do," he growled thickly. He pushed her out to arms length and turned away. Almost on the thought train of "ignore it and it might go away", Wesker paced the room with a fearsome frown, shuffling the papers on his desk even though Claire hadn't disturbed a single one, but she was used to his silent waiting game. She rubbed her sore shoulders and did just that. She waited.

At last, however, Wesker sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her with his hands between his knees. "I suppose none of this will make sense to you if I don't start at the beginning," he said bitterly. Claire nervously leaned back against the desk, one leg locked to support her weight. There was a heavy pause as Wesker collected his thoughts.

"I was raised by Umbrella," said Wesker quietly, starting with the obvious. "From the start, I was part of an undisclosed supersoldier program codenamed the Wesker Children. Alexander Ashford was the creator of the project, ensuring that his "participants" were taken from parents with exceptionally high IQs. There were thirteen of us in total. At varying stages of our lives, we were given injections of the Progenitor Virus. Some were incompatible, others assimilated the virus into their bodies, but the majority didn't last long. Over the years, most either went mad, committed suicide, or were terminated."

Claire swallowed and nodded, feeling chilled.

"At seventeen, I was unaware that I was part of any project, let alone Spencer's conceited efforts to manufacture the stewards of his twisted utopia," Wesker sneered. "However, I grew suspicious of his motives, so I began to search for answers. I discovered that my so-called parents had not perished in a lab accident as I had been led to believe, but rather that I had been taken from them at a very young age."

Wesker shifted minutely. "I'm unsure why, even to this day, but I left immediately to seek them out," he said, reaching up to remove his glasses. He met Claire's gaze squarely, without the slightest trace of emotion. "They were on an outing that morning, so I stopped to observe them from the other side of the street. They had a young girl with them… my sister."

Oh, dear God, no. Realizing that her earlier suspicions about Wesker having a family were correct, Claire felt as though she'd been kicked in the gut. Spencer did something to them, didn't he? Please don't tell me he held them over your head.

"My parents had obviously conceived another child after my disappearance," said Wesker, "and I found myself wondering what I should say to them, if anything at all. I never saw the van until it was too late. I watched the woman who'd given birth to me die on the sidewalk and she didn't even know me." Wesker swallowed visibly. "Neither my sister or my father survived long enough for medical aid to have even made a difference."

Hot, painful tears welled up in Claire's eyes. She tried to imagine a seventeen-year-old version of the man in front of her watch his mother die right in front of him, or cope with the image of his baby sister lying in a pool of blood. Problem was, she could see it quite vividly, hear the screams of the pedestrians, see the broken café tables and overturned cups of soda and ice cream, if it'd been a summer day.

"Wesker, I… I'm so, so sorry!" Claire whispered, her emotions threatening to choke her.

"Save it," said Wesker coldly. "I'm not telling you this in order to invoke your pity."

Claire swallowed the hard lump in her throat, stung by the cruelness of his words. And yet, some part of her realized that if Wesker did care about the incident, or had ever cared at all, smothering it beneath a layer of ice and riveted steel was his favorite defense against the trauma.

"In either case, and despite any personal doubts I might have had, I returned to Umbrella shortly afterwards. My ambitions there were too great to cast aside," Wesker continued in an unrelenting monotone. "However, something inside of me had changed. It was subtle at first, things like signing the wrong name on forms, but as the years passed it became more evident. There were incidents when I would loose hours of my life at a time, waking up in places with no memory to how I'd gotten there."

Claire had a sudden horrible, unimaginable notion as to where this was going.

"The symptoms reached their peak during the time Lisa Trevor spent at Arklay. Despite popular belief, I took no pleasure in watching the girl and her mother suffer," said Wesker bluntly. "At least, not when I was control. For three weeks, it was absolute hell. William eventually came to me with his concerns, and that was the first time I heard the name Alex. It was how I'd introduced myself to a visiting colleague."

What? No. No, that can't be possible! It just can't be! Claire wanted to laugh. The thought that Alex was nothing more than a mental imbalance, a delusional second identity, was ludicrous! Surely Wesker, with all his intelligence and cunning, could have thought up a better excuse than this. Claire opened her mouth, but one look at the grim intensity in Wesker's eyes, and it was hard not to believe him. Nausea coiled through her stomach in an incapacitating wave.

"That… that's not possible," Claire managed, unable to stop the words from forming. "It… it's too…"

"Convenient?" asked Wesker dryly. "I assure you, it's been anything but. Between us, William and I managed to devise a solution. I began taking prescription antipsychotics and for over a decade I barely noticed any symptoms at all. Even when I left Umbrella for STARS, I was always in control. Always. Until today, dear heart, William's the only one who ever knew."

Claire gripped the edge of the desk, struggling to think. She dimly recalled Birkin telling her that nobody could change the tragedies of the past, that there were things about Wesker that she didn't know, and this was it, wasn't it? Claire licked her lips, fighting a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. "Go on," she whispered, terrified to realize that she needed to listen to the rest of the story.

"After the outbreak at Arklay, Spencer introduced me to the idea of using S.T.A.R.S. to collect combat data. I refused," said Wesker, choosing his words like surgical instruments. "I thought myself prepared to sacrifice them if the need arose, but I was wrong, so I convinced Spencer that the deaths of an entire paramilitary unit would be too difficult to cover up and that using our own mercenaries would be a wiser course of action. He agreed, and I should have known then that it was a mistake to believe him."

Wesker paused for a moment, turning the wallet over and over in his hands. "In the weeks that followed, I began laying the groundwork for my own plans. There was nothing noble about my intentions, I assure you, but I'd been planning to betray Umbrella for several months. I would go Arklay myself, retrieve the facility's research data, and disappear. I'd grown beyond needing Umbrella, and I refused to cater to an old man's senile fantasies. However…"

Wesker hesitated for a minute. The wallet in his hands began to spin faster. "However, I started to notice a change in myself," he said in a subdued voice. "I was growing distant and more violent as my… condition began to manifest itself for the first time in years. I never missed a dosage, and at the end I even doubled it, but the drugs no longer seemed to work. There were times when I would suddenly find myself on the highway, with only scattered ideas of why I was out driving in the middle of the night. It was like… like watching myself through a window."

Claire wrapped her arms around her body. The sun had gone down and gloomy grey light was filtering in through the window, making the room seem cold and distant. "At last, I received Spencer's orders to carry out my original mission: lure S.T.A.R.S. into the Mansion, collect combat data, and destroy the facility. And finally I understood," said Wesker. "The part of me that called itself Alex – no doubt an unconscious homage to the creator of the Wesker Children – had assumed all of my worst traits, the part of me that reveled in Umbrella's corruption, the part of me that carried the indoctrination present in all the Wesker Children: follow Spencer without question."

"I didn't have much time, so I sabotaged Bravo Team's helicopter and sent them into the mountains, hoping that they would serve Spencer's purpose, but they were such weak, foolish idiots all this resulted in was more bloodshed, and no foreseeable gain." Wesker spat the words like acid, his anger and frustration plain. "Alpha Team was dispatched shortly afterwards, and there was nothing I could do about it."

Wesker's lip curled, revealing his teeth. He was gripping his wallet so hard, Claire was afraid for the badge inside it, half-expecting the flimsy metal to begin warping under the strain. It was obvious to her that Wesker was straying close to the boundaries of his normally excellent self-control.

"I don't remember much after that," he continued bitterly, his eyes blazing like miniature suns. "I came around two or three times during the night, long enough to realize what I was doing and I tried, I tried so hard to ensure that they had a fighting chance. They were idiots, but they were my idiots! I was responsible for them and I failed!"

His words – so raw and angry, and full of the emotions he usually kept suppressed – resulted in a violent and profound flipping of Claire's stomach. Damn it. Damn it to hell. Wesker hated weakness, he hated not being in control, and most of all, he hated failure. Claire had hoped, but never in a thousand years had she really believed that Wesker had felt this way about Arklay. The realization felt like an abyss, a horrid, steadily widening gap that Claire could only stare at in dismay. All this time, how had Wesker managed to stand it?

"At last, Jill and your brother made it into the basement. I wasn't surprised. After all, they were my best men," Wesker growled. "It was like being trapped in my own head. It took every ounce of strength I had to assert myself on Alex, force his… my attention away from them. I knew the Tyrant would attack the first living thing it saw. It was what it had been bred to do. Death had become a welcome reprieve by then, and the only thing I felt was relief."

