A/N: I started this story a few years ago. There was minimal interest in it due to the fact it is a weirdo pairing (Chris and Ada or Wonfield XD). It's a tad OOC in my usual way with Chris having depth and Ada feeling (haha). But it's a love story, in a way, so it's the way of things. There's an evil mastermind, an infection, a maze and some blood and squishy stuff. I enjoyed it. It had one reviewer (Softi) but it was so fun I didn't want it to die and stay dead. SO...here it is on my other pen name instead. Where I endeavor to put my weirdo stuff. Enjoy. And thank you for reading.

Chapter 1: Incubation

"And so she looked and in looking, wanted. And so she wanted and in wanting, yearned. And so she yearned and in yearning, loved."

NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER

The musical tinkle of broken glass was lost under the pound of bass, the rapid gasp of shallow breathing, the meaty slap of striking skin. The picture glanced off his shoulder and hit the ground in a shower of shattered frame and memory.

Without a concern, he hefted her higher against the wall. Her laugh was like lightning in his blood, spurring him toward the delicious, delirious, and very delightful end of oblivion. It was a siren's song, the promise of nothing. It lulled and beckoned as he buried himself inside of her, hands wrapped around her thighs to hold her as if she weighed nothing.

Who she was didn't matter. It had never mattered. It would never matter. She was faceless, formless, and thoughtless. She was nothing. She was a hole for him to bury himself inside and a body that was warm and willing. She was a woman and, for just a few minutes in her embrace, she was emptiness.

She moved to kiss him and he diverted her mouth, burying his face against her breasts to avoid it. He didn't want the intimacy, didn't want the touch, the contact. He didn't want the pretense of feeling. This wasn't love. This wasn't lust. It was simply forgetting, and any move to make it more would ruin it.

His biceps and shoulders bulged beautifully as he lifted and set her down repeatedly on his eager body. When the angle was still wrong, he spilled her eager flesh across the kitchen table, rolled her onto her stomach, jerked her hips up toward him, and pounded himself into her soft body from behind.

He was fully aware she was writhing and tossing, screaming, making mewling cat noises. He was glad, in a way that she was enjoying herself but it didn't matter. She was willing flesh and her wants didn't change anything.

When she shuddered with orgasm, he pushed her flat against the table, kept one hand on her back to hold her there and readjusted her hips. The perfect angle was found two strokes later. He found it, worked it, felt her buck and pant and scream, and let himself follow after her. His body grabbed it's release, spilling wet and hot into the waiting condom.

He took his hand off her back and stepped away. She remained spread out over the kitchen table for a long moment like an obscene thanksgiving dinner.

It made sense seeing as he just finished stuffing her like a turkey.

She rolled onto her back and smiled at him, happy. "Wow. That was…"

"Yeah," He turned, naked and resplendent, and started to hunt for his clothes.

The waitress on the table had to admit he was something to see. Huge was your first thought when you met him. All shoulders, chest, and arms - the guy was almost obscenely muscled. She had trouble picturing him as an accountant or something. Why would anyone need that much muscle? Not that she was objecting…it worked. On him? It WORKED.

The light was still on in the bathroom and it cast a silvery glow over him as he dressed. It was a shame to cover up all that wonderful flesh. He wasn't exactly movie star handsome. Admittedly, he was a good looking guy, she mused, but he there was a cut of jaw or a line of brow or something that stole the word "cute" from the description of him and replaced it with things like "rugged".

He had a few days' worth of whiskers on his cheeks and hair cropped pretty close to his head. There was just enough of a style to the hair that it brushed the edge of fashionable. But it also had the look of a man who wasn't afraid to shave it down to the scalp to get it out of his way.

His eyes were blue and quite lovely set amongst some pretty thick eyelashes and a suggestion of crow's feet which made her speculate he was somewhere on the back side of thirty. He rocked it though. That was for sure. He was pretty sexy for an old guy.

"I've been waiting for you to talk to me, you know. You've been coming in to the bar for weeks."

He shrugged as he slipped a gray t-shirt over his head. He followed it with dull gray hoodie with a faded UMASS logo on it. The outfit worked in a basic way. Faded jeans, brown boots, t-shirt and hoodie. Nothing to get a girl's excitement chugging. That was until that jacket came off and you saw those arms.

It's certainly what had drawn her in the first time.

"Will I see you again?"

He shrugged again as he headed for the door. "Probably not."

From out the hallway came a little blue eyed girl of about three. "Mommy?"

The guilt licked like tongues of shame around his guts. He hadn't known there was a kid waiting for her. He felt like a son of a bitch from bringing the mother home to the child drunk and used.

Instead of facing the guilt, he fled. It wasn't his fault the mother was a whore with no tolerance for the sauce. Right? Right. Right….right.

He took the stairs two at a time down to the main floor of her raggedy apartment building. She lived in a flop on the back side of Tribeca. The area was as shitty as the building. But she was one of a thousand waitresses trying to make it as an actress in a city that ate crappy waitresses for breakfast, shit them out for lunch, and ate them again by dinner.

What could he say, it was a shit eat shit kinda world.

He crossed on foot toward the subway. It was a bit of a hike through the one of the crappiest slums around but it didn't worry him. There were very few people in the world stupid enough to try to mess with him. At this time of night it was him, three drunks, a handful of rowdy college kids, and your friendly neighborhood flasher on the subway.

He stayed standing, watching the muted screen flashing the five a.m. newscast. Snow was on the agenda for the next week. That would make for a happy fucking Halloween for the kids who'd be trick or treating in six inches of the white stuff. Admittedly, he'd have loved it as a kid.

He exited at his stop and started the six block walk to work. Logically he could go home, grab a few hours sleep. He was the boss, essentially. What was the point of being your own boss if you couldn't make your own hours? But, as usual, sleep eluded him. It was pointless to try to sleep when all you did was run from the nightmares. Pointless.

The building was wedged happily between two others in the industrial section of the meat packing district. It wasn't leased, which was a great triumph that had taken years and years of financially investing and planning, and it was, in most ways, his second home.

The lobby was done in pale white marble and soft yellow walls. It was tasteful and typical and nothing special. It looked like the lobby of any other building complete with two security guards who waved happily at him as he crossed it. A bank of elevators graced both sides of the hallway. He pressed the button for the penthouse, scanned his fingerprint into the scanner, and looked quickly into the retinal scanner for verification.

Cleared for access, he stepped onto his private elevator. It whisked him up forty eight floors to the top of the building. The penthouse was his private quarters when he was in the city. It hadn't been decorated by him at all. Everyone knew his Spartan taste wasn't much different than a sofa and a tv.

It was urban chic. Family pictures lined the walls here and there and were intermixed with artist's whom he wouldn't know if he were paid to. The color scheme varied. The main room was very black and red, very eye catching. It faded into his bedroom that was more blue and grey.

He could waste time thinking about it, but he seldom did. It was courtesy of his sister. So he didn't worry much about it one way or the other.

The bathroom was complete with a custom shower with eleven spouts. They hit his body at all angles, taking the guess work out of bathing. It was, he admitted, lazy. And he loved it. He tossed aside his clothes and climbed into the shower.

The bathroom was green marble and antique fixtures. One wall was an entire mirror. He was narcissistic enough to stop and flex once as he brushed his teeth. Every muscle bunched and stayed taut. He was a lot of things but out of shape wasn't one of them.

His stubbled face stared back at him from the mirror. The eyes were sky line blue framed by thick and spikey lashes. They were pretty eyes, passed down from two blue eyed parents. There were slight hollows under those eyes, dark circles from lack of slack, and those were passed down by Umbrella. He toyed with the idea of shaving and tossed it aside quickly enough.

Naked, he walked through his penthouse. One entire row of walls was nothing but windows. This high up the only people seeing his junk would be of the avian variety. And if a curious pigeon wanted to see his twig and berries, they were welcome to.

Suits weren't his forte but he owned enough to get by. He slipped into a gray pair of dress slacks over a pair of red boxer briefs. A men's dress shirt in screaming scarlet went on next over a white undershirt. He added a tie in a darker shade of red and left the matching gray suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

Surprisingly he looked pretty spiffy. It wasn't that he was incapable of dressing nice, he just didn't bother. For the most part, he was a jeans and ratty t-shirt kinda guy. But a business meeting required a certain level of decorum. He felt, sometimes, he was leaving his soul behind when he put on a suit. Some men belonged in Armani and some men belonged in Hanes.

