By Romy

Alone in the darkened room, left to his own devices, the man known as Wesker stewed silently. He attempted feebly to enjoin empty thoughts in wordplay, recollecting as many synonyms for darkness as he was able.

Two lines of thought battered at his mind, and if he’d once thought himself stronger than anything mortal, he now knew himself to be in error.

...just look at the power I’ve gained!

Wesker frowned, curled lip revealing burgeoning savage memory. Many emotions beat at his defenses like water at a cliff...the blackness won over, hate threatening to strip him of his faculties. In response, he laughed into the empty room. He laughed often these days, a joyless, bitter thing that was his only defense in staving off the violence that possessed his mind. It gave him the air of a lunatic.

Papers lay strewn about the floor, each bearing his own irrefutable initials. They meant nothing to him. He crouched low and gathered a few, eyes scanning and remembering nothing.

He recalled the woman named Ada, though he’d had more recent contact with her. She knew him from before the dark time, but he knew little except that she was someone he could work with. He trusted no one. As of late, he’d even come to distrust himself. A growl threatened far back in his throat, working his face into an expression of self-contempt.

He wondered if allowing only two deeply ingrained memories were of importance to his sanity. A sort of self-instilled defense system, perhaps. The longer he thought about things he could not remember, the greater his homicidal behavior grew.

Of course, I’m no longer human, but...

The screen blinked at him, and he saw himself sitting at the room’s only computer, pulling up reports he had composed in another life. Even the style was alien; the man, a stranger. The writing was calm, fiercely cold, and guarded. It gave him no hints to his current affliction: the curse of those obsessive thoughts, one of which he at least understood.

The other was unwelcome, and he despised the power it had over him.

Chris.

The name scorched him, and yet the man had done nothing. It controlled his mind so fiercely that he lost sense of himself whenever the other appeared. Seeing nothing, understanding nothing, knowing only the most basest of thoughts that gripped him mercilessly. The feel of skin and blood had only recently claimed that hated name, and he raged internally that it made no logical sense.

He lost power every time that name escaped his lips. The face was merely a thing to gaze at; lately, he’d come to admire his foe’s physical form. He realized he was muttering the name in a religious fervor. He laughed darkly, crushing an urge to sweep the monitor from the desktop. It was regrettable that the printer had already met a similar fate.

He read what passed for his private diary for the hundredth time. So many names, so many who’d failed or betrayed him, and only one came out a foe.

Chris.

Wesker stood and stretched, enjoying, at least, the fact that he did not feel fatigue anymore. Electricity danced along his spine.

"Have you come to your senses yet?" The voice was soft and pleasant, calculating. It held no malice.

"Go away." Wesker stiffened briefly, battling the urge to enfold arms about his chest. That voice made him want to weep. "I don’t know you."

Silence greeted his plaintive reply. He turned slowly, but nothing stood in the doorway. Mentally trapped, he exited the room and stalked up and down the winding mansion hallways. He’d heard Alfred Ashford screaming earlier, though the words did not come to him. Claire was already gone from this place, with another he’d not taken time to put a name to. It did not matter to him. When the explosion rocked the entire facility, he merely went to ground, keeping a watchful eye for spreading fire. The entire ordeal reeked of poor craftsmanship; he could’ve stood out in the open and weathered the pathetic self-destruct system that Alfred had devised.

He waited anyhow, and after a time, things were quiet again.

Taking care to keep himself hidden from lingering eyes, he wound his way towards the lab, going deep underground. Claire had done a fine job of killing almost everything on the island. He did not find this fact impressive, for it meant that he’d have to bother with his hunters again. Such trouble he didn’t need, not when he knew who was coming to play. He entered the room and slowly ascended the stairs. Standing before several of the protective glass tubes, he sought signs of gestating life.

The grin that flitted across his face was a mixture of humor and distaste. It was time to end this nightmare cycle. If killing what possessed his mind was the only way to regain sapped strength, then so be it. His finger itched to choke the supple neck of his enemy.

"You always did spend so much wasted time remembering things better left at rest."

Wesker spun around, catching the dark shape before it dissipated.

He was wrong again. Three things tortured him, though the last no longer had form to touch him. What passed for his memories tightened, screaming in a cage that had no key. Wesker could not remember his name. His, because his body remembered what his mind did not. He hurt everywhere, a sudden persistent ache. It touched him in places long forgotten, not all of them physical.

He refused to chase the memory, and a dead one at that. Recollecting far more than he could handle just then, he slammed his fist against the protective glass. Blood spilled from the new wound, pooling at his feet.

