Cymoril (cymoril) wrote in harmony_fics, @ 2010-09-10 12:56:00 |
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Current music: | Savage Garden - A Thousand Words |
Entry tags: | albert wesker, cymoril avalon, wesker/birkin, wesker/cymoril, wesker/cymoril/birkin, william birkin |
We stumble in a tangled web, decaying friendships almost dead and hide behind a mask of lies...
WHO: Albert Wesker, William Birkin, Cymoril Avalon
WHAT: Birkin is being a pest.
WHERE: Wesker and Cymoril's home.
WHEN: At some point in the past few months.
WARNING: None
Cymoril returned Birkin’s stare with one of her own – less friendly, less interested, more threatening.
“He won’t be back for some time,” she said pointedly.
Birkin made himself comfortable on the couch. “I’ll wait.” He tilted his head, continuing to observe her like she was some peculiar little creature that had wandered into his lab. His gaze made her skin crawl, and she had to fight back the inclination to tear his eyes out of their sockets and jam them down his throat.
Wesker wouldn’t be pleased if she mauled one of the few people he tolerated.
“If it is so urgent, I can call him.”
“Not necessary.”
“…what do you want?”
Birkin looked vaguely wounded. “Must I have a reason to stop by and see a friend?”
“Yes.”
“You’re as bad as he is.”
Cymoril responded with a frosty glare.
Leaning forward, Birkin tapped his fingers against his knee to a beat only he could hear. Trying to sound casual, he drawled, “While you’re here, and while I’m here, would you mind…”
“No.”
“…if I just…”
“No.”
“…even one sample?”
“No.”
Birkin slumped back. “It’s not fair,” he complained to no one in particular. “He has you all to himself.”
Cymoril crossed her arms, toying with the idea of gifting him with cuts here and there. So long as she didn’t deal any fatal damage, or go so far as to cripple him, she was certain Wesker would understand.
Birkin was oblivious. “Will you at least talk to me?”
“I’m speaking with you right now.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“What?”
Birkin sighed. “Nothing.” Then he stuffed a hand into the pocket of his wrinkled tweed jacket and withdrew a slender camera, swiftly snapping a few pictures of her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Cymoril growled.
“Research.”
An ear twitched, one hand reflexively resting on her thigh, close to her knife. “Do you not comprehend the term ‘no’?”
“Not especially.”
“Are you like this with him?”
“Most definitely.” Birkin beamed, looking proud of himself. “It’s why he adores me so much.”
“I highly doubt that,” she muttered under her breath.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she mimicked, then turned and stalked from the room, leaving Birkin to his own devices.
Which, in hindsight, wasn’t an especially good idea. He lost interest in examining the room after roughly a few minutes, getting up and stalking around, jittery as a cat who’d had too much coffee. He poked his nose into everything and anything, quickly irritating Cymoril even though she was trying to distract herself by making tea in the kitchen.
The sound of a book hitting the floor made her see red.
When she returned to the living room, she discovered that every book that lay on a flat surface had been opened to a random page, and Birkin was busily fiddling with the blinds, opening them and closing them and opening them again.
Jesus, he was like a small child.
“Go home,” she said firmly.
“I need to speak to Albert.”
“I’ll have him call you.”
Birkin drew himself to his full height. “It’s important.”
“You said it wasn’t.”
“I lied.”
“Do you do that often, too?”
“Not as often as our mutual acquaintance.”
Cymoril mulled that over, then shrugged, unimpressed. “Either sit still,” she commanded, “or leave. If you refuse to comply, I will throw you out.”
Birkin perked up. “I’d love to see that,” he said eagerly, causing Cymoril to let out an aggravated sound.
“I think I hate you.”
“Get in line, sweetheart. …are you sure I can’t have just one sample? Just a bit of your blood? I promise I won’t make it hurt. Well, any more than normal; I guess there’s no way to make jamming a needle in someone’s arm painless.”
He continued prattling on, running with some tangent or another, and Cymoril was ready to give in to his request just to get him to shut up when she was saved by Wesker’s arrival.
“Aah, you’re here!” Birkin said cheerfully, bouncing on his toes. “I have good news for you.”
Wesker looked between Cymoril and Birkin, face expressionless. “It couldn’t wait, I presume.”
“Nope!” Pausing for dramatic effect, Birkin finally blurted out, “I’ve discovered a way to hatch blue Hunters. It’s really quite fascinating, and they take rather quickly to water, though they are equally opposed to any company like their green brethren. Oh, and by the way, your new contacts are on the coffee table. Let me know how they work out and I can tweak them.” He paused for breath, then asked timidly, “Could I maybe…”
“No,” Wesker said shortly, eliciting a pleased smirk from Cymoril.
Birkin massaged his temples. “The whole world is against me!” he wailed. “And after all I’ve done for you!” He jabbed a finger at Wesker accusingly. “I thought you wanted me to find a way to improve upon her healing abilities. I can’t very well do that without something to work with.”
“What, exactly, would you require?”
Birkin rattled off a short list, then rounded it out with, “And overnight observation, of course, would be incredibly beneficial.”
Cymoril clenched her fists. “May I kill him?”
“You may not.”
“Well?” Birkin persisted, running a hand through his already rumpled hair.
“Fine. Now stop pestering me, both of you; I’ve had my fill of children for the day.”
Looking triumphant, Birkin extended his hand to Cymoril. “I’ll make it worth your while, my dear, don’t worry.”
“William.”
“Yes?”
“Keep in mind the limbs and organs you can function perfectly well without.”
“I’m hurt you’d even suggest such a thing.” Birkin grinned and wriggled his fingers. “Shall we?”
“You will perform all experiments here.”
“I much prefer my lab.”
“And I much prefer here.”
“Whatever you say, Albert,” Birkin replied after a moment, gleefully snatching up Cymoril’s wrist and dragging her into the basement.