Work Text:
A siren blared in the hanger, reverberating off steel and concrete. Chris glanced up as the roof began to roll back onto a canopy of night, pricked with starlight. His eyes flicked to the bomber, priming with a low whir of engine, and to his partner, slipping out to make radio contact with HQ. All he had to handle the man before him now was a gun and a tumultuous history.
The odds were impossible. The flaring bruises striping his body were trying to warn him as much. All the same, pointing a gun at Wesker gave him some small comfort. Chris didn’t need to win, he just needed to stall. He adjusted his grip on his handgun. Stall for what though? No one else would come in time. He might well die here, trying to prevent the most ambitious man he knew from carrying out his meticulous plans.
Chris gritted his teeth. He circled his former captain and tried to ignore the twinges of pain blooming across his flank and side. He’d been booted off the control level above, and could feel the place where his combat gear had dug into a rib particularly potently. Wesker was stalking him in turn, expression easy and a little too interested for someone on such an apparently tight schedule.
“Just us now, Chris.” He had that lazy, amused drawl in his words. It sent a shiver straight up Chris’s spine.
The muzzle of Chris’s gun followed Wesker as he swept across the floor, long coat fanning out behind him. Chris had only met one target he couldn’t hit. Too bad he had to meet him again.
“Be good now and step aside,” Wesker continued. “I’ve given you plenty of playtime.”
“I’m not done! Not by half!” Chris adjusted his sights, trying to keep his breathing slow and aim steady. Focus. This was a threat that needed neutralising like any other. “Whatever it takes, I’m stopping this insanity!”
“Insanity?” A mock-injured pride sounded in Wesker’s voice. It dropped away into a rasp, tickled with low laughter. “I’ve never been more lucid.” Wesker smiled. It was a smile full of teeth and cruelty. "Can you not see the vision, Chris? This virus will trigger the next iteration of human evolution. A humanity beyond humanity. It shall give rise to a species that has surpassed itself - engineered its own future. A humanity that can do incredible, beautiful, terrible things. We can become artificers not just of our surroundings but of our very bodies! We can become immortal! We can become gods."
Chris kept the gun trained on him. His teeth set together hard as he tried to keep his temper level.
"You're not talking about all humanity. Most people's bodies have rejected your virus. I saw the research notes."
"You can read?"
"Wesker."
Wesker gave a short laugh.
"Yes, most humans will die, but those who live, Chris, what lives they will lead. Stop." He raised a hand as Chris opened his mouth. Chris's expression fell into a dark scowl, but he shut his mouth. "Good boy. I know what you're going to say. You're going to plead with me that every life is meaningful. But you're thinking too narrowly: you're on disaster prevention instead of assessing the trend of global affairs. B.O.W.s are a reality. Viral warfare is upon us, whether we like it or not. All manner of viruses will sweep the world. It is only a matter of time. And most, like the t-Virus, produce only worthless husks. I'm giving some humans the chance to live, the chance to rise above the chaff and issue in a new era. Viral advances need not reduces civilisations to rubble. They are the key to unlocking our genetics."
"You don't know what's coming!” Chris returned. “You’re talking about infecting billions of people with a virus that will kill almost all of them!” He gestured expansively to the hanger and the aircraft. “I'm not going to stand by and let your elite test-tubes decide who lives and who dies! I'm fighting for everyone! And if that's doomed and makes me a fool, then so be it! On my watch, everybody lives!"
"Chris, Chris, Chris," Wesker crooned. "Don't be childish. I raised you to be a better soldier than that. Sometimes, one has to make difficult, tactical decisions. Know when to cut your losses." Wesker stepped closer to him. "You were one of my best men. The best, even.” Chris glared at him. He could see his own reflection in those dark glasses as Wesker came closer still. “Come back to my side,” Wesker purred. “Fight for me, and I will make you a god."
"You know I will never agree to that! The only reason I ever followed your lead before was because I believed you were a good man.” Chris’s gun was mere centimetres from Wesker’s chest. He looked into those mirror lenses. A bitterness still clung to his words despite the years that had passed. “You deceived me. None of it was real. You never gave a damn about anyone but yourself."
"Ah, these simplistic evaluations again. You work for an international organisation now, Chris, hasn't it expanded your horizons even a little? There are no good men. While you're out there looking for one good man, clever men will shape the world around you. Everything you do is reactionary, holding off the inevitable. Your dreams are sandbags and a deluge is coming. You will be swept away. Let me make use of that prowess you have. Become a weapon in my hands again. I will give you true purpose."
"I have my purpose! To hold on to what matters to me! People! Human beings! I don't see the flaws you do! I see something worth protecting!"
"Imbecile." Wesker’s lip curled with disgust. "Human anatomy is nothing worth clinging to. The random biological orderings of millions of uncaring years. Now it will have direction! Now it will become magnificent! Autodeification!"
"I don't know what the fuck that means, Wesker."
"I know you don't, my dear Chris, but with my guidance, you will."
"If humans are so inferior, so flawed to you, then why do you even need someone like me?!"
There was silence. A long pause. There was an expression on Wesker's face. He looked almost startled, like he'd never considered that before. He looked at Chris, and Chris felt something - a tug, almost like empathy. Wesker must have seen it, because a second later, his face twisted into a snarl.
"I don't need anyone!" It was defensive and heated, and lacking Wesker's usual cool reserve.
A slow dawning was breaking over Chris as he processed that. It seemed to be making Wesker more agitated.