...you always did like the sight of blood. Especially your own.

Wesker laughed again. He felt the loss in his groin, and it snapped his mind.

"You need a shave, William." Strong hands held Birkin at bay, though none but him could see the fever heat behind light blue eyes. The blonde looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. Wesker smiled briefly at his comrade’s intense stare; the younger man was feeling him with his eyes, taking in the changes that his four year absence had wrought. Presently clothed in trademark STARS uniform, he felt self-important.

The slender blonde took Wesker’s sunglasses in hand and lowered them enough to see his eyes. Wesker made no move to stop the forwardness of Birkin’s action, rather enjoying the face in cleaner light.

"Huh. Albert." The hands dropped after attempting to sit the glasses in their familiar place, and he said no more. Wesker resisted the urge to kiss his former partner, knowing very well how such a gesture would be received. Wesker sighed, losing Birkin’s focus in that small moment. It was regrettable.

As was typical in William’s company, he found himself suddenly abandoned. Birkin had turned quickly and in very long strides headed towards the elevator. The wind snapped angrily about them, and Wesker found himself entranced by the flapping white lab coat as he followed. A man greeted them at the door; Birkin lost interest after introductions.

When the lift arrived, he followed William onto the platform, making room for the man with no name. He had forgotten himself. The entire situation seemed reminiscent of an earlier event nearly 20 years ago.

Birkin was characteristically silent, losing himself in a haphazard array of research documents he’d brought with him. Wesker had been fully informed as to the need for his presence here, and they were already on their way to meet with the new head researcher at Arklay. Every moment spent with someone other than Birkin was time lost. He had no doubt that this John would bore the both of them to tears.

Fortunately, only Birkin and Spencer knew he was here to assist in the clean-up of the test subject. Nothing more. Or maybe something, if he was lucky; Birkin seemed disinterested, but that was typical. He refused to dwell on the issue, focused to the humming of the small elevator, and the sound his feet made on plush carpet as he exited.

He recalled the way Birkin had stared at him only 10 minutes ago, and wondered who would end up on top. Good mood restored, he occupied his mind with baser thoughts, hardly registering that John had extended a hand to greet him.

"Albert Wesker. Pleased." His voice was ice, the words polite and prissy. He’d heard enough rumors about this man to have no use for him. Birkin stared at the tall stranger, emanating open contempt. Wesker could feel it resonate throughout his body. Neither man shook hands with the other.

John shrugged, at a loss for words. "Very well. While you are here, you might want to...."

Wesker frowned.

"...assigned too..."

Birkin re-situated his eyes on something far away.

"...please avoid..."

Wesker sighed mentally, feigning enough interest to make up for Birkin’s behavior. He couldn’t say it worked but the man cut his speech short, nodding sharply. Perhaps he was already aware of William’s peculiarities; he certainly didn’t attempt to shake hands again.

Wesker smiled falsely, nudging Birkin to attention again. This time, the younger man followed him out of the room. He heard John cluck behind them, and wondered if they were being pitied. Had he been allowed to bring his STARS issue handgun with him, there’d be a dead man for the cleaning crews in the morning.

The elevator took them down to the labs, deep underground. He wondered if he could count the number of sane men here on one hand. Arklay hadn’t changed a bit; no one bothered to make him welcome, though he certainly wouldn’t want it any other way. Birkin led him into the farthest room, and after cursory glances, his presence was ignored. He noted with some contempt that women made up for more than half of the current employees.

"Annette is here, I assume."

Birkin looked up briefly, a smile on the edges of his lips. "She’s in the city. You know that."

"I guess I do." Wesker replied blandly. He’d gotten the answer he’d wanted to hear, and he knew Birkin knew that. There was very little he could get over on his associate.

For the remainder of the morning, the younger scientist’s behavior was erratic. He was as scatterbrained as ever, but his work was impeccable. Wesker reviewed it all in silence, ignoring the random assessments by the female population. A brief moment of ego had him wondering if they even knew who he was.

It came to him that no one ate in this particular lab. His regimen required that he imbibe food at least three times a day, and so he wandered off mid-afternoon, having no success in capturing the younger man’s attention. Appreciation of his form continued as he strode down random hallways; he was used to it, and despised the attention. Thankfully, no one attempted to engage him in conversation as he headed to the cafeteria. He had a way with people that made them either fear or hold him in the highest regard.

"Albert."