It was a necessary evil to don the monkey suit and one of a thousand little deaths that had happened to him since starting his company. He was in the boardroom this morning, not on the battlefield. Although sometimes they were one in the same.

A half hour later found him in his office, enjoying a cup of strong black coffee and fielding his first boring phone call of the day.

"No. No you misunderstand me. I don't care about the red tape. I can't ask anyone to go out into the field without the right protection. I need the vaccines for my operatives yesterday." He listened, sighed, and combed a hand back through his hair. "Again, I don't think you're hearing me. I'm not sending people into a T-Virus zone without being inoculated. So if you want the area contained, "The door to his office opened, "then I suggest you get me those vaccines."

He ended the call and turned.

His assistant was standing in the doorway. Inga was his life line. She kept him going on a daily basis. She was the mother of three full grown boys and had the battle scars to prove it. She had artfully coiffed gray hair cut into a flattering pixie on a long, thin face. She was model skinny and had a perfect complexion that was now set into amused lines.

"What?"

"You're seven o'clock is here."

"This is funny?"

"It will be when you see what she's wearing."

Inga turned and gestured.

Ada Wong stepped into his office. And he got the joke

She was wearing a feminine version of what he was wearing. Only her pencil thin skirt was black. But her top was screaming red as were the ice pick heels she wore on her long, long, long legs. There was just enough cleavage exposed in the top to leave the viewer tantalized.

She was, for lack of a better word, beautiful.

He'd acquired her for the BSAA shortly after their time together in China. She'd come over from the dark side to be an attaché for the good guys as a freelancer. It was still an uncomfortable fit for both of them. But he appreciated her many, many questionably obtained talents. And her contacts were legion.

She was kept on a pretty loose leash. Ada rarely answered to anyone on the food chain but him. And even he struggled to keep her in line. She pretty much went where and did what she wanted. As far as he knew, she no longer dealt heavily in the underworld. She kept her fingers in the pies there, of course, and on the pulse, but she didn't collect pay checks from the bad guys anymore.

She'd made a reputation for herself. She didn't have to sell out to the highest bidder anymore. He knew something had changed with her since China. She was no longer on the wrong side. He wasn't sure what it was, he didn't ask. And he wasn't sure it mattered. But she was helping the cause now. It was something to be grateful for.

"Ada Wong."

"Christopher Redfield." She cocked a brow at him as the door was politely closed by Inga. "I'd say this look doesn't suit you, but in a way it does."

"I'd tell you that you look beautiful…but I generally find it stupid to state the obvious."

"I tend to agree." She tossed the file folder in her hand on his desk. "The blue prints for the lab in Moscow. Although I suggest you consider sterilization instead of infiltration."

Curious he crossed around his desk and perched on the edge, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm all ears."

"They're experimenting with something nasty down there. I'm pretty sure they have access to most of Spencer's research and a good portion of Birkin's."

"We knew this already. There's nothing new there."

Ada hesitated and he figured the next bit of intel wasn't good. "I suspect they have Wesker DNA down there."

Chris felt the back of his neck prickle. He wasn't sure what was on his face though. It felt stony and vaguely blank.

"How goods the intel?"

"Flawless. From the horse's mouth, so to speak."

"You get someone inside?"

"Of course. The asset is in place. Reports should be coming in weekly now."

Chris nodded. "Okay. Great. Thank you, Ada."

Ada shrugged a little. She shifted where she stood. "I don't usually make requests, but I'm going to make one."

"Alright."

"If you go in, I want to go with you."

He lifted a brow in surprise. "You want to be on the task force?"

"Yes. If they are trying to resurrect Albert Wesker, they need to be put down. The world doesn't need that psychotic asshat resurrected nor any of his brethren."

Chris laughed a little. "Asshat. Not really a word you expect to hear from Ada Wong."

