Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Today’s working shift was probably one of the most boring so far. Being stuck in the office for the whole day, doing mostly nothing, felt meaningless. There was not a case to work on, not even a trifling one; pushing papers around and filling out tedious forms on previous missions was the only thing available at the moment and it was horrific. As an addition to that, the weather was terribly hot, slowly melting everyone’s brains. It was the middle of July, after all, and the sun, hanging high above like a big yellow yolk, scorched everything below as if Raccoon City was located in Hell. And, as if conditions weren’t terrible enough, the S.T.A.R.S. office didn’t have a proper conditioner to ease everyones’ suffering. Alpha team has been on their captain’s heels for a whole week straight, begging him to force Irons, this terrible man, to spare some money on improving their working conditions. Easier said than done. The chief not only refused to fulfill this request, referring to ‘not wasting the budget on such trifles’, but also managed to piss the ‘always unflappable’ Wesker off to such a degree that the man locked himself in his office ‘till the end of the shift. The intimidating aura Wesker oozed was so strong it spooked away the desire to check on him even from the bravest (or dumbest) member of S.T.A.R.S., mainly Chris. 

It was also strictly forbidden to bring a personal hand fan for each member, so as not to ruin the already old wiring (Wesker threatened to skin each of them alive personally if they mess with it and he’ll be forced to bring this issue to Irons). The single fan at their disposal was making the whole squad to share it just to feel the blessed touch of cool breeze on their skin. The working schedule for the day was doomed to turn into a wild race back and forth, tearing officers between the fan and their desks. Once in a while their captain would walk out of his office to chew them all out for this behavior, but even his scolding was deprived of any usual enthusiasm. He himself must've felt horrible due to this unbearable heat, no less than the others.

Being in the S.T.A.R.S. office nowadays felt like slowly boiling in a cauldron. Even Wesker’s little fan, standing on his working desk didn't seem to help him much. The man had to wear his uniform all the time (unlike some people, who paraded around the RPD station in casual clothes), and by the end of the day he always excused himself to go visit the locker room and change his soaked-sweaty shirt to something more decent looking (Wesker always got anxious about looking unkempt, and this weather wasn't making it easier for him to keep himself in check). He, in general, seemed to endure the heat poorly. Long time ago, Chris noticed that whenever Alpha team has been sent on a mission on a hot, sunny day, their captain was doomed to get sunburns- and that's despite the fact that he clearly used an expensive sunscreen to prevent such an aftermath. That must've been the fate of all people with light hair and sensitive skin. Clair, Chris' dear sister, always ended up looking like a tomato, even after a short promenade, if she dared to wear something more revealing outside.

Today, early in his working shift, Captain Wesker left for a meeting. He would probably return in a foul mood again, as it often happened when he was forced to spend time with his colleagues and Chief Irons specifically for more than five minutes. Still, in his absence Alpha team finally gained a rare chance to relax.

Despite a bunch of unfinished reports and unsigned papers, occupying half of his table, Chris was lazily leaning on the back of his chair, legs resting on the edge of the desk, strumming an easy tune on his guitar. His olive S.T.A.R.S. shirt was unbuttoned the whole way down in an attempt to let a light chill cool his hot sweaty skin. 

“Stop goofing around, Chris. Wesker will be back soon, and you haven't even started to work yet,” Jill shook her head dismissively, not even looking up from another one of her countless reports. She, unlike Redfield, didn’t have the desire to be stuck in the office after the end of her shift with this boring paperwork because she was too carefree to finish everything on time.

“Oh c’mon! Give me a break. In such heat my brain refuses to cooperate," Redfield complained and, closing his eyes, plunged into a quiet strumming again.

“As if it’s only today,” Valentine muttered under her breath, but then added louder, “Wesker will kick your ass and will be rightful to do so. After those shenanigans of yours in the gym last week, you and Forest better behave like two good little boys, otherwise Irons will suspend your sorry asses out of S.T.A.R.S. in a blink of an eye. He already despises you two, don't you know? Don’t give him another reason to vote you off,” she warned his friend, her index finger outstretched in a lecturing manner. Despite her young age, Jill seem to act much older than her frivolous friends. “You know, one could say you like being scolded by Wesker. You walk into his office like it’s a party," she added then with a sly grin, finally looking up from her papers.

Across from her, Frost bit on his lip, to suppress a laugh. These jokes about Wesker and Chris kind of being love-birds reached even the Bravo team by this point (which probably was Forest’s fault since he never missed the opportunity to tease Chris). Despite the captain of Alpha team ignoring those silly jokes, acting chill like an iceberg, and Chris simply snapping back every time somebody tried to tease him about it, people around still refused to drop this topic for good. They were making fun of Redfield at every available opportunity.

“Jeez man, you even bought yourself sunglasses to look just like Wesker!” Frost couldn’t help but note jokingly. “Watch out, dude, if you’ll be spending too much time with this man, you’ll turn into an Aryan boy, I swear!”

Laughter rippled through the office, and even Barry, who was much older and wiser than these pranksters and usually avoided plunging into their gossip routine, chuckled at the comment. 

“A man gets his sunglasses in a fight, Frost. Unlike you with your bandana. I bet it was a birthday gift from your mommy," Redfield responded in feigned seriousness, mimicking Wesker's British accent, and shook his head sharply so that his black raybans, previously located on his forehead, landed exactly on the bridge of his nose. The young man immediately flipped them upside down to increase a comical effect.

Under everyone’s snikering, Chris got up from his seat and, setting his guitar deliberately in a corner, moved towards Joseph, who was slightly offended by the man’s previous mocking comment about his headdress. Reaching Joseph’s desk, Redfield ostentatiously smoothed his hair down (he'd seen Wesker do such a thing several times and just couldn't help but copy this gesture himself) and was instantly rewarded with another wave of chuckles for such a good parody.

“Frost, don't you have better things to do at work than engage in pointless conversations?” Redfield continued to mess around, as he paced back and forth the office with his hands folded. "Disappointing," The brunet stated sternly, making Jill giggle. She recognized their captain's favorite catchphrase right away, the one he always used to put some poor souls into shame.

Chris, noticing her reaction, furrowed and headed to her place. "Miss Valentine," Redfield addressed Jill, smugly noting to himself that she was already on the edge of bursting into laughter, her tightly pressed lips trembling violently. "I didn't expect such behavior from you. It's predictable to expect some slovenliness from these idiots, but from you... Disappointing," Chris clicked his tongue and brought this catchphrase again, making Jill choke on her breath. 

"Sorry, Cap," Valentine giggled." I'll try my best!" And then she saluted him jokingly, making Redfield drop his façade for a second and let out a quiet chuckle of his own.

Though, quickly regaining composure, the young man added with a more stern voice this time, "I, as a self-proclaimed Mr. Perfection of this police station, will make all of you polish the floors of our foyer with a toothbrush as a punishment for your unbearable behavior. I couldn't imagine finding more lazy morons even if I tried! My sunglasses serve me better than you!" Chris kept with his feigned scolding, smug from his own jokes.

Suddenly, he noticed that a mutual laughter faded, turning into an awkward silence, which made his distorted nasal voice stand out even more. Lowering his eyes at Jill, he caught her alerted gaze, as if she just saw a ghost. 

This sudden change of atmosphere made the man instantly turn around to find out what caused this reaction. After a moment of pure shock, Chris' eyes finally set on Wesker's impervious face, deprived of any emotions to the point it started to get scary. Feeling how blood quickly drained from his face and his throat became dry like a desert, Redfield opened his mouth to at least try to justify himself. However, his gaping mouth quickly slammed shut as the captain’s slender pale fingers reached his face. The blond man leisurely took the marksman's sunglasses from his face and, turning them upside-down, put them back.

"This is how you wear glasses, Christopher," he said in an icy-cold tone, those pale blue eyes digging a hole in Redfield’s forehead.

"Captain- '' Chris tried to speak again, surprised by how tiny and miserable his voice sounded after he nearly jumped out of his skin due to Wesker's sudden appearance. The blonde stopped him with a gesture of his gloved hand.

"You finished your reports for today, I assume? Why else would you be fooling around in such an indecent appearance instead, hm?" The Captain uttered, lowering his gaze at the man's unbuttoned shirt, and his pale brow arched above his glasses. It was just the right moment for Chris to finally recall he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt underneath, walking around half-naked, showing everybody (and especially his superiors) his sculpted tanned torso. Hearing the sound of the wildly pounding pulse in his temples, the young man hurried to button his shirt up nervously, failing to get all those tiny buttons into decent button holes. 

At the same time, the blonde side-eyed Chris' working desk and sighed in feigned disappointment. "Of course I was wrong. This pile of paperwork lays here today as it laid yesterday. And the day before. It was too presumptuous of me to expect a glimpse of responsibility from you. My mistake," and yet again, Wesker brought his gaze back to Redfield’s face, pinning him to the spot with his scolding. Chris, currently being on the edge of burning out of shame, prayed to all known gods to be finally left alone. 

Seeing that his "enemy's spirit has been lowered to the desired point", Wesker's lips stretched in a ghostly smirk and the man, pleased with the result, headed to his office. However, before closing the door behind him, he added, "Even though I'm flattered to be called Mr. Perfection , recalling your words, my sunglasses indeed serve me better than you sometimes, Redfield. I'll let you go home today after you finish all of your paperwork, not a minute earlier. And I will personally trace your progress."

After the door finally closed, Chris sighed heavily (as if someone let all of the air out of the balloon at once) and headed to his desk, his knees trembling. 

The pile of unfinished paperwork, which could compete with mt. Everest by its height, was simply enormous and even if Redfield starts to work right now, he'd probably finish all of his business no earlier than midnight. 

"Trace it himself, sure." Chris muttered under his breath, taking his glasses off and throwing them away on the table with such an annoyance as if this trinket was guilty of all the world's diseases.

"I told you to start working," Jill shrugged casually and then quickly added, "You're lucky, though. The captain still went easy on you after the shitshow he was witnessing for God knows how long."

"Well, you don't seem to be happy about that," Chris pointed out resentfully. "I was entertaining you! You could stand up for me, at least."

Jill snorted. "Oh, no-no-no. This is your own fault, don't you dare to blame this fuck-up on us."

Then, Valentine got back to her paperwork, further ignoring the scorching gaze and angry puffing at her left.

"Wesker loves you, dude, and that’s why he wants you to stay up late," Frost suddenly teased. "Told you, they are love-birds! You can't prove me wrong. Once we leave for the night, they’ll lock themselves in his office and then-”

Under the united resounding laughter, Chris rolled his eyes, although the little smile did stretch his lips nonetheless. 

Chapter Text

The moment he saw how a wide, ominous grin started to bloom on Frost’s face, Chris realized he would not get away with this easily. Today was the first joint training of the Alpha and Bravo teams in a long time, and the joy of hanging out together was sparkling in the air of RPD's gym like a Christmas ornament. After an hour or so of running, crouching and pulling up on bars, members of both squads, tired and sweaty, took their seats on the various mats scattered around, enjoying their hard-earned break-time. Chris instantly plopped down on his ass, massaging his slightly sore knee. He managed to trip over his own leg while walking home from the grocery store a few days ago. The minor injury may not have felt so upsetting if not for the fact that the young man landed exactly on his bag with groceries, squishing and breaking everything that was inside. He had to go shopping for the second time later, wasting additional money to re-buy the most needed things.

Jill carefully took her seat near him, panting heavily after her sparring with Wesker. She insisted on the captain being her training partner, referring to the others as being 'not so challenging'. Now, rubbing her sore ribs with a slight scowl, she decided to finally rest like the others.

Almost instantly, Frost and Forest, Chris' disastrous friends, appeared on the horizon, discussing something in a lively manner. Before Redfield managed to ask what amused them so much, Frost threw a pack of old game cards on the mat in front of him. Chris eyed them with suspicion, and then, leaning on his elbows, gave both men a puzzled look. "What's that all about?"

"You in? Wanna have a round while all of us here sitting on our asses, doing absolutely nothing?" Joseph offered, lowering his body on the ground with a senile groan. He began to shake the cards out of the pack with a mischievous smile creeping on his lips.

Chris mentally thanked God that Frost wasn't going to show them another of his cringe magic tricks (for now, at least), but still couldn’t help but tense from the ghastly foreboding of totally regretting consenting to participate in this game. 

And oh, how right he was! When the cards had been dealt to everyone, and Redfield eyed them to think over the victorious strategy, he realized that only a pure blessing from Heaven would make it possible for him to win. This victory wouldn't be so vital for Chris (he could deal with losing any other day), if only Forest didn't suggest playing on wishes earlier. Why Redfield agreed on these terms was beyond his understanding; Claire always said her big silly brother was too presumptuous in everything he signed up for. This day came; Redfield’s smug behavior was finally going to bite him in the ass.

Now, after his shameful, but expected failure, seeing how his victorious friends were exchanging glances, trying to come up with the most horrific, embarrassing and nasty punishment their twisted minds could only give birth to, Chris couldn't help but groan in frustration. He believed the guys wouldn't make him run around the police station in his birthday suit (though they did make him run around his apartments naked once), but at this exact moment he deeply doubted if stripping was the most cruel thing they would wish for. At least, the sparks of devilish fire in Frost’s eyes were giving the man chills.

"How about complimenting the chosen person for the whole week straight? That would be fun, and lovely," Jill was the first to suggest. Hearing her offer, Redfield was ready to break up in tears, thanking her inwardly for this harmless wish. Complimenting sounds like a good thing, he can handle it easily.

"You mean, awkward, cringe compliments?" Forest added with a smirk. Chris immediately gave him a stern look, threatening to kill the man with that directed malice in his eyes (if they were living in the X-man universe, Redfield would have already made a hole in Speyer's head with his laser eyes).

"Yeah, why not?" Valentine agreed, shrugging. "I'm sure it would come out naturally for you, Chris," she added mockingly, hinting on his 'oh not so clever' tongue. 

That clarification made the man curl his lips in offense, despite everyone enjoying this joke. "Very funny, Jill," the pointman muttered under his breath irritably. "Let's get it over with already. Who do you suggest as my victim?"

The answer was pretty obvious; it resonated in Chris' head, ringing all the alarm bells along the way. The sound of the most undesirable name rolled from Frost’s tongue like a curse.

"Wesker," the man in the bandana grinned widely, and the other members of this small 'gamblers club' started to hoot in anticipation. 

"Not him!" Redfield yelled before properly recalling that all of them were still sitting in the gym, full of other people, under the supervision of both captains. When the realization hit him, he turned around anxiously, spotting a few confused glances indeed locked on him. Captain Marini, who was chatting with Barry this whole time, shook his head in disapproval and brought his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. Wesker's eyes were on Chris too, those pale brows arched slightly above the 'always-present' black shades, and that made the young marksman feel even more stupid, quickly turning away. He then dropped his voice to merely a whisper and said in pleading tones, "Not him. Guys, I know you like making fun of me on this term, but it's not the right time. He'll fire me for that!"

"Don’t be dramatic! He likes you," Frost kept taunting him. 

Redfield was already on the edge of ripping the hair on his head; he was so desperate, seeing that his stubborn friends won't give up on this horrible idea even if he pleaded standing on his knees. 

"No, he doesn't. It's your pervert imagination talking. If you want me out of this department so eagerly, you could just say it straight," Redfield pointed out with a deep scowl.

"I bet he won't even notice you talking to him, so just relax," Forest noted then, and before any of them could say another word in this discussion, both captains stepped in the middle of the gym, inviting people to return to their training. 

They didn't raise that topic for the rest of the day, and the next day too, but a silent expectation of Chris keeping his word and accepting his punishment was hanging uncomfortably in the S.T.A.R.S. office the whole time. At the end of the day, taking a deep breath, Redfield resigned that there was nothing scary in complementing his boss, after all. The man deserved a good treatment, as the good leader he was, even if his employees were deeply intimidated just by being in the same room with him most of the time.

Monday .

Chris decided to go with something light for the start. Despite refusing to make awkward compliments in the first place, as Forest originally suggested, the young marksman still wasn't sure he would handle it other than just being himself (read: cringe ). From the very morning his head was overloaded with calculations of how to compliment Wesker without making himself look like a fool (or like he suddenly got a man-crush on his Cap, which WASN'T true). The variations of praises in the marksman's head all sounded extremely goofy; the poor man could only sigh bitterly. 

The perfect time for speaking up came when Redfield went to the coffee machine and found Wesker standing there, near the table with napkins and disposable cups, running through some papers attached to his clipboard and sipping his morning coffee.

"Morning, sir," Chris mumbled, mentaly preparing himself for the round of praising. The blonde side-eyed him suspiciously and hummed into his cup. He was a bit tense around his pointman these days, as if suspecting that the young man had something on his mind.

An awkward silence hung between men, interrupted only by a rustling sound of Wesker's documents and boiling water in a kettle. Redfield, thoughtfully mixing sugar with coffee powder in his cup, sneaked a glance at his captain, marveling at man's ability to look that good in the morning. Every day. Every time. It felt like a congenital superpower. And, being carried by the waves of this thought, without a second delay he uttered, "It amazes me, how well-kept you look all the time. When I look at myself in the morning, I see only a gorilla that escaped from the zoo."

The next thing he heard was Wesker choking on his coffee and then coughing hoarsely, trying to get the unwanted liquid out from his lungs. His eyes were wide behind his shades, and the stare he gave Chris was full of pure astonishment. The young marksman would have laughed at that priceless expression, bloomed on Wesker's face, if not for the feeling like the ground was going to spread under his feet to devour his poor sinful soul.

"What did you just say?" The blond asked hoarsely, fully turning to face Redfield. His voice has never been so emotional until this moment, and Chris couldn't tell if it was a good sign or a bad one.

He decided to sneak out with his drink before finding that out. Mumbling 'Nothing, sir' , he cowardly retreated to his desk under the mutual chuckling of the ones from Alpha team who had witnessed this shameful scene.

For the rest of the day Wesker was stuck in his office, throwing heavy, gloomy glances in Chris' direction every time he recalled the morning accident. People, watching his behavior from afar, were slightly concerned about Captain Wesker's unusually distracted behavior.

Tuesday  

They were crowding in a shooting range room, each waiting their turn to show their progress. Redfield, winning a trophy and being considered as the best marksman among others in the RPD, was the first one to pass all needed tests without even breaking into sweat. He now sat in the corner, lazily watching his colleagues practicing. Jill and Forest joined him shortly, showing 'better than average' skills as well. Redfield didn't doubt them for a second, training with these two a few times a week, and seeing their strides himself. 

They were chatting about random stuff when Wesker took his position in front of one of the targets with that unflappable expression of his, wearing protective earpieces on his head. The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up, showing his pale sculpted forearms, and his palms, firmly holding his modified 'Samurai Edge', were gloved as usual. Wesker emptied the clip of his pistol without even blinking and then, when the shooting was over, lowered his slightly fuming gun down with a scrutiny gleaming in his narrowed eyes.

"I bet he thinks he looks like James Bond right now," Frost whispered humorously into Chris' right ear, startling the man. 

"Well, it's close to the truth. I mean, he's a good shot," Forest noted with a shrug and started to get up, hearing how Captain Marini asked everyone to collect their paper targets.

While sharing his results with others, receiving praises and rare envious glances, Chris managed to sneak a peek at Wesker's paper. The captain's aim was impressive, each bullet hole located in the center of the target or near it. Redfield hummed in approval, giving the target another appraising glance. He didn't get a chance to compliment Wesker yet (the guys have been waiting for this moment the whole day, like sharks waiting for blood), and it felt like the perfect timing to do so was now. The only thing left was not to screw up, blurting out nonsense as he did yesterday.

Other operatives, who were now also aware of this small arrangement, have been grinning at him from their places like a pack of hyenas, pushing him closer to the blond captain and goading him to catch his moment of luck. Brushing them off with annoyance, Redfield took a deep breath and moved to Wesker, throwing heavy glances at his wildly anticipating friends. Chris circled the man and, taking the blonde's target in his hand, finally uttered, trying to sound as casual as possible: "Holly shit, Captain! Your shooting results are so impressive, you should give me a few lessons one day."

Then, an awkward silence followed; Wesker eyed his paper target, deeply puzzled, as if seeing it for the first time in his life, and then fixed his gaze on Redfield’s face with unhidden suspicion. He couldn’t quite understand if his subordinate was mocking him with this 'false praise' or did he truly get fascinated by his skills. At least, the blonde himself didn't see anything so outstanding in it to react in such an impressed tone. So, to put himself in a 'safe zone', he just uttered quietly, 'Thank you, Christopher' , indifferently and coldly as always, and without another word headed to the locker room.

Chris' friends were all giggling by this time, amused by the precious childish rapture resonating in Redfield’s voice. The marksman eyed them gloomily, immediately rolling his eyes in annoyance. They can make fun of him now, but it won't last long. On friday he'll be free from this arrangement and then they would be willing to go fuck themselves.

"Wanna see his gun in private, Chris? Beware, he has a larger caliber than you. Don't bend over for shells," Frost said with a nasