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The first time Wesker startled you, he had just departed the lab for the night. You offered to stay late and clean the glassware while he went home, wanting to impress as it was still your first month working as his fellow. Once you believed he was gone, you threw headphones on and began to blast rock to keep yourself awake as you washed up for the evening. The combination of screeching guitars and running water meant you didn’t hear when he came back in to the office space connected to the lab. He paid you no mind, he was just here for his keys as farewells had already been exchanged for the night. You never would have noticed he returned if you hadn’t looked over to place a beaker in the dish rack.
Call it being jumpy, high-strung, skittish—the exact wording didn’t matter—your whole life your startle reflex couldn’t parse the difference between creaking floorboards and a charging bear. Not expecting to see anyone standing in the office so late, you flinch when you notice the mysterious figure looming in the dim light. A high-pitched yelp is pulled from you, the beaker in your hand slipping from your grasp, pieces shattering across the floor. You freeze, staring at him, eyes wide and the sound of blood rushing in your ears as your heartrate skyrocketed.
Wesker, unprepared for this reaction out of you, is surprised by the breaking glass and looks over to the noise. Up until this point you had been nothing but calm and level-headed, even under pressure; it was part of why he hired you. Unbeknownst to you, his interest was piqued by this new reflex you demonstrated for him.
Once you have a beat to notice his face, you realize who it is and proceed to go into a panic, hurrying for the dustpan and broom in the corner while rambling out apologies. “I am so sorry, oh my god. So so sorry you just—I thought you went home! I didn’t even hear you come back, shit that went everywhere.” You bend down to start cleaning up the mess, still bumbling over your words when Wesker finally cuts you off.
“I didn’t take you to have the constitution of a prey animal, quite the opposite in fact.” He muses. You can’t tell what he means by that, but you’re pretty sure it isn’t good for you.
You force a laugh, unsure of how he expected you to respond. “Uh, ha yeah no, I-I’m not usually like this really. I think I’m just tired. I cannot express how sorry I am it won’t happen again, sir.” You insist. Wesker studied you for a moment before he hummed, grabbed his keys, and left you to finish cleaning your mess without another word. Despite your assertion, it would in fact happen again.
The second time you got spooked you were rushing through the library doors, lost in thought trying to organize the stack of papers that took fighting with the campus printers for half an hour to obtain. You went to open the door with your hip as your hands were full, but instead of feeling the hard wooden door, you collide with something much warmer and almost as solid. The sound that escapes you can only be described as an “eep”, this time you at least manage to clutch on to your papers instead of letting them fly across the floor like the beaker just a few days earlier.
A low chuckle vibrates above you, “Easy, little rabbit; I don’t bite.” You look up, face heating when you see Wesker looming above you, bodies still pressed against each other in the cramped entryway. You told yourself it was from the embarrassment of walking face first into your boss, not the pet name he used or being close enough to feel the warmth emanating from him.
“Shit—sorry I um...what?” You stutter, taking a step back both to allow him to enter and to create some much needed space. You clip the papers together and cram them into your bag, deciding they could be sorted when you weren’t in active motion. He follows through the doorway, pausing once inside to observe you.
“Not fight, not flight, you simply....freeze.” He states, voice analytical. Even with his gaze being filtered through the sunglasses you swear you can feel his eyes bore through you. There is the faintest smile on his lips; you could count on one hand how many times you had seen that since you started working for Wesker. Something about the sight only made your pulse faster, still racing from the fright of expecting a door and instead receiving a man’s torso.
“Yeah—I guess I do.” You breathe out.
“Not the most effective instinct once you are already spotted, dear.” He declares, walking off as if there was nothing weird about what just transpired. You stand near the doorway for a moment, trying to piece together what the hell that was. It felt like you were being assessed, but on what metric you hadn’t a clue. An alarm on your phone breaks you from your stupor. You had a meeting to attend, the whole reason you were in the library to begin with. You chalk up the interaction to being an awkward but fleeting moment and push through the entryway, getting on with your day.
While the first two times he startled you were wholly accidental, the same could not be said for the third instance. You were eating lunch in the lab’s office space, scrolling through social media when you should have been working. Wesker decides it’s the perfect opportunity to test a theory he has been turning over in his head. He stalks behind your chair, unnoticed as you’re sucked in by the dopamine machine in front of you. Something rests on your shoulder, assertive yet gentle. You jump in your chair at the unexpected contact, but don’t move from where you sit—frozen again. Peering up you’re met by that same piercing look as in the library.
“You should pay more attention to your surroundings whilst slacking. Wouldn’t want to get caught again, little rabbit.” It almost sounds like a joke, but the way his voice drips makes it feel more like an unspoken promise. You fail to respond, reeling, and earn a prompting squeeze of his hand.
“I just wanted a break from thinking about turbo-cancer-causing chemicals.” You manage to compose yourself enough despite the searing contact to quip back and his head tilts. Whatever little game he decided to play with you, it’s clear he’s enjoying himself. “I’ll uh, get back to work though. Have some emails to send...” You trail off, unsure how to proceed with his hand still sitting heavy against your skin. This was the first time Wesker chose to touch you. Sure you bumped into each other here and there, recently even, but he had refrained from intentional contact—he didn’t even bother shaking hands when you first met.
The moment doesn’t last long, however, as Wesker removes his hand and nods, “Very good. Better now than let a task like that eat into your laboratory time.” At this point the whiplash you had from these conversations was worse than getting startled. You knew that Wesker was...eccentric when you signed on to be his fellow—his infamy among students proceeded him. Still, none of the professor reviews online could have prepared you for what actually working with the man looked like.
“Yeah, of course.” You mumble as he walks back to his desk, wasting no time getting back to work himself. You decide to pull out your laptop; at least this way you can appear busy even if your mind is preoccupied questioning what the hell next two years of your life was about to entail. That felt like another test, but at least it appeared he was pleased with the results. The thought of him being happy with whatever determination he made about you felt...good—maybe a bit too good. Of course he was happy with you, he chose to hire you, but it’s hard to get as far in academia as you had without being a bit of a teacher’s pet. His new nickname for you was undeniably inappropriate, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The sweet taste of praise never dulled across your academic career, even when you weren’t sure why you were getting it—much less if you should be getting it.
While it didn’t appear that Wesker turned spooking you into a habit, he made no effort to hide his amusement with a patronizing purr of “little rabbit” each time it did happen. He didn’t need to try and startle you, it was inevitable, which only seemed to make the whole thing more entertaining to him. Each time you felt a confusing mix of embarrassment at your skittishness and warmth at how your reactions pleased Wesker. You knew it was pathetic, clawing for crumbs of his approval, but the attention was intoxicating. Even the accompanying shame began to make your head swim in a delicious, bleary way. What was really pathetic, though, was how you swore there was genuine fondness in his actions. It was desperate and immature at best, unprofessional at worst to even imagine. But when Wesker began to use the pet name outside of what he dubbed your “rabbit” moments, it became futile to try and stop the fantasies.