"Any old tool will serve my purposes,” Wesker sneered. “All I require is competency. I took Jill, did I not? One of S.T.A.R.S.' finest."
Why did it sound like he was making excuses? Chris's frown grew.
"You forced Jill to work for you. Why are you trying to persuade me?"
Wesker laughed, but something sounded off about it.
"Do you know how much easier to control someone is when they see your vision?"
"Excella Gionne saw your vision. You still killed her."
"Uroboros killed her. She was not worthy."
"And me? What if my cells don't take in this scheme of yours? Hardly much of an asset if I'm just a writhing pool of tentacles."
"I'd have tests run in the lab first," Wesker tutted, waving a hand dismissively.
"So you'd give me chances you didn't give Excella?"
"She was getting greedy, talking of partnership." Chris was getting somewhere. He could see Wesker losing his cool, with more hiss and bite entering his unrehearsed sentences.
"And you didn't want a partnership?"
"Not with her," he spat.
Silence.
Chris stared at him. Wesker seemed to have realised his error. He took a step back. Chris saw it clearly then. Vulnerability. Uncertainty. He took a step towards Wesker. Wesker took another back.
"With who then?" Chris asked quietly.
"Stay back!" Wesker snarled, hackles raised like a cornered animal.
"With who?" Chris asked again, voice even softer.
Wesker glanced around wildly.
It seemed unreal to Chris. He could hardly fail to notice that the two of them kept intersecting like this, but he'd assumed there was logic to it – he worked in securing biohazardous disasters; Wesker seemed intent on creating them. But what if there was more to it than that? What if these situations were engineered specifically so that he would be the one that arrived here?
Suddenly, all sorts of situations from the past were thrown into new light: all the times Wesker had asked specifically for him; all the times Wesker had casually filed a report to superiors that talked of 'Chris and the others'; and even in the lab at the mansion – the way it had been him alone that Wesker looked at. Chris had assumed it was because he was Wesker's right hand, because he was proud of him, respected him. But if that had never been true, then why? For how long had-...?
Chris felt an uncomfortable truth drop in his stomach. A blindfold was pulled away in that moment. He recoiled.
Something ferocious entered Wesker's features.
"What?!" he demanded. His voice was frantic.
"You..." Chris said slowly, as he tried to piece it all together. "It's... always been me."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Wesker snapped. "You have a greatly inflated view of yourself. You're merely a pawn." He was a little breathless though.
Chris looked at him. Really looked at him. Wesker glared back, eyes hidden by his glasses. After a moment though, he looked away.
Chris wasn't sure what to think. Could he use this? Could he- what? Entice Wesker away from his mass-murdering ideals? He somehow doubted Wesker's... obsession was strong enough for that. Was that what this was?
"Why... why me? I'm trying to stop you. I've always been trying to stop you. Ever since the mansion."
Wesker grimaced. There was a hesitation, then a slow, curling smile – cold, cruel, a little bitter – slid onto his lips.
"What can I say? I like that you fight me. I like that you're a challenge. Even when you were my subordinate, your bull-headed rebellions distinguished you. Sometimes they even had merit.”
“Who was bull-headed?!” Chris paused a moment. Alright, maybe he’d concede on that one. “I thought you hated me! You were always furious when I contradicted you!”
“Yes, you had the very annoying trait of insolence in an organisation that required you to follow rank, but I’ve never been a fan of mindless obedience. You'd be boring if you conceded to my whims. Drones who lack imagination and follow in my shadow are such dullards. You, however, cling to your foolish ideals with a genuiness of belief. Your idiocy is a fascinating kind."
Chris's face betrayed a confusion, not entirely sure if he was being complimented or not.
"Did... you just call me interestingly stupid?"
"Precisely."
Chris's hands felt clammy on his gun. The metal felt warm from being held so long. As he looked at Wesker, a bizarre thought jumped into his head. Would he be warm to touch, despite that cold, cold heart and icy smile? Chris shook his head and raised his gun. This was insane. All of this.
Still, there was something peculiarly reassuring in the realisation that, even back then, Wesker had found him interesting. There would have been a time when that information would have set Chris giddy. In a kind of 'young recruit who thinks their captain is the height of suave' kind of way. There was a time when the slight, casual praise Wesker would occasion to let slip, would tip the whole balance of Chris's day - fire him up to keep rising to Wesker's expectations.
"It's always rather obvious when you're lost in thought. No doubt it requires a lot of brain power on your part." Wesker sounded lazy again, in control. Chris glared at him. "Thinking about the past?" Wesker asked, all airy and casual. "About our history together? Perhaps all the times you were desperate for praise.”
Chris's lungs stopped working. His brain fried and he just stared at Wesker.
"What? You think I didn't notice?" Wesker gave a bark of a laugh, then his voice dropped lower. "I noticed everything about you."
It was Chris's turn to become a blustering wreck.
"That- that never- I didn't-... You were my captain! Of course I was interested in knowing when a job was done well!"
"Delude yourself all you want, Chris. It's of little consequence now. We stand on opposite sides of a chasm." He waved dismissively as he said this, which outraged Chris further. Like all of this was ancient history to Wesker, when for Chris there were revelations of magnitude. Had they always been like this? Circling one another like wolves ready for the kill, each enthralled by the other, eyes set on nothing else? Wesker's lip quirked up at a corner, apparently reading his frustration. "A little slow when it comes to evaluating social dynamics, but I can’t fault your work ethic. I’m impressed at your persistence in getting here, by the way. I doubt anyone else could have followed my trail and dealt so efficiently with the weapons I dispatched to stop them."
Pride flickered in Chris's chest and a warmth spread through him. His shoulders relaxed a fraction, before he saw Wesker's curling smirk and realised what he was doing.
"Your words mean nothing to me!" Chris snapped. It hurt that his body had already betrayed him. "They’re not worth half of what they were! Any value they had vanished when you betrayed S.T.A.R.S.! There isn't a word that can come off your forked tongue that's worth anything to me anymore!"
Wesker sidled forward and Chris didn't like the way he was taking back control of the space. He stood his ground, but immediately regretted the decision when Wesker came too close. All that deadly power was within striking distance. His bruises ached at the reminder. A hand was lifted, and Chris flinched. Wesker only smirked and brushed at Chris's shoulder, flicking some invisible dirt from his combat armour.
"Spending a long time listening, considering my words are worth nothing."
Chris was on the back foot, unnerved by Wesker's proximity and the familiarity in his gestures. He knew what to do when Wesker was on the offensive, but like this, it was confusing. He was meant to be stalling Wesker, but instead he felt like it was himself who was stalling, stumbling into the uncomfortable dregs of their past encounters. There was a part of Chris that craved a return to their old dynamic. Imagine if it could all go back. Imagine if Wesker wasn't one of his greatest enemies, and instead put his brilliant mind to work taking apart the political intrigues and interplays of the corporate world. Having someone who really knew viruses, could glance at a lab report and understand the situation in seconds… There was no one on the front lines of the BSAA who could do that. Fuck, Chris missed that level-headed rationale Wesker used to lend missions too. He missed the way no matter how hard it got, Wesker always had a plan, always foresaw potential risks, always injected a cool into situations that frayed Chris's nerves and diced his cogent thought. There was once a time when hearing Wesker's stoney orders over his earpiece was a balm to the stress and adrenaline powering through his body. No matter how sticky a situation got, Wesker always knew what to do.
For a moment, Chris forgot the where and when of all of this, and looked on his old captain with desperation. If Wesker had been at his side on this mission, or even on comms, so much would have gone smoother. He could have bounced his own ideas off that brutal wall of quick wit and acerbic tactics, and problem-solved at lightning speed. Even after all this time, missions without Wesker felt like wading through mud. Chris knew there were solutions it was harder to reach without him. He felt the painfully slow, inefficient pace of a team without Wesker. And he hated that even after all this time, he’d judge his own performance by the high standards set by his old S.T.A.R.S. captain.
Wesker's hand had stayed lazy on his shoulder, Chris realised. It was nominally sorting out his collar now, fingertips just brushing at his skin.
Chris shivered. He needed to step back. He needed to regain focus. He needed to collect himself.
Wesker's fingers ran light up his neck, ghosting over his jawline. Chris's stomach clenched and an involuntary excitement stirred low in him. His eyelids flickered.
"Why couldn't you stay our captain? You were good at it... No one after you could hold a candle..."
His voice sounded distant, almost petulant.
Wesker tutted faintly. It was gentle though, as one might chide a child. His fingers continued to stray over Chris's face, touching his jaw, his chin, brushing fractionally against his lower lip. There was a casual possessiveness to it that felt very natural. Or very Wesker, at least.
"Tch. I had visions to fulfil, dreams to pursue."
"But we needed you..." Chris knew it sounded pathetic, but just then there was a younger man's bitterness in his heart. And questions he'd never had a chance to ask.
"You've been doing just fine without me," Wesker murmured.
Chris's eyes flickered closed as Wesker's gloved hand brushed against his cheek. He wondered if this was a dream.
"Haven't," he said roughly. "Not good at making the pragmatic calls you could. Lost some people because of it. Your ways sometimes seemed callous, but sometimes they saved more lives. Never been good at judging that myself."
"You were my protégé. I didn't just keep you around for your brawn. You're more than capable of making those same choices."
"I’m not like you. Not quick like you are.”
“You lead combat teams, Chris. It’s not like you need a doctorate in virology for that.”
Chris shook his head, frustrated. “There wasn't enough time. You didn't give me enough time. There was so much more I needed to learn from you."
"Sometimes we need hardship to rise to the occasion. You rose beautifully. You're a work of art."
Chris knew his cheeks were pink. His eyes screwed shut to wall up the depth of emotion this conversation was dragging from him. Wesker was in his head. He needed to snap out of this. Stop tripping down memory lane and stay in the moment, focussed on the mission. He set his teeth together.
"Saying what you need to to manipulate me again?" Chris asked, bitterly.
"On the contrary. I have little need for pretence in this regard."
Chris's eyes opened slowly, wary and hating how vulnerable he felt in this moment. Somehow the caress of Wesker's fingers on his cheek made him feel worlds more defenceless than when Wesker had him on the floor, mercilessly booting a foot into his stomach.
Chris fell silent, not trusting himself to speak. He knew the man before him. Wesker had never been given to flattery, preferring a bluntness even when working as a double agent. He wore aloof distance as an armour. That meant there might be something genuine in his words. The man Chris had idolised held him in high regard. The man Chris still tried to measure up to was impressed by him. The man who’d grown bored in nearly every job he'd been in, and every relationship he’d bothered to reciprocate, was curious and fascinated by him. Somehow, in amidst all those world-ending, cruel ideals, and breakthroughs in cutting-edge research, Chris was up there too – a subject that held endless fascination to Wesker.
It was dizzying, captivating, bizarre, and underneath all that… welcome. Welcome to be known in all his flaws and successes, to be held in that calculating mind, and evaluated as something worthy. Wesker’s version of affection was an oddity. An addictive oddity, vindicating like little else. Utterly devoid of any romance and deeply validating.
Chris’s fingers curled into a tight fist. He swallowed and leant very fractionally into Wesker's touch.
"You've been doing impressive work, Redfield," Wesker murmured.
A muted, broken sound pulled from Chris.
"I couldn't have done it better myself," Wesker continued.
"Stop," Chris said hoarsely.
"There's a reason I want to study you, understand you. You're a fascinating enigma. You've surpassed what I could have taught you, and gone your own way. You lead your own team now."
"I never wanted to be a leader."
"The best leaders never do."
Wesker ran his thumb over Chris's lower lip, and Chris felt his knees buckling as a distant, low groan of despair or desire, he wasn't sure which, was drawn from him. Floods of less professional thoughts tumbled into his mind. Memories of lying awake, mulling over the day, thinking of moments in the S.T.A.R.S. office where he’d garnered Wesker’s attention. Wondering what it would look like to be the sole subject of his focus. Wondering if that cold, drawling amusement would stay as he held you down. Wondering if Wesker’s gaze would ignite with interest the way it did when he was seized by a rare moment of passion.
Chris’s body was quivering. His gun hand lowered. He nudged into Wesker’s touch, eyes dark with want, caving to a carnal urge to draw close to danger. The fix he got from daredevil adrenaline dragged him into this dance. Wesker kept his thumb in situ, and pressed down on his lip.
Chris kept his eyes on those black glasses. He touched the tip of his tongue to the leather glove. Wesker shifted his thumb, dipping it between Chris's lips. Chris parted easily at the urging and took him into his mouth. His tongue set to working the leather, twirling against it, feeling its resistance as he licked at it. He leaned into the act and sucked hard, blanking his thoughts in favour of focussing on the wet leather sliding between his lips. He pressed his teeth down lightly, always drawn to test Wesker’s patience. He glanced up, watching for a reaction. Wesker’s lip curled in annoyance. Chris withdrew the bite, and kissed at the thumb tip. He decided the repercussions weren’t worth the satisfaction of clamping his teeth down hard on Wesker’s hand.
Shortly, as Chris knew he would, Wesker took control. He was never one to miss an opportunity to assert dominance. He moved his thumb through Chris's mouth, exploring him, running over his tongue, his teeth, testing how deep Chris could take him, methodical and systematic even in this. Chris gave a sweet, muted moan. His hips tilted needily, and heat swarmed his loins. How many times in the back of his head, after he’d tired of going over a mission in his mind, had he slipped into thinking of moments where the captain came to give him personal pointers. Very personal pointers.
"Chris..." Wesker said, almost chidingly.
Chris didn't care just then. He couldn't have named any of the multitudinous jumble of emotions he was feeling even if he'd wanted to. If Wesker kept his thumb in his mouth, then he wouldn't have to answer any of those confusing questions anyway. Creased leather and memories of better days. That was all he wanted.
"Well, well. We find ourselves in quite a little predicament here given our respective goals."
Did the man ever shut up? Even when Chris was sucking noisily on his gloved thumb and the crotch of his fatigues was tenting noticeably, Wesker still sounded like he'd swallowed a script written in the 1950s. Wesker drew his thumb out gradually, which Chris thought was dangerous for a number of reasons, not least because he might start thinking again if he didn't have that immediate stimulation to blitz his thoughts.
He gave a small "oh" of surprise though, when Wesker slid two fingers into his mouth instead. Chris’s eyes glazed over, melting into soft brown rapture that he saw clearly in the mirror lenses bearing down on him. Wesker grabbed the front of his combat gear and pushed Chris back, back, back, until he hit a wall. Chris had a fine view of the night sky as his head was tilted back and mouth thoroughly explored. A slight wind ruffled against his too hot skin. He could feel adrenaline pounding through his veins with almost the same vigour as the lust coiling low in his loins. It was the kind of exhilaration he got when spinning a dogfighter – stomach flipping as danger and thrill merged together into a high.
He tried to swipe his tongue over Wesker's glove, but the man turned his fingers in his mouth, seeking out angles and studying him so intimately that there was little space for any agency on Chris's part. Chris found himself groaning in a haze of desire. His hips lifted, trying to alter the discomfort of his too tight trousers. He let his head tilt further back and his eyes close.
"You make quite the specimen, Chris Redfield.” Wesker's voice was raw, earthy, and a little breathless near his ear.
Renewed passion shivered through Chris. He sucked harder at those fingers, hoping the display would earn him something more in return. A palm pressed flat to his stomach, then travelled slowly down to cup his crotch. Interest flashed through him, and Chris immediately bucked into the contact.
"Don’t move."
Chris stilled obediently, thighs quivering with effort. Wesker palmed him slowly through the stiff fabric, painstakingly meticulous. Chris moaned with frustration. There was a light, soft laugh, that sent another danger warning spiking up Chris's spine, and an excitement straight to his groin.
His eyes drifted open, and he gazed at Wesker groggily. He made to draw back from the fingers in his mouth, but was kept in place, fingered until Wesker deemed the powerplay sufficient. When Wesker released him, Chris could see his saliva glistening on the wet, black leather that drew from his lips. It hung between them like glistening gossamer. Wesker caught his chin and held it carelessly. There was that same mild disinterest in his face, and an annoying smirk curled on his lips. Chris was breathing hard, desperately hard and definitely irritated.
“You really haven’t changed,” Wesker mused.
Chris scowled. Wesker seemed to draw a petulance from him that he’d rather have left in his early twenties. He also scattered much of Chris’s better judgment. The more Wesker withdrew, the more Chris was entranced, drawn in like a moth to an unguarded flame. Chris desperately wanted to understand, to be on the inside of that icy shield Wesker wore everywhere. How could someone with the potential to be the best of them, do the things Wesker did, believe the things he did?
"Will you take off your glasses?" Chris asked.
Wesker's lips pulled into a sneer. Before he could answer, Chris added,
"Please?"
There was a hesitation. The hand on Chris's crotch stilled, and it took Chris a lot of willpower not to jerk his hips up to refind that friction. Wesker’s free hand went to his glasses. He snapped them off and stowed them away.
Snake-like slits gleamed from red eyes. They pinned Chris in place. All the hairs on his skin stood upright as he held that animal, predatory gaze. Fear coiled in Chris’s throat, but by the time he’d swallowed it down, it was manifesting as excitement. Chris bit his lip and dispensed with his reservations then. He rolled his hips so that he pushed hard into Wesker's palm, and let his open want be known.
Without his sunglasses, there was nothing preventing the hunger in Wesker's eyes from mediating direct to him. Chris shivered to see it. This man was a genius. An awful, terrible genius, who's ambitions stretched so far that humanity wasn't enough for him. It was bizarre to think that someone like that could want him so badly. Had wanted him so badly for... years. He saw Wesker's shoulders stiffen, displeased with the way he could be read without his glasses, no doubt. Chris obliged by pushing ever more eagerly into his touch, and granting him soft moans of pleasure. His eyes lidded and came almost to a close. The tension eased back out of Wesker as Chris allowed him dominance.
The way he could read Wesker disturbed Chris. It disturbed him that it hadn't been so long ago that they'd worked together as a well-oiled machine. It disturbed him that he knew where his old captain would have insecurities, and how to remedy them. It disturbed him that Wesker knew his touch would be wanted, and that he knew better than Chris himself that he'd been aching for this kind of attention from him for a long time.
Chris strained in his too-tight clothes, breathless as he watched Wesker touch him. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he daren't touch the man in turn. He wondered if he could brush a hand to his hip maybe, or just rest his arms on his shoulders. He wondered if Wesker would let him touch his lips to his. The contact he had was so much and so little.
"W-...wesker," Chris got out, voice taut.
"Mm?"
"Can I-... I want-..."
"Articulate, Chris."
Chris's cheeks reddened. His eyes flicked about the hanger, concerned for the first time that someone might bear witness to his... treachery? His gaze returned to Wesker, confused, urgent, needy. His eyes roved over the mottled iridescence in the tight leather Wesker wore. He wondered if perhaps the man might have thought of him when he’d donned it. Chris shook his head. He was losing himself.
"Speak," Wesker ordered.
Chris reached hesitantly. He brushed his fingertips over Wesker's belt, then grazed them lightly over his hip. He lifted his eyes to his former captain, checking that was permitted. Wesker went stone still.
Chris slowly retracted his hand.
"Can I-...? May I-... I want-... to touch..."
Wesker thrust an arm across his chest, slamming him against the wall and pinning him in place. Chris gasped. Wesker started working his hand hard at his crotch, scattering Chris's thoughts.
"Patience," he said softly.
Chris closed his eyes tight and let his arms hang by his sides. He focussed on the pressure Wesker allowed him, and lifted his hips to roll into his palm. He jumped when he heard a metallic clatter. His gun had slipped from his hand and dropped to the ground. With it, came a host of guilt as he remembered his mission. As if on cue, Wesker reached and loosened his belt. Chris's breath came harder. He looked down and watched those leather gloves pop open the fastenings on his fatigues. His cheeks reddened darker with how obvious his want was, underwear already damp and bulging. Wesker brushed a hand to him, and Chris made a broken noise for him.
"What do you want, Chris?" Wesker's voice came low. It was a question all about power and not in the slightest about direction. Chris didn't mind.
"You," he confessed.
"Hmm…" Wesker sounded pleased. Chris had always liked it when he sounded pleased. "Like this?"
He ran his fingers light over Chris's clothed cock.
"More," Chris begged.
"More?" Wesker drew the word out in a drawl, thriving on every moment of power he held. He thumbed over Chris's tip, still making no move to free him of the material. His red eyes gleamed as he drew a string of curses and frustrations from Chris.
Chris beaded wet and hard under his ministrations. He ground his teeth against one another, trying to keep himself together. Just when he was ready to cast off his patience, Wesker slipped a hand in against his skin. A strangled cry pulled from Chris and his hips jumped. He tilted eagerly into Wesker's glove, lines of relief crossing his face. The leather against his flesh was tantalising, smooth and stiff in all the right ways. The creak of that glove as Wesker curved his hand around his cock had Chris aching deep for him. Wesker squeezed him, milking a chorus of sounds Chris might be embarrassed to let slip before anyone else. The widening smirk on Wesker’s lips made it worthwhile.
