A/n's: So, I'm quite nervous about this one, probably because I like it so much. Hopefully, ya'll will it enjoy it too. Big thanks to slt for once again being awesome and not only betaing, but chatting with me and helping me through the stickier moments. This one's for you, Twin! Also, not to be forgotten: thank you to all the readers and reviewers. You guys make it all worth it.
Warnings: Minor gore and EXPLICIT (I'm told) ~flashback~ (ooh, fancy) sexy sex. XP
Chapter Four
Four of Swords
"A young man (or woman depending on the deck) rests upon a pallet, three swords hanging above, one below. He, or she, may appear dead; but is actually only resting. This is the 'meditation' card. It may seem out of place in a suit filled with strife and obstacles, but the Four of Swords, in fact, deals with the positive aspects of the sword symbol: peace and mental clarity. This card shows a period of rest and recovery after a time of challenge, with the promise that, once recovered, you will return to the challenge. For the moment, there is a truce. You can stop worrying, put down your arms and lower your shield – catch your breath."
-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot
-Ata-Tarot
We aren't going to make it.
Straight-forward and calm – those were the words that rolled through my mind as, hand-in-hand, we raced death. The tunnel ahead glowed, awash with red and orange, our shadows stretching long along the tracks and urging us on…leaving us behind.
Not like this. Not together.
I was already falling, choking and slowing as I struggled to breathe in the thickening smoke and skyrocketing heat.
I'm slowing him down.
I wasn't an equal. Maybe I could have been…I didn't know – wouldn't know.
All I would be now was the death of him.
Wesker turned, the hungry conflagration rushing behind us shining in the dark glass of his shades as he yanked on my hand, pulled me into his body.
It's okay.
I wanted to say it, but my lips were cracking, bleeding, as my skin tightened and blistered.
His hands came up, locked on my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks; I wondered, fleetingly, if it would hurt – surely not as much as the alternative, not as much as cooking alive – and closed my eyes.
Ready. Willing.
I understand…
…But then my feet were flying out from my under me and we tumbled to the cement and steel floor beneath us, a tangle of limbs. His mouth came down on my ear, his breath harsh and hot.
"Wait for me."
A command (a request?) and then his cheek pressing against mine, his hold tightening.
Heat. Pain. The roar of flames, the sizzle of flesh.
And him – always him – and his heart pounding with mine as we burned.
~.~
How long?
Time blurred, stretching…indefinite.
Minutes, hours, days.
I couldn't be sure. Couldn't tell.
His watch had cracked, the metal backing melting to his flesh of his wrist, the little back-glow light fried and unresponsive.
How long we had lain in the fire, how long I had been out, how long he had been gone…I didn't know.
I felt…tight – raw - nerves zapping with every movement I made, but I couldn't see myself in the dark to check. I could only imagine what I looked like…could only run my fingers over my skin (puffy and sore) and his (cracked, rough and blistered) and guess at the damage done.
I could only wonder how much longer it would take for him to heal. For him to come back to me.
You saved me, chose us.
I held him in my arms, pressed my cheek to the ruined flesh of his, ignoring the terrible scent and heat, and whispered to him. Encouraged.
And I'm waiting, just like you asked.
Worried.
No breath, no heartbeat other than my own, out of sync and struggling alone.
Don't change your mind now – I can't go alone.
~.~
His body was not his own. T bound him - no sight, no sound – in an empty gray nothingness that was neither death, nor life. Rather…somewhere in-between. An amniotic place. Primal.
The Before…and After.
He drifted, floating. Waiting.
Memory cradled him. Soothed. Kept him company.
It was the closest he had ever come to dreaming…
~.~
…She was warm beneath him; bowing, arching with the touch of his fingers, his lips, his body….
He knew her inside and out – learned her anew every time. What made her gasp, what made her sigh, moan…cry his name as if it was a holy word. Invoking him. Worshipping him.
Devotion, loyalty, surrender…the way she turned herself over – into – his keeping…he wanted.
He burned.
Why…?
His fingers circled her wrists, took both in one hand, stretched them above her head until she was long and lean under him – shivering…trembling. Her eyes, so dark and deep; gleamed up at him; her lips parted on that breathy, feminine sigh that clawed at his gut and sent fire burning through his veins.
The scent of her, the sound, the sight and feel….
Why her?
She was not as beautiful as others he could have had, nor as smart, not as strong or as swift…but it was her, always her, that he reached for – that he returned to.