Wesker sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, forcibly composing himself. "I should have stayed dead, but the dormant virus in my body had other ideas," he gritted, fixing Claire in his fiery gaze. "I'm sure you can guess the rest of the story, dear heart, but let me make one thing very clear to you. Alex is not some separate entity, a separate person who you can hold accountable. I am to blame. I'm the one responsible for the destruction of S.T.A.R.S. I am Alex, do you understand? That personality is only an exacerbation of my… darker traits. When I was younger, I assassinated my former mentor and gloated above him while he died. I can assure you, Alex was not the one in control then."

Wesker's lips had a cruel twist to them. "How does that make you feel, dear heart?" he asked.

Claire wondered the very same thing. Despite what Wesker had said, she couldn't help the heavy, dismal feeling of pity swelling in her chest. She felt cold and sick and horrified all at once. Wesker had been right. She'd wanted to hear anything but this. Looking at the man, she tried to gauge how truthful he was being, since real cases of split personalities were rare and heavily debated. The idea seemed impossible and Claire desperately cast herself back in time, searching for some kind of clue, something she might have missed because she hadn't been looking.

She could picture Wesker spinning towards her, eyes burning, his expression twisted and malevolent. And suddenly Claire knew that for an instant, she'd met Alex face to face. He was sick and run-down, she realized, shaking. And he slipped. He lost control. She could clearly remember how Wesker had frozen, the sudden look of horror on his face. He couldn't get to those shots of his fast enough, thought Claire, horrified to remember Sergei's snide remarks about the chairman's "medication". That's why he kicked me out of his room. He was afraid he'd loose control again.

Claire recalled him telling her how he "couldn't guarantee her safety" anymore, and the evidence in his favor was suddenly damning. She hugged herself tight, almost as if she was trying to protect herself from the horror, the unexpected anguish, and forced her gaze back to Wesker. Normally the man's presence was overwhelming, wide shoulders thrown back, power radiating off of him in confident, masculine waves. Right now, however, his shoulders were slumped and while his gaze was hard and unwavering, fiery sparks of color in an otherwise blank face, his eyes were shiny with unshed moisture. Chris and Jill hadn't been the only ones who'd been hurt, and Wesker's pain came with the added burden of guilt, even if he gave very little indication of it.

And yet, Wesker wasn't just a killer. He was a murderer. He'd readily sacrificed Bravo unit in an attempt to save the people he decided should be the ones to live. It was a terrible decision to make, but Claire had a feeling that if she was faced with the same choice – her comrades and teammates versus a bunch of acquaintances – she knew that in the end, she would choose the people she cared about. It was cruel to think about Bravo team, about all the families who'd lost sons, husbands, or brothers, but the human heart was an inherently selfish thing. Wesker wasn't the hero of the story, but there was no way Claire could peg him as the villain.

In some ways, he was the cause of the tragedy, and in others he was just another victim of it. Despite what he'd told her, Claire just couldn't allow herself to continue believing that all the blame should be set squarely on his shoulders. She hadn't been there, but she believed Wesker when he said that he'd tried to help S.T.A.R.S. out of the Mansion. The thought made her entire body clench with sorrow and regret. As though a hand had reached inside her, she felt the last vestiges of mistrust she felt towards Wesker shift onto a new target. Once there, her anger flared up again, hotter and more acidic than ever before. If Spencer hadn't already been rotting in his grave, Claire would have left right now and twisted the old man's neck with her bare hands. Because if it's anyone's fault, it's yours, you sick ugly bastard.

Claire stood up, facing Wesker where he sat on the edge of the bed, and saw the invisible fulcrum on which she found herself balancing. Step backward into the familiar and all chances of going forward would never come again. Step forward into the unknown and there was no going back. She thought about her brother and what he would think. He would see it as a betrayal, but Claire knew in the deepest part of her soul that if she turned away now, the real sin would be turning her back on Wesker, on the truth. She'd be betraying her own heart. And right then and there, Claire made her choice. It wasn't the smartest decision in the world and it probably wasn't the safest either, but she knew that it was the right one. And Chris be damned, but she was happy with it. Her brother would just have to understand.