Wesker hooked a finger in the elastic of his underwear and tugged it down, letting it snap lightly in place under Chris’s balls. Chris’s teeth clashed together as he schooled a flinch. He glanced down, grimacing to see himself already hard, and pearls gathering at his tip. The cool air against his skin and release from the confines of his boxers was only a momentary relief. Wesker was soon running his thumb against the underside of his cock, and studying Chris apparently for every micro-expression the act drew from him. Chris strained to maintain the kind of cool façade Wesker always affected so easily, but his breath sunk to laboured fast. Each flick of the leather over his tip drew inarticulate cries of pleasure. The arm pinning Chris to the wall lifted, and that hand came to his face. A finger brushed damp hair from his brow. Chris’s hair always curled when wet, and this seem to interest Wesker now, as he held a small lock between thumb and forefinger. Chris was panting hard, trying to watch him, but another moan took him as Wesker continued his lower ministrations at the same time, almost careless in the way he stroked him.
Chris gritted his teeth hard.
“Wesker…” he got out, terse with want.
“Mm?” The man responded, distracted.
He drew his hand over Chris’s cock in a few long, lazy strokes, sending sparks through Chris’s body.
“I need… more.”
“Mm, I know. Worry not, I haven’t even begun with Uroboros yet.”
Chris froze.
“What? What d’you mean?”
Wesker tilted his head. Those eyes shimmered like flames in the darkened shadows of his skull.
“I told you, Chris. I have risen above humanity. Why study you with merely human tools, when I have so much more at my disposal?”
Chris’s throat dried. Arousal was fleeing him for fear, if not quite his wits.
“Shhh,” Wesker murmured, reading his distress. He cupped his cheek and brushed his thumb against it. “Nothing you can’t handle, trust me.”
“I- I don’t,” Chris croaked. “…Trust you.”
“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot.” Wesker shrugged and gave a smirk. “Don’t then.”
Wesker brought his hand up to his own lips, and touched his tongue to the pearly discharge Chris had left there. Chris’s mind stopped working as he watched Wesker’s tongue lick him off his glove. It flicked in quick, clever movements, that made Chris twitch hard and his imagination run wild. His eyes fixed on Wesker’s teeth as they bit down on the glove tip and tore it off his hand. Chris was transfixed, fear forgotten as his earlier questions of ‘would he feel warm, his skin on mine’ bubbled back to the surface. Wesker kept barriers upon barriers – concealed behind glasses and leather like he was ashamed of the human body still beneath. Chris longed to reach for him and tell him that-
What the fuck was that?!
Something dark, so black it barely reflected any light, slithered out from under Wesker’s jacket sleeve. A tentacle crawled up Wesker’s bare hand. It had a laconic, leisurely movement to it – fluid as it wound its way serpentine between his fingers. As it grew, it seemed to become more real, distending, and glistening wetly now. A second and a third joined it. Snake-like fronds enveloped Wesker’s arm, until his hand vanished into a dark, writhing mass of tentacles. Chris looked on in horror. Or half of him did at least. The other half throbbed with curiosity.
“Absolutely not,” he grated out, as much to himself as Wesker. Each tentacle seemed to shift with its own independent curiosity, an extension of Wesker’s ever-inquisitive mind.
“You’re sending rather mixed messages,” Wesker remarked, eyes travelling downward.
Chris’s cheeks burned. He reached forward and grabbed the front of Wesker’s jacket. Wesker blinked with faint surprise.
“You’re not coming anywhere near me with that viral freak stuff,” he growled. “Not-… not unless you give me what I want first.”
Wesker frowned. One eyebrow raised, and his lips formed a thin line. He spoke out one side of his mouth.
“And what is it you want?” He had that slight impatience in his voice that was reserved for when he grudgingly allowed someone equal footing.
“Let me touch you,” Chris breathed.
Wesker recoiled.
“Just a little,” Chris clarified. “Just- let me touch your cheek. Let me-…” If he didn’t state what he wanted now, he was sure to never get it. “I want-… to kiss you.”
Wesker was very still. Only his arm slithered, turning endlessly in a disconcerting flurry in the corner of Chris’s eye. After a long moment, Wesker inclined his head.
“Do as you will.”
Chris felt nervous for the first time then. Like he was taking something forbidden. He reached for Wesker, watching carefully to see if he retracted. The man was completely still. Chris’s fingertips hovered millimetres from Wesker’s skin.
“I gave you permission,” Wesker said, intonation flat, and revealing nothing.
Chris still hesitated.
“Do you want it?” he asked him.
Wesker stared at him with his animal eyes. He didn’t answer this time, but he gave a small, very slight nod.
Chris touched his fingers to Wesker’s cheek. He gasped. The skin was hot, like it was running a fever. He wondered for the first time if keeping himself infected with such an aggressive virus took a toll on the man before him. Wesker’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he might be taking any perceived judgement personally. Chris ran his fingers lightly over Wesker’s cheek, touching the hard angles of his face. Wesker was silent. Chris leaned forward. His other hand slipped round the back of Wesker’s head. He brushed his lips very lightly to his. Wesker was still unmoving under his touch.
“Captain,” Chris murmured. “Please...”
Some of the stiffness melted from Wesker then, and when Chris’s kissed him again, he returned it. It was a hard, brutal kind of kiss, as if from someone unaccustomed to tenderness. Chris shivered anyway, delighting in what he was granted. He was surprised by the joy that sprung up in his chest. He gasped against those lips, and initiated a little more pressure. Wesker stirred uncertainly, but Chris kissed him deeper. He wanted Wesker to see that passion. He wanted him to see that even as a human, he’d been adored. He wondered if it was possible with a single kiss to convey to someone that there was perfection in them without the need for improvement.