His grip hardened, his lip curled, teeth baring.
Her chin tipped, mouth offered, as her leg slid against his, thigh-to-thigh, toes brushing his calf. Urging. Begging.
His free hand traced the length of her, wrapped around the back of her knee, lifting, spreading her thighs. Her hands flexed, but didn't fight, as her hips rose to meet him – eager, welcoming, as he buried himself in her, hard and deep.
No relief.
Hot and tight she enclosed him, held him, demanded more from him with a roll of her hips.
She needed…made him frantic to give.
To please-
-no! She could not – would not…enough of this!
She was nothing; one among many – hundreds that would come to him, just as warm and willing, if he desired. No different, no better.
This would end. Here and now.
His head lifted, the red glow of his eyes staining the pupils of hers – mirrors – and with a fleshy, wet tearing, they moved within him – the mandibles, the ropey tentacles (all teeth) the virus had given him. His jaw unhinging, they dropped free, splaying wide, spittle dripping.
He would finish this.
And then he would find another.
Any other.
He would break her hold over him.
She stilled, her hands clenched into white fists…and then relaxing as she stared up at him, her eyes moving over his face, following the length of the convulsing appendages, before coming back. Meeting him again.
She took a breath, slow and steady through her mouth – he waited for the scream, the struggle – and exhaled, nodding gently.
"I understand."
A whisper.
A gunshot in the dark.
Her head turned, lips brushing his arm as she offered her pulse – beating strong beneath her jaw - and closed her eyes. "It's okay…take what you need."
No fight. No begging. No tears. Just a quiet acceptance – of him, of what he was…of what he could do, would do, to her.
He would kill her…and she would let him. He needed, and she would provide.
Everything.
Always.
Her breath blushed across his skin – scalded – and he jerked away, hands snatching back, pulling out of her (there was a low, bereft sound – her,… or him – he couldn't tell) as he scrambled to put distance between them. (To free himself.)
At the foot of the bed, on his hands and knees, he struggled; jaw popping and cracking as he swallowed down the dark, fang-laden petals of his second mouth.
For a long moment, there was nothing, just the sound of their hearts beating, lungs expanding and contracting as she breathed – slow and even - and he panted – wild and desperate - then the bed shifted, dipped, and her hands appeared next to his, light on the sheets where he gripped fiercely, a drowning man on a lifeline.
She touched him, gently, her fingers skimming across the backs of his hands, wrapping around his wrists and pulling, working his fingers free so she could lift them, turn them over, and press her mouth to them.
He looked up at her, skin shuddering: unable to bear her touch…desperate for more.
Her lips worked their way up, up one arm, across a shoulder, up to his jaw – he turned away, she followed.
Unabashed. Unafraid.
"It's okay," she murmured again, mouth at the corner of his. "Whatever you need…it's okay."
His fingers twitched uncertainly, then lifted…splayed across her ribs.
She nodded, nibbled, slipped closer, sliding against him, over him as he shifted, laying back. Her hands moved, gliding between them, tracing the ridged muscles that danced, tensing and flexing, beneath her.
He closed his eyes, gave himself over to the feel of it. Of her.
She kissed him, drew him into a battle of lips, tongues, and shifted, thighs spreading over his hips, squeezing – the wet heat of her against his length, hard and hot.
Why her?
His teeth closed on her low lip, the metallic taste of blood flared on his tongue.
She mumbled – his name.
(There is power – in the name of a thing. Magic, that can change monsters into men and bring gods to their knees.)
Because he wanted her.
Needed her.
He sighed her name back, wound them together, and took her hips.
She lifted, her fingers circling the length of him, positioning.
His grip tightened, eyes opening, finding hers. "Now."
Please.
She guided him into her, took him deep, until they were flush – hip to hip.
No end, no beginning.
One.
~.~
A storm was on the way; and they were hunkering down, closing up, in preparation.
The only ones visible were a few hardy souls, making last minute checks: windows boarded tight, fuel supplies sufficient, extra rations of food and water….
Busy little bees, they paid her no mind as she slipped away – perhaps assuming she was doing the same. That there was some minute detail or some consuming task, that needed doing before the storm shut them down for the duration.
Past the hastily refurbished houses they dared to call homes, beyond the greenhouse and barn – where a small crew worked to ensure the safety of the plants and animals – and down to the old smoke-house – a dark blot on the snowy landscape – that sat at the edge of everything.