Coming forward, Claire felt Wesker's eyes on her, neither pleading with nor refusing her, but simply waiting, issuing a silent challenge. Shakily, Claire knelt on the floor between Wesker's knees so they were roughly eye-level. The man stiffly tried to put his glasses back on, but Claire stopped him by curling her fingers around his wrist. He tilted his head at her. "I thought my eyes made you nervous, dear heart," he commented bluntly.

Claire met his gaze squarely. His eyes were actually several different colors, ranging from burning crimson to deep, liquid gold. Right now they were smoldering with red light. "Not anymore," she confessed. They faced each other for a minute, unsure what to say. Claire was the first to continue. "You know, I really couldn't decide what to get you for your birthday," she laughed. "A new tie really didn't seem like your style, but you know what? I think I finally figured out what your present is."

Shy and uncertain, Claire lifted her shaking hands to Wesker's face. There was a moment when she froze, the realization of what she planned to do crashing over her in an embarrassing wave, but she forced it back. She knew about his intentions and had refused him once. It was her job to make the advance this time, to prove she was serious. Taking a deep breath, Claire shut her eyes and leaned forward. The sensation of her lips meeting Wesker's was sudden and intense, like a blow deep in the center of her belly. She felt Wesker stiffen, inhaling sharply between his teeth. He reached up and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her back. Claire didn't know what to think. Had she done something wrong?

"Are you sure, dear heart?" Wesker asked, his voice strangely hoarse. "Are you very, very sure?"

Claire swallowed hard. "More sure than I've been in a long time. I…" she paused, overwhelmed. She'd faced hordes of infected, braved underground labs filled with Tyrants, and survived Raccoon City, but it took every ounce of courage Claire had just to utter three little words. "I love you… Albert."

For once in his life, Wesker was at a loss for words. Claire counted several heartbeats before he let go of her shoulders, taking her face in his hands instead. "I don't recall giving you permission to call me that," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk twisting his lips, "but I think I like it." He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, the rich timbre of his voice resonating through her body. "Say it again."

Flushing with embarrassment, Claire wanted to squirm, but for some reason it was a good feeling. "Wesker" could be applied to either Albert or Alex, but Albert was for one of them alone. She dimly recalled it meaning noble or illustrious, and she wanted to make sure she was addressing right half of this man.

"I love you, Albert," she told him again, marveling at how much had changed between them. "Don't ask me to explain it, but I know what you want Umbrella to become and I know you care about me, so I've decided that's enough," she ended lamely, not knowing how else to put it into words.

Wesker chuckled, his breath caressing her flushed skin. "Don't flatter yourself by thinking you're the only one who's had doubts about the potential ramifications of our relationship, dear heart," he said. "If it means anything to you, however, your value to me has gone beyond simple caring."

Euphoria flooded Claire's system as Wesker forcibly tilted her head and pressed his mouth over hers, his body shaking with triumph and a sweltering feeling of relief. Unlike a moment ago, he took control of the kiss without hesitation and Claire was more than happy to let him. Wesker actually loved her! True, he hadn't said so in as many words, but she understood what he'd meant. Claire had always thought of love as involving roses and chocolates, and long walks in the park, with some handsome man asking for her hand in marriage on bended knee. This back-and-forth chess match she'd been playing with Wesker was a far cry from traditional courtship, but none of that mattered anymore.

Wesker's hands slid down her body, lifting her into him with phenomenal strength. The sheer power of his presence, the overwhelming heat of his body and the scent of his strong, spicy cologne, momentarily made her mind go blank and her temperature skyrocket. Yes, this was how it was meant to be. Claire leaned her weight into the source of that hard heat and tangible power, and gave in to Wesker's dark, fierce embrace. She wrapped both arms around his neck and ran the fingers of one hand through his thick golden hair. Wesker growled in satisfaction as he pressed kiss after kiss on her pink lips, finally deepening the contact with the soft touch of his tongue. However, nothing was forced and Claire realized that this didn't just feel good. It felt right.

Surrender had never tasted so sweet.