“Presumptuous,” Wesker said against his lips. He sounded a little breathless, and less his in-control self. A single, white-blond hair had sprung loose and hung over his brow.
“You’re enough like this,” Chris murmured. “You’re brilliant enough. You don’t need more.”
“You’re not in much of a position to judge,” Wesker drawled. His lips quirked into a half smile. “Not yet, leastwise.”
Something cool and slick touched Chris’s thigh. He tensed and his eyes flew open. Air caught in his throat. A black tentacle slid across his skin and wrapped about the base of his cock. Chris let out a high, undignified noise.
“Deal’s a deal, Redfield.”
Chris’s hands slipped down to curl in Wesker’s lapels, bunching to fists there. He moaned as a tendril snaked lower, toying with him, before threading between his thighs.
“Could a human do this?” Wesker hissed, soft in his ear.
The tendril slid up further, and pressed wetly against his entrance. Chris gave a choked moan, knuckles turning white. His head tilted back, trying to silence himself as the alien feel of those curling tendrils slithered sensitive over him. He looked up at Wesker with his legs weak and eyes blown. His lips parted dryly and mouthed a word.
“Can’t hear you,” Wesker said, with malicious delight.
“Please…” Chris gave.
“What is it you want?” The flat monotone that was delivered in was driving Chris mad.
Chris tried to sink onto the tendril that was circling him. Wesker kept it just out of his reach.
“Wesker…” Chris grated. He gripped harder onto his coat.
“Oh? Interested in my research now? Not a conventional way to demonstrate the beneficial properties of superior anatomy, but if this is what it takes for you to understand the potential of Uroboros to-”
“Wesker!”
Wesker paused, stalled in his speech. Then he sunk into a dark smile.
He sent a tendril up into Chris, sinking it into him. Chris’s lips parted and a gasp stopped in his throat. Warmth, slick and pliant, slunk deeper into him. His toes curled in his boots at the slight, sweet burn of that stretch and fullness. He rocked into the contact, fingers tightening in Wesker’s lapels. A second tentacle slid across his skin, wet against his inner thighs, and nosed at his tight flesh before worming its way in next to the first. It pressed up inside him, stretching and brushing against his walls, seeking him out, discovering him, just as Wesker’s fingers had studied his mouth earlier. As a third tendril made itself known, teasing him before it too thrust in, Chris’s eyes rolled up. His breath came in scattered gasps, heart thundering at the ache and the way he was methodically probed.
He became aware of Wesker’s other arm tight about his shoulders, helping him keep his feet. Wesker’s expression was intent, curious, like it got when he was reading a particularly interesting lab report. Chris looked dimly up at him, trying to focus on those hard features. Wesker’s lip quirked in amusement as he watched Chris try and summon some lucidity. He demolished the attempt by grinding his tendrils in slow, twisting movements inside him, spreading Chris enough for him to see stars.
Chris flung his arms around Wesker’s neck, heedless of the other man’s momentary affront.
“More,” he got out roughly.
A smile returned lightning fast to Wesker’s lips. He obliged, and began to work Chris harder. He found a point that made Chris whimper, and immediately every thrust thudded with pin-point accuracy into that cluster of nerves, detonating chains of euphoria throughout Chris’s body. Chris’s world narrowed to just snapshots of sensation – the racketing tempo that he was taken; the sweat from his own brow, salty on his tongue; the thick heat of those tentacles, running their feverish warm through him. He pressed his forehead to Wesker’s shoulder, panting through used lips. Tendrils spread across him like a root network, tightening about his cock, dragging down over each ridge and crease, teasing at his tip, threading about his thighs, even meandering up under his armour, to finger at his chest.
Chris clung to Wesker, skin soaked and limbs trembling as his pleasure mounted. The grip on Chris’s shoulders tightened to become painful. Chris threw back his head wantonly. Each thrust came hard, fast, merciless, and as Chris looked up vaguely, he could see those same traits in the eyes above him, studying him with a penetrating, fanatic interest, and a smile almost deranged.
In amidst the bombardment of scattered sensation, a distant thought blossomed in the back of Chris’s mind. He did understand part of Wesker’s ambition. Not the uncaring brutality, but his vision of himself – altering into something different. This virus wasn’t just a corruption, it was a part of him. There was Wesker in the explorative, intent study of Chris’s body; and Wesker in the way he delighted in finding that one precise point that made Chris cry out his name; and Wesker in the way that intimacy could never be devoid of analysis and ambition and power.
Soon Wesker was the only thing keeping Chris on his feet, holding him firmly upright as he fucked him. Chris could no longer string together cogent thoughts, or control the littering of half-formed words and vocal cries that were wrung from him. He didn’t know his body could feel this good, or be made to feel this many things at once. He was close, very close, and so thoroughly worked over that the building orgasm felt like rising floods behind a dam. He clung on, giving himself over to sensation. He was dimly aware of his own voice running his throat hoarse, and Wesker’s name sobbing from his lips. Chris tipped over the edge in a rush, coming almost with a violence. He was pressed tight to Wesker, held close as he choked through a haze of ecstasy and overwhelming stimulation. A rush of release washed through him, cleansing him of tight tension and buzzed stimulation. Energy sapped out of him. He sagged, and hung limp in Wesker’s hold.
There was leather against his cheek, and stars in the dark sky. A hand threaded into his hair, part soft, part tugging, controlling. There were murmured words close to his ear. The embossed leather of Wesker’s coat was still under his palms as Chris held onto him.