Wesker turned, holding a cup of coffee in hand. He didn’t care for the bitter drink, but the food was less than appetizing. "Your menu is terrifying."

"No one eats here anyway. It doesn’t matter." The fever was back, and Wesker found himself hypnotized by the heated stare.

The coffee burned his lips. "You should. Eat. You’re fading away, William." Wesker grabbed Birkin’s chin roughly and turned the face up to his. "I need to speak with you. Tonight."

The blonde made no reply, though the blue eyes flared before crawling down his body again. Wesker thought he might be underestimating the younger man. Slender or not, the eyes were as fierce as they’d ever been. Control was all in the mind, as Birkin was fond of saying. Wesker thought he might start thinking about this little homily before trying anything out of the ordinary.

"You believe it is a lack of food that starves me..." Birkin’s voice was odd, but he nodded before turning to leave. "Don’t wander this facility without me, Albert."

Wesker finished the coffee, standing stiffly, thinking dark thoughts.

It was close to 10 pm when they renewed the old acquaintance. Birkin came into his arms without command, and their shared kiss was fierce. The younger man forced himself so tightly against Wesker’s body that he struggled to stand upright. His head was forced down by a tugging hand, the other held against Wesker’s face, forcing his mouth open for brutal exploration.

Wesker responded to this iniquity by tearing Birkin’s lab coat off, parting from the blonde briefly. He had maybe a second of respite before his virile partner attacked him, knocking him to the floor. They fought in a myriad of arms and feet, the resounding music of a sharp slap stopping neither of them. Birkin merely blinked before responding in kind. Like an animal, he ripped at Wesker’s uniform, cursing the alien garb.

When the older man tried restraining his companion, he was rewarded with a blinding kick to the groin. Convinced that this was what William wanted, he shoved the younger man away from him and forced him onto his back.

"Bitch..." He got Birkin’s pants off with some effort, stars clouding his vision. He received another slap to the face before his head was jerked up painfully to make contact with invading tongue. His mouth opened willingly and he fought until victorious, forcing William’s lips apart until there was no way for the other to snap close and bite his tongue off.

Birkin made a purring sound, going limp. His groin still complaining, Wesker disengaged, sat back, and unzipped his pants. Birkin laughed, sprawling, his hands tossed casually above his head.

"Goddamnit, William." The rest of his speech was incoherent. He reached out and found purchase in the blonde’s soft hair, forcing the other man up until they sat face to face.

Birkin spit at him. The stars dissipated until his mind was threaded with veins of pulsing red. He lifted the younger man by the waist and threw him onto the bed. Birkin simply rolled off, and Wesker landed on him like a cat. He viciously ripped any remaining clothes from the struggling body, losing his own in the process. Birkin was possessed, and far more agile than he; the blonde, beneath various slaps and brutal kisses, managed to relieve Wesker of his pants. He was laughing whenever breath could be found.

Wesker planted a warm kiss on Birkin’s stomach, feeling long legs draw up against his head. They snapped shut, boxing his ears, and he responded by taking his adversary’s member into his mouth, knowing that the other wouldn’t risk losing it just to continue resistance. He was right; Birkin’s eyes widened and he stilled a bit, hands twining in Wesker’s short hair.

Lacking skill or patience, he accompanied forceful suckling with the invasion of his first two fingers into Birkin’s small opening. A moment of rational thought came over him; he’d never made love to a man before, much less fucked one, as he was certainly doing right now. Birkin was a virgin to submissive sex; of that, he knew personally. His companion wasn’t helping much in the matter of keeping his mind straight, either. When his sucking grew erratic, the younger man responded by kicking him in the sides.

Wesker drew back, wiping his mouth of Birkin’s pre-cum. The sight set off a feral gleam in William’s eyes until Wesker inserted a third finger, searching desperately for the tiny area the other found so well. He hissed at Birkin’s laughing eyes, throwing a random curse before damning the man to hell. He removed his hand, grabbing both of William’s thighs and shoving the slender legs apart. Wrapping strong fingers around the lower legs, he ripped Birkin across that short space and forced the virgin body onto his erect member.

It hurt like hell without guidance or lubrication. Another mind game? His thoughts went blank and he fell forward, using forearms to keep himself steady above William. He stared into the other man’s glazed eyes, knowing he was in even more pain. The furor of what had gone before stayed with him, however; more precisely, with what he’d buried inside William’s willing body. He never went limp.