Small and damaged, the bone-chilling wind rattling through the walls and rafters, it was of no use to anyone…except her.
Pulling the door closed behind her, and blocking it with the flimsy wooden latch, she tapped the snow from her boots and pulled off her gloves as she worked her way to the back wall.
Breath misting, the silvery plume the only other movement in the cold and still air, she gripped the old canvas tarp and flipped it back, exposing the equipment beneath.
Too new, too high-tech to have ever been native to this little backwater village, this was hers. Her connection to the Others.
To Umbrella.
Her employers.
She was behind on her reports. They'd have been expecting her days ago.
She worked on an excuse as she flipped switches and the tiny lights and dials came to life – a soft, hissing static greeting her hello.
Running one hand over her short bob of hair, she picked up the mic with the other and cleared her throat.
"This is Agent Ada, designation AW454-895, seeking terminal UCNY14873."
A beat. Unbroken radio-fuzz.
"Come in New York – say again – this is Agent Ada, reporting in."
She paused, waiting, took the opportunity to rehearse her lines again.
So sorry. Yes, I know. It's just been so difficult to get away….
Seconds ticked by, turned into long minutes.
Still nothing.
She frowned, double checked her settings, and blew out a frustrated breath.
"Come on, O'Roarke, quit playing games. I'm sorry I made you wait, okay?"
Crackle. Hiss.
Empty air.
~.~
"Is it done?"
Gionne was the first to speak, looking poised, refreshed and elegant, where she sat despite the fact she couldn't have had anymore sleep than the rest of them.
She'd even changed her clothes.
An eager little debutante, looking to make an impression at the grand ball.
"The New York Facility went dark 2 hours, 17 minutes ago. There has been no response to attempted communiqué." Saunders supplied, straight and stiff (starched), to Sergei's right.
The woman nodded, smiled (a wicked display of fine, even teeth), and looked across at him. "Congratulations are in order, then, yes? Well done - Chairman. You've done it."
He tilted his head, acknowledging her flattery, pretending not to see through to her motives.
He had watched her pant after Albert Wesker for the better part of two years – all wriggling, eye-batting innuendo – and now, with the shift of power, here she was, smiling and fluttering at him.
"What of the data?" He contended, inwardly amused by the way Gionne's smile deflated, just a twitch, before she caught herself and slipped it back into place. "And of Director Maul?"
Sergei's eyes skimmed down the table to Emmanuel Johnston – Director London. "He clearly has not arrived yet-" he gestured to the empty seat at the table, "-has he offered an E.T.A.?"
Johnston took a breath, shook his head. "No…sir. The contents of New York's research has arrived, as promised, but we have not heard from Director Maul – and satellite surveillance has not picked up any of our jets. Headed this way, or any other."
"Perhaps he didn't make out." Piped up Samuel Barns, looking harried and hang-dogged. His eyes, owlish behind his glasses, flicked up, then darted away. "Like the rest of them…"
"That would be unfortunate," Sergei replied, a patient pied piper. "After all, the good Director is one of us – the heroes of Umbrella." He looked back at Johnston. "Continue surveillance. Inform the board when he arrives and I'll see that he too receives his just rewards."
Just like the rest of you….
~.~
Touch first – the feel of something hot beneath him, pressed to his skin. Pain, rippling over him, through him, in waves.
Sound – a pounding, a pair of drums, fast and slow, evening…matching. A humming, unintelligible…before it softened into a voice. Soft and familiar.
Scent – ash and smoke, charred meat, scorched fabric…her.
Sight – darkness, deep even for his eyes. Rough shapes.
Then – finally – movement. The ability to stir his limbs, to lift slowly away, to turn his head and look down and find her staring up - her face vague in the heavy gloom, but unmistakable.
She'd stayed.
Waited.
Once again, she chose to follow him. In-spite of the danger, despite what it would mean for her.
She sighed and her lips smiled, the arms around him strong even as her voice shook, a mix of strained anxiety and relieved laughter.
"About time. A girl could go gray waiting for you."
He dipped, and found her mouth, ignoring the protest of his lips – the way they ached and cracked, not yet healed.
He could not say it – the words were too powerful for him, too much for him to give even to her – but she didn't ask.
She knew.
She trusted.
And that was enough, for now, as they lay in the dark, bruised and scarred. They were alive.
And they were together.