Gradually, Chris could hear his own breathing again, quaking with each pull. Damp hair was strewn across his forehead. Wesker attended to it by pulling a blunt nail through it, and combing it off to one side. Chris shifted slightly. He could feel a slippery fullness still inside him. Wesker drew out of him slowly. There was a sound of wet suction, and fronds slithered back over Chris’s skin. Wesker made no effort to do so without sliding against everywhere Chris was oversensitive. Chris cursed and bit back broken moans as Wesker’s lingering touch slunk over him.
He ached once he was empty. Everything ached. The bruises from their fight earlier were nothing to the new ways that Wesker had made him ache. Everything was sensitive and a soft void of throbbing, persistent pain. Chris groaned. He tipped his forehead onto Wesker’s shoulder, utterly exhausted. The muscles on his arms and in his thighs stood out, trembling.
“Perhaps you’d keep up with me a little better with some fine tuning,” Wesker said lowly. “I’ve manufactured plenty of viral samples and could spare a few for a project I’m very interested in.”
The guy really knew how to bury his compliments.
“I can keep up just fine,” Chris grated, not trusting himself to carry his own weight just yet. He focussed on trying to find his breathing and steady it. Sweat was cooling on the back of his neck and turning clammy.
“Hmm,” Wesker hummed, entertained by that. “Interesting direction the BSAA are taking their operations. Can’t say I object.”
Something sunk in Chris. He’d well and truly fucked this mission up. Or let Wesker do so.
“You perplex me, Chris Redfield, stalwart supporter of human mediocrity. But I will allow that you have articulated something of interest to me. I thought the human race had exhausted my fascination. But I rather think I’m… finding new angles to explore.”
Chris groaned. Wesker laughed softly.
Chris attempted to refind his balance, shifting his weight so that he wasn’t reliant on Wesker to stand upright. He expected the man to release him the moment there wasn’t a practicality to his hold, but he instead kept him pressed to him, tight and possessive.
Chris stayed quiet, not wanting to break the moment. He turned his head slightly, watching the tentacles on Wesker’s arm with a new awe and carnal appreciation. He watched until they retreated back, revealing a human-looking hand once more.
“I mean it,” Wesker said after a long pause. “I find myself discovering aspects of humanity that still hold my interest. I will revise my formulae, spend more time expanding the genetic requirements for successful viral uptake. Slim the margins of mass extermination.”
Chris was not in the headspace for this.
“Expecting me to be pleased?” Chris asked, irritably. He’d wanted a few more minutes where he could bask in the blissful, braindead aftermath of being fucked so hard his legs were jelly. He did not want to think about the more genocidal elements of Wesker’s character right now.
“Hm? What?” Wesker glanced down at him. Chris sighed between his teeth. Wesker hadn’t even considered him. “No, merely musing out loud about some curiosities you raise. It’s an annoyance to be set back some years, but perfection cannot be rushed. The human race is a tenacious thing. No doubt even if it’s wracked by a biohazardous apocalypse, I will still have ample to work with. You may scurry home to your superiors and let them know you… talked down Dr Albert Wesker, for now.”
“Talked down…” Chris echoed.
“Well, I shan’t object should you wish to share any details-”
“Talked down is just fine.”
“Each to their own. I intend to write a thorough report on you.”
Chris pulled back, anxiety threading through his expression.
“A private report,” Wesker added. Chris still looked deeply sceptical. Wesker leant in and murmured close to his ear. “Believe me, you’ll want me analysing the encounter. I’m going to be very well prepared in advance of our next meeting.”
Chris’s cheeks darkened to a deep red and his eyes lit with a hedonistic lust that matched Wesker’s own. A smile curled on Wesker’s lips to see it. He drew back, releasing Chris and sweeping a glance over him.
“Might want to put that away.” Wesker nodded at him.
Chris lurched to tuck himself away and zip up his flies. His only small vengeance came in noticing his emission, stark white against Wesker’s black leather trousers. Wesker’s gaze followed his, and he tutted in annoyance. He jerked his chin.
“Get going. I have a variety of inconveniences to clear up.”
Chris’s eyes went to his handgun lying on the floor. He hesitated.
“Or if you want a fight, you’re welcome to proceed,” Wesker said, following his gaze. “I can’t promise I’ll be so gentle this time though.”
“Not looking for a fight,” Chris said quickly. He could barely stand. Things hurt that he didn’t even know could hurt. Not the time to be crossing anybody, let alone Wesker. “Just-… hard to believe you’re really going to delay your plans. Feels like the kind of thing you might say to send me on my way before you commit a war crime.”
Wesker’s lip twitched in annoyance.
“Then stay at my side. Just don’t get in my way.”
Chris frowned. If he stuck around until back up got here, then he’d at least be in a position to ensure there was no imminent risk of Wesker’s plans coming to fruition.
Wesker had turned from him and was striding across the hangar. Chris hurried to catch up with him. He winced as he tried to keep pace. He was going to be concocting wild tales to cover up these bruises.
“Teach me as I monitor you,” Chris demanded.
“I told you, I have nothing more to teach.”
“Not tactical combat. Viruses. I want to understand.”
“Go find a night class.”
“Aren’t you a world-leading expert? Surely there won’t be a night class that can come close to learning from you.”
Wesker gave him an irritated glance. His glasses were still off though, and Chris could read the almost imperceptible crease about his eyes, like something had pleased him.
Wesker jerked his head again, summoning Chris to his side.
“What do you know about RNA viruses?”