It seemed of sudden import to do this thing as quickly as possibly. William looked insane. Without delay, he began thrusting into the open body, finally realizing that Birkin was trying to laugh, as always. Tears ran down the younger man’s face, but there was no terror or fear in the bright blue eyes, normally so dull. He rode himself against Wesker, disallowing weakness in the face of his oppressor. It was magnetic, brilliant, supremely powerful; he could barely last enough to bring Birkin to orgasm before himself.

Just as Wesker felt release coming over him, Birkin brought both of his hands together and over his head in a stunning blow. Wesker cried out in pain and rolled away, disengaging, touching fingers to his scalp and feeling blood. The sight galvanized him and Birkin barely had time to celebrate; Wesker delivered a kick to the other man’s side.

"Your ass is mine, William." Predatory advance made the younger blonde smirk and he commented on the wound.

"You do so love blood, Albert. Especially your own." Birkin meet Wesker head on, struggling to his feet gamely. Wesker growled deep in his throat, and did something he’d never done before. He struck with his fist, and connected with Birkin’s face. It did not excite him, and that regret gave Birkin the advantage he’d been waiting for. They both flew to the ground, tangled. Wesker found himself unmanned faster than he’d have believed it, and the younger man pulled him to the bed with great determination. He felt sharp pain to his face; Birkin drew his hand into a claw and scratched his cheek. Crimson stained the sheets; blood was everywhere and it make him weak.

He found himself looking up momentarily, lithe form forcing itself into his body without preparation. This, he was used to. It seemed right, and yet he couldn’t help see, in his mind’s eye, the scene they made. This was of no accord to Birkin, who didn’t much care for submissive/dominant distinctions. Wesker received Birkin eagerly, wrapping his arms around William’s thin frame. He could feel power that was more than physical in the slender body. Birkin gripped his chin in mockery of Wesker’s earlier move that day, and he leered into the older man’s face.

"Yours, Albert? You belong to me."

By this time, Wesker had no urge to complain or refute the claim. He’d started out this way with Birkin, and it seemed fitting that their acquaintance end on familiar terms. Besides...

...he liked things this way.

Moaning quietly, he went lax under Birkin’s expert manipulation of his body. Wesker had no idea where he’d learned the things he did. His whole being hurt from the battle, but Birkin appeared more alive than he’d been earlier that day. He was a man possessed. Using his arms for leverage, he thrust into Wesker with skill and a burning lust that had been missing from his life since he’d left Arklay. His resistance to wrapping his own legs around Birkin failed him and he did just that, adding insult to injury by clinging helplessly.

Ignoring the urge to declare undying hatred of a man he knew he loved, he rode Birkin’s experienced thrusts eagerly, allowing the younger man total control of his body. Lips pressed upon his own, heavy breathing against his mouth. Words he’d never heard Birkin use, murmured against parted lips. Sweat mingled and Birkin’s hair fell into his face, wet. Wesker’s temperature soared and he flushed deeply when he realized he was making noises of satisfaction as his orgasm approached. He bit his lip brutally, drawing blood that Birkin licked clean. Watching that defeated any attempt to draw out his release, and he tightened against William’s member, clawing deep into the other’s back. He arched from the bed, reigning in a scream by sheer will alone.

Birkin wasted no time in claiming his own release; he was panting the older man’s name in that submissive way that set Wesker’s nerves on edge. He handled his orgasm less proudly, crying out the older man’s name and falling onto the other’s chest weakly. Wesker appreciated that he still had this effect on William, and wondered if he might again try what he’d failed at earlier. His body advised him otherwise; it simply wanted Birkin to draw away and let him recuperate. Perturbed by his lack of energy, he turned that agitation on Birkin.

"Why did you let me try it...if you didn’t want it that way..."

Birkin pulled out and rolled over, curling up into Wesker’s welcoming arms. He gave no reply but for one trembling arm that reached out and pulled Wesker’s sunglasses down, finger running a long, sensuous line down his face.

The woman who considered herself his adversary flew into a rage the minute she laid eyes on him. He lost her words the minute she opened her mouth, and again wondered why Birkin had married her. If William’s need to procreate a suitable genetic subject was all that had mattered, he hadn’t required what had passed for a wedding he’d refused to attend.

Wesker watched her stalk about the room, adjusting his sunglasses so that they sat perfectly on his finely chiseled face. He bore no expression, but neither did Birkin, for that matter. The younger man set to fixing the bed in a fussy way that wasn’t out of character. Annette might have noticed some likelihood of her suspicions having occurred, but he doubted that she’d be able to handle a graphic description. He was, nevertheless, tempted to provide it.

Birkin was sporting a colorful black eye, though not bad enough to force it closed. He walked slowly and carefully, looking more righteously fucked than Wesker, who hurt everywhere. It was a good hurt, but it amused him that Birkin was the only one who showed it. Then again, he didn’t have the ego to hide things, as Wesker did. He’d spent half the morning double-checking behind the other man, as well as fixing his battered cheek. Hopefully they’d dealt with most of their long separation in that short night; they had a hell of a day before them.

The disposal of the female mutation, of course. He’d just have to drag it out as long as was feasible, although he sincerely doubted they’d have the time to get to this sort of business again. Annette was unlikely to leave them alone after this. He was again grateful for the removal of his gun. At that point, he would have blown her brains all over the wall. He smiled to something she said, leaning against the wall with one foot drawn back. Arms crossed, he considered her accusation with amusement. Laughing inside as the rage built up.

Birkin could feel it from across the room. They’d both managed quick showers, cleaning up the bathroom as much as possible before the late morning pounding at the door began. Birkin was still fixing the sheets when Annette stormed in, having unlocked the door with her own key. Wesker wondered who had leaked his presence to her clear over in Raccoon City.

"You...certainly wasted no time getting my husband in bed again."

Birkin blanched and threw the remaining laundry down the chute. He turned, wiping his hands against his shirt. He looked naked without a lab coat.

"I won’t insult your intelligence by feigning ignorance then." Wesker knew Birkin would be of no help; his entire personality changed around that woman. He pushed away from the wall and left the room. Another talk with Spencer, and then work would take over their lives. He should have Birkin to himself then; Annette couldn’t accompany them on the removal of the test subject.

He headed towards the cafeteria. More coffee. He lamented the effect this starvation would have on his physique. His thoughts, as he walked, turned towards sex again. He understood, in a vague and stubborn way, that his being near Birkin wasn’t as good for him professionally as he’d have liked. He allowed the fantasy, however, blocking out Annette’s rising voice in the background.

...you belong to me...

Wesker blinked, coming out of the reverie with deep regret. As soon as it was remembered, it fled in desperate contempt, leaving him with the same old thoughts. Almost as if his mind loathed the idea that he may have loved another human being. Love, or whatever it was...it was nothing like the hate he felt now. Nothing close to the feelings he had for Chris Redfield. He leaned forward, looking into the monitor. Somehow, over the past hour, he’d come into the security room and activated the cameras.

This loss of memory was nothing new to him. He embraced the present eagerly, hungry for something to lay claim to.

He smiled at what he saw on the tiny screen.

"Chris..."

He laughed cruelly, recent recollection strong enough to color what lay in his subconscious.

"Oh little fishy... come and see my hook."

This is not good.

Chris reached out a tentative hand, shaking his head at the old thoughts. The shotgun came down easily enough, though from experience he knew something would change around him. In response, the stairs lifted, cutting off his exit. He wondered what sort of madman created these crazy things.

He checked to see if the damned thing was loaded. Satisfied that the bullets seem viable enough, he opened the door nearest him and found himself in a dimly lit laboratory. Experimental containers lined the wall. He passed without wasting precious time, seeing nothing of danger nearby. The area was quiet. Calm enough to set his nerves on edge. He took the stairs two at time and walked into hell.

He was still shaking, fighting for breath when Wesker left. He’d seen lunacy in those eyes, and murder so black that it terrified him. Something there...between hatred and obsession...that left him clinging desperately to his shotgun. He couldn’t move for all of five minutes, staring at the dead monstrosity before him.

After a time, Chris got to his feet, stabilized. He worked through what needed to be done, and returned to the gun cradle. He looked about distrustfully, unwilling to release the weapon. He was still stunned, but ultimately let the piece go. Drawing his STARS handgun, he ran up the stairs quickly, scanning with hunted eyes.

He wasn’t disappointed. A sweeper leaped at him the moment he noticed the spotters on the ceiling. He ran into the room directly before him, slamming it shut just as the beast ran into it headfirst. It took several minutes to convince himself to leave the room, and when he did, the thing was gone.

...what the fuck?

Tired...very tired. Chris took the elevator repeatedly, going through a lunatic series of runs he had trouble keeping track of. He amused himself by wondering how hard it was for staff to get to the bathroom here. He was covered in blood by the time he left the island. Sitting in the small harrier, he made a mental note to kill Barry Burton upon reaching civilization. His life had been a living nightmare ever since the man had introduced him to Albert fucking Wesker.

Claire... I’m almost there. Hang on...

Wesker hummed to himself, sending out hunter after hunter, each of them specifically created to know Chris Redfield’s scent. He’d actually considered "ordering" them to keep the man alive, but that would require more time for programming than he had available. He was certain that his despised adversary would survive them, but as Birkin once said, he loved the sight of blood.

Birkin???

Wesker shook his head, concentrating on the task, and adding a few sweepers to the mix. He did not care for these beasts; they lacked the intelligence of his hunters, but were a necessary evil in keeping order.

Claire was somewhere close, but the hunters would have no interest in her. He doubted she would even come across one. Alexia was also nearby, and she hadn’t appeared to have changed a bit. The hunters released, he turned to more acceptable thoughts of capturing the T-Virus, trapped in Alexia’s body.

Monitors switched on everywhere, spotters tuned in to areas all over the small Antarctic base. He glanced into each one carefully. Nothing. Wesker pulled out his radio, speaking calmly to the few men he’d taken with him. Not far from here, they waited in a boat, ready to receive Alexia into their care. That done, he spent the remainder of his time reviewing notes on Alexia’s research. Capturing her would make him irreplaceable to HCF.

If only they knew what they had before them... they’d have no interest in the T-Veronica virus.

Wesker laughed darkly. He kept his secrets well.

Chris’ first thought was, it’s fucking cold here...

His second thought was, he’s already here.

Chris wondered how screwed up this place was in comparison to Ashford island. He wanted a cigarette desperately then, but in love for Jill, he’d quit after the Spencer incident. He gnawed on his lower lip frantically, wishing he wasn’t so honorable and had hoarded a pack.

After checking the damaged plane and ensuring that Claire’s body was nowhere to be found, he continued onwards. It seemed a year before he found her, ensnared in a weblike casing that made his stomach churn.

"Claire!" He drew his knife and cut her from the silken strands. After taking care to be sure she was all right, he allowed himself to draw her into a tight hug. He was himself still recovering from the shocked déjà vu of seeing Spencer mansion in replica.

"Chris...I need to find Steve!" Ponytail whipping him across the face, his sister scanned the room fearfully. She paid little attention to his confusion, and he had no choice but to follow her to the front of the room. It was then that their luck ran out. Female laughter mocked them. A high pitched voice screamed; Chris could only guess that this was the mysterious Steve. Claire did a 180 and ran for the stairs, terrified for her companion. Chris followed, and whatever had mocked them responded to this brazen act by destroying the staircase with a tentacle. Claire made it to the top; Chris ended in a heap at the bottom, nursing a sore leg.

"Go on, Claire! Save Steve...I’ll be all right!" Chris waved his sister on. Claire was naturally reluctant, but after staring down at him, she turned and fled. He crawled a bit to get away from the rubble, rubbing his knee. It was mere fortune that the owner of the mocking voice showed up just as Wesker did.

............

Damn...

Wesker cradled his head in both hands. He stood outside the mansion, leaving Chris to face the horror inside. He had sorely underestimated Alexia, and his clothes still smoked from where she’d burned him. His pride was great, but his patience was not. He’d wait until Chris weakened her, and if he survived...well...Wesker would deal with the both of them tonight.

He returned to the security room, noting with interest where Claire had gone. He stood up and leaned towards the cameras, knocking the chair over in his excitement.

Alexia...had infected that boy. Steve, the name he’d heard Claire scream outside the mansion. Wesker quickly retrieved his radio and sent specific, finely tuned details to his men.

"If I can’t have her...then..." Wesker smiled into the cameras as the T-infected Steve thundered after Claire. He did not care to see what transpired, running back to the mansion in a flash that no human eyes could follow.

Steve would hardly present a challenge to Wesker. Alexia could burn Antarctica to the ground if she wanted. He’d have what he came for, and it didn’t quite matter how he got it. He pulled the mansion doors open and came to a complete stop.

Chris...

Wesker froze, eyes locked onto Chris’ brilliant blue ones. He’d survived the battle, and Alexia was gone. His face suddenly screwed up into an expression that Chris knew well. It was hard to say why that realization infuriated him so.

Perhaps it’s because you ran like a coward...

That voice...not his own...chastising in his mind instead of his ears. How could he escape it now? Chris turned to run, and Wesker came up behind him like the furies. One word repeated itself in his mind, and that was his foe’s name. Over and over again...Chris.

Grabbing the struggling brunette in one arm, Wesker leaped to the broken staircase opposite of where Claire had run, landing on plush carpet. Chris was cursing his name. He struck the younger man, luxuriating in the feel of flesh against his palm. The blue eyes teared up from pain; the head whipped to the side and against the floor. Wesker caught himself admiring his adversary’s form again...hell, his body; his eyes crawled over Chris with very visible lust.

"Heh...hah hah hahahah..." Wesker laughed the fierce enmity away, embracing a deeper, more savage emotion long resisted from lack of comprehension. This far into the game, he doubted he’d ever come to know his mind. It seemed only fitting that he act upon what he wanted, instead of struggling to logically understand it.

He was certain the young gunman would provide a fight worth bearing scars for, and a long abandoned part of him concurred.

"Chris...how I’ve waited for this..." He threw the brunette against the wall after choking him a bit.

Chris gagged, his throat over-sensitized from their earlier encounter. Wesker was rambling on in the familiar manner. He couldn’t believe how much his old CO had changed. He coughed, uttering a string of profanity. "They might have thought to wire your brain up after having revived your traitorous ass." He spit blood and staggered to the side, missing Wesker’s wild punch by mere centimeters.

Within seconds, Wesker leaped at Chris. Both men fell to the floor, the younger atop the older one. Chris slapped the sunglasses from Wesker’s face and went for the golden eyes, clawing fiercely. Wesker laughed again, hands wrapping around the firm waist, lifting the brunette upwards and to the side. Chris slammed against the railing and rolled; Wesker delivered a kick to his ribs before Chris could stand.

"Hahahaha..." Wesker watched Chris squirming in pain, hands clutched to his mid-section. Hand finding purchase in the short brown hair, he lifted Chris’ head and drew it forwards against his fist. He didn’t want to damage the lovely face much, and took that much more care to be sure the momentum was enough to do everything but break Chris’ nose.

He drew back in satisfaction, hand spattered with blood.

"Nnngh..." Chris let go tears of pain, gritting his teeth to harness the building terror. He couldn’t die...not when he was so close to saving Claire. It was enough to get him to his feet, only to wind up on his back again. His head slammed against the floor, saved from a blinding injury by the heavy carpet.

"Mmmm...heh..." Wesker had no idea that he was muttering again. He crouched between Chris’ sprawled legs, eyes burning their way up the shapely form. Like a panther, he inched forward until he sat between spread legs, forcing them apart as he went.

It was obvious what he wanted, but Chris remained safely ignorant. Such things simply did not occur to him, although in retrospect, he was only lying to himself. That distance in Wesker’s eyes, between fierce contempt and lunacy, was where the true emotion lie. It was an unwelcome realization that didn’t occur to him until after he’d escaped Antarctica.

"Christopher..." The extension of Chris’ name delighted his lips and he repeated the name to himself several times. Chris responded to seeing Wesker leer down at him by bringing both hands together and striking the abhorred face with a powerful blow.

Wesker’s head snapped right and then center again. He smiled appreciatively and returned the favor. Chris cried out, feeling his left eye already beginning to swell. If only he could get to his feet again, he’d have a chance at escaping. It didn’t matter that his knee was still paining him, nor the length of the drop. Anything was better than this.

"Christopher...such beautiful eyes you have. A shame to lose such light." Wesker began beating the younger man brutally, striking in a manner that left only bruising. He didn’t want to break anything but the brunette’s spirit. Chris reacted by trying to shield his face against the assault, trying to curl his entire body into a protective shell. With Wesker still between outspread legs, he was reduced to a punching bag, and tears flowed more freely down his face.

Fury sated, Wesker quieted and regarded the beaten man for several moments. Eyes narrowed and he ripped the clothes from Chris’ upper body. He took no time to appreciate the exposed skin. His need was great, and it dictated his actions. He almost felt human again.

"Mine... hah. Hah hahah..."

Chris jerked to life when Wesker went for his pants. "What the FUCK are you doing?" He twisted wildly and got enough of a space to kick the older man in the face. He scrambled backwards and out of his uniform, though at the moment, he didn’t much care that he was nude. Wesker was crouched on the floor, licking his bleeding mouth, leering up at him.

Chris knew exactly what he wanted then.

"Hell...you...Wesker...no..." Chris was slammed against the wall, outstretched hands deflected easily. Wesker lifted him by the waist easily and the younger man knew very well what was coming. His eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the pain. Wesker adjusted his clothing as necessary; complete nudity would leave him too defenseless.

Chris couldn’t describe it afterwards, even when the nightmares plagued him. A hurt sobbing sound that ripped itself from his throat and chest, turning into a scream so deep that it had no voice. He thought he might have fainted; the respite was brief and when he blinked away the flowing tears, Wesker’s gaze terrified him. It was completely blank.

"S...stop...please...Wesker..." Chris moaned weakly, pathetically, but he did not concern himself with his pride. The fire at his groin was terrible, and the monster continued raping him with all the interest of a corpse. Blood wet his thighs and he continued weeping, a broken sound that finally touched Wesker’s consciousness.

"I should have done this AGES ago...Christopher..." Wesker buried his face in the bruised neck before continuing to force the shaking body repeatedly upon his member. He was not enough in his right mind to even begin pleasuring Chris, and his actions, while pleasing to the eyes, soon tired his mind. His body demanded release, and Chris was slowly losing awareness.

Wesker pet the battered face gently, fingers curling in the sweaty hair. The brunette sagged forward and the feel of Chris against him, almost a lover, gave him a sense of bittersweet joy. His body tightened and he came rather violently, falling against the wall, his knees weakening enough to threaten their position.

"Uh...nnn...Chr..." Wesker squeezed his eyes shut, holding onto Chris tightly, unable to complete his words. The release left him with only physical satisfaction, but it was so long in coming that it was enough to sate him. He resituated them both into a more stable position, his murderous hand coming to rest at the fainted brunette’s neck. Pressure was carefully applied, and he was hypnotized by Chris’ slow awakening.

"Mmm? Aaaag..." Chris tried to grab the choking wrist but was too fatigued to do more than paw at it. Darkness blurred his vision and he knew his luck had finally run out. After what had just happened, he didn’t give a fuck.

Wesker concentrated, confused again. He could not look at the blue eyes. They weakened him, and the only way to defeat this Achilles’ heel was to destroy Chris. It stunned him that it was so hard to do just that. "Die...damn you..." His grip tightened, and he wasn’t even aware that he was still sheathed within Chris’ body.

...lost without me. Why do you commit such brutal acts?

The voice, disappointed, commanded him to see form where there was none. Wesker’s head snapped up and he looked over his victim’s shoulder, at the wall and then to the side. He could see the dark shape standing at the main door, shaking its head forlornly. What might be its hair was tossed about by a breeze he couldn’t feel. It tore his will into pieces, and he forgot about Chris in that instant.

"Why...are you TORTURING me?" Wesker lifted Chris up and tossed him to the side. The brunette groaned, gratefully forgotten, curled into a fetal position.

It was remarkable that he thought to fix his clothes before leaping over the balcony. He chased the thing, convinced it would stop the pain of those two thoughts. He flew out the door and down the strange walkway, but when he turned the corner, the shape was gone.

"William..." Wesker clutched his head. His sunglasses forgotten, he closed his eyes against the light. "I...m...mii..." He could not form the sentence. Slamming his fists against the wall, he slowly came to some sort of sense and composed himself. His thoughts were empty of all but the face that came into clear recognition before him. He looked shocky; golden eyes unfocused and staring blankly.

Birkin had died not half a mile from him. No good-byes. Nothing. That face he couldn’t see; the man he couldn’t touch, the name he couldn’t remember. The two thoughts that gave him no peace, no room to fit what he wanted above all else to hold sacred.

My..l...lo... Stuttering in his brain. Broken.

Orders to retrieve a creature he couldn’t look at for reasons that escaped him. Enough excuses to block out the truth. Had government forces not destroyed Raccoon City, he’d have done it himself at that moment. His hatred of Umbrella tripled and his self-loathing became complete. He was no God...he was...he was...

...completely alone.

Wesker staggered back into the security room, and after righting the chair before the room’s only computer, fell into it.

...incomplete.

He couldn’t say how long he sat there. William’s face began fading from his mind as soon as his fingers touched the keyboard.

...tired... wil...

Vigilant sorrow. Unending despair.

He stared at the computer, breathing softly. It flashed at him, the monitor showing only two words, much like those two thoughts, filling the screen in its entirety. The last entry in a diary he never wrote. He hit the enter button, blinking back...what? Tears? Memory? He didn’t cry. He reread the last page completely. He then pressed delete, and his rage grew anew.

Miss You...

Author's notes:

I wrote DatN because I was feeling moody and dark. Very sucky. Was listening to "Standing Still" by Jewel for hours on end. Then I got depressed, hence the ending. Bleh.

- Romy