"When the hat fits…" She paused, briefly. Her instincts said to leave it at that. But something on his face arrested her instincts. What did they call him? The Hammer? He didn't look like a hammer. He looked like a nail that had been pounded flat and lifeless. So, Ada broke her comfort zone and spoke to him levelly. Why? Because in all the years she'd been doing this, she had yet to work with a man she enjoyed nearly as much as Chris Redfield. He was a whirlwind of never the same thing twice. He was NEVER boring. And she liked to repay that kind of interest with her own, "You look tired."

It was an odd and personal statement. Ada wasn't known for personal statements. She often flirted, harmlessly, almost casually and could, by turns, be witty and dismissive. But she was seldom personal.

"Age and mileage."

She tilted her head, studying him. "The nightmares are usually easier if you don't sleep alone."

Uncomfortable with the excellent insight, he shifted. "And who's waiting at home for you to snuggle up to?"

"No one. But the nightmares left me alone a long time ago."

"Oh yeah. Why's that?"

"Because they figured out there was something a whole lot scarier in the dark then them."

"And what's that?"

"Me."

He smiled a little and pushed away from the desk to circle back and admire the sky line outside of the office. The back wall was entirely made of windows. It was a thing in New York, the ability to see the sky line. It's the only thing that kept people from feeling like beasts trapped in an urban cage.

The Big Apple wasn't his favorite place. There was no wide open wonder here. No easy to breathe, no water, no sky. There was just smog and slog and commerce and too many people bustling too fast, to go nowhere. He missed his boat and the water and the salty spray of the sea on his face.

But there was seldom time for that anymore.

Ada stepped up beside him. "I'm going to do something else I don't often do."

"What? Juggle?"

She met that bad joke with a very droll look. "I'm going to give you another piece of advice."

"Don't eat the yellow snow?"

Again, the droll look.

"Not even a smile? I must be losing my touch."

And then Ada Wong did something he couldn't remember her ever doing, in all the time he'd known her…she touched him. She put her hand on his arm.

It was so surprising that it stole the smart ass remarks right out of his mouth.

"Find someone, anyone, who understands and let it out. If you don't, it will eat at you until you can't remember anything but the smell, the screams, and the taste of fear like copper in your mouth. Find something to help you forget."

He met her eyes and, following her lead, did something he hadn't done in a long; long time…he put the jokes aside and told the truth. "I don't know if I can."

"You can. You haven't swallowed a handful of pills or stared down the wrong end of a gun. You can still come back."

She started to pull her hand back from his arm and he laid his over it. There was a tingle that spread from his fingers to his wrist. And it felt really good to acknowledge it.

He wasn't dead or blind or stupid. Standing this close to Ada was like being within a foot of a white tiger. It was too tempting, too exotic, and too rare an opportunity to pass up trying to touch…even if it meant you lost a hand in the process.

All the women, in all the world, in all the bars, and all the fucking…and he never once felt like he did with his hand over hers. This was what he'd been searching for…attraction; the thick, choking, burning kind that bred thoughts of tongues and teeth and sin. He tested that feeling by tracing his thumb under that hand and skimming her palm.

And she let him.

He lifted his eyes and met hers.

Part of him wanted to check to see if the room had caught fire around him from the heat in that look. He was fascinated by this almost painful attraction to her. It was dangerous and wrong on about twelve levels and as irresistible as a finger full of icing off a perfectly decorated cake. He wanted to dip his finger into Ada and see if she tasted as good as she looked.

He was betting she tasted better.

She studied his face and hers...it was so very controlled. Part of him wanted to tickle her just to see if she'd crack.

The ringing of his phone had her drawing away. It was interesting that it was her who did.

He'd been ready to tell the person to take a backwards flying leap off the first cliff they came to. He'd entertained running his thumb up her wrist and seeing how far he got. But she was quickly retreating.

He picked up the phone and hung it right back up.

"You'll call me if there's anything?" She turned to the door.

"Of course. Ada?"

She paused, met his eyes again. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

"Of course. I generally don't like to work for emotional cripples. It's boring. And I make it a point to never be bored."

She closed the door on his short burst of laughter. There was no way she could have known that that subtle little flirtation had awakened something in him.

For the first time in over a year, he felt like he was no longer blind. He just wondered what he would see now that his eyes were finally open.