After a long moment, Wesker pulled back and simply held her against his chest, both their pulses racing. His face had a radiant golden glow that Claire had never seen before, but it couldn't get rid of the dark circles under his eyes or the deep, careworn lines around his mouth. In a flash of understanding, Claire realized that his indomitable will was the only thing keeping him upright. He'd obviously been working ungodly hours trying to manage the corporation, worrying about Sergei and how much the Russian could destroy if he showed the T-Virus to the right people, and Claire realized she didn't want that to happen any more than he did. She wanted to protect Umbrella, too. She wanted to protect Wesker. And from here on in, she was determined to do just that.

"You need to get some sleep," she whispered, touching his face.

"Is that your professional diagnosis, Dr. Redfield?" Wesker mocked.

Claire leveled a glare at him. "Yeah, that's right," she said, drawing herself up. "You need lie down right now and take a nap before you fall over." She pressed herself to him, trying to make him understand how much she cared, even if she'd only barely begun to understand it herself. "Please?"

There was a moment when she was sure Wesker was going to refuse, but then he slowly began undoing his tie, working his way down to his belt and shoes. When all of the more clumsy articles of clothing were lying on the floor, Wesker moved back on the bed and lay down. Claire went to him without hesitation, kicking her shoes off as she went. Wesker instantly turned onto his side and gathered her against him, meshing his body with hers as though he were unwilling to allow even an inch of space between them. Neither said anything to each other, both feeling as though words would only cheapen the moment and turn it into something mundane.

Shifting, Wesker rested his face against the soft mass of Claire's hair, pulling it out of her ubiquitous ponytail so he could tangle it through his hand. He'd never been involved in a relationship; a woman would have been an unwanted burden, but things were different now. Something vital had been missing from his world and now it was in his grasp. It was more than he'd hoped for and better than he'd allowed himself to dream. Exhausted, he let his eyes travel over Claire's relaxed form, savoring her steadying breathing, until his gaze came to rest on the card that'd she'd carelessly dropped on the bed when she'd come to join him.

Moving slowly, Wesker picked it up and casually flipped it open above her head, perusing Claire's easygoing handwriting. The words contained within could only have belonged to a Redfield: straightforward and directly from the heart, and the tender space beneath his ribs convulsed with wonderful sharpness. Wesker leaned in to kiss Claire's forehead, unable to describe the savage feeling of pleasure coursing through his veins. He couldn't remember ever having felt like this in his life.

"Thank you, dear heart," Wesker sighed, so softly she almost didn't hear him, "for choosing to be mine."

Exhaustion made his voice thick, but Claire heard him anyway and nuzzled deeper into his warmth, leaning into him, submitting to him, until it was impossible to tell where his body stopped and hers began. Wesker entwined himself around her, holding her against him, his strong legs twisting around hers, and Claire was lost in the sensation. Within a few moments both were asleep, and like a rare flower all the more precious and exotic because it had been unlooked for, they clung tightly to the love neither of them thought was possible.

A/N: I've been waiting, itching, and most of all fearing to write this chapter for a long time. Those three weeks I was gone? I spent them all working on it, trying to make it as delicious as possible, and I truly hope you all enjoyed it. How's THAT for a major turning point? Muhahaha! And we're not done yet. The story isn't over. Not by a long shot. However, I need to resume my Finger Triangle of Evil Contemplation and spend some time plotting the next few chapters. That little blinking cursor mocks my writer's block.

After I finished this chapter - can you give me a hallelujah? LOL - I came down off a severe writer's high and have been really uninspired these past few days. You can blame Transformers: Prime (I've totally fallen in love with it!) and yes, I am a shameless bag of excuses, but I promise not to turn into one of those jackasses who fall off the face of planet and leave their stories unfinished. I WILL BE BACK! Chris and Jill will return to the story, Leon will make a special guest appearance, and there will be horror and survival situations, and more soap opera drama than you can shake a stick at. I love this story way too much to abandon it, so just keep your eyes peeled and don't forget about me. *pleading puppy eyes* ^_^

NOTE:

Alexander Ashford probably didn't really create the Wesker Children, but think about it: he discovered the gene that controls intelligence, and all of the Wesker Children were taken from parents with exceptionally high IQs. Also, we know the creator of the project is named "Alexander" or "Alex", and Mr. Ashford is known to have been in Umbrella's inner circle.

Oh, and before I go:

In the photo Claire discovered, Chris is holding a trophy. Can anybody tell me what it's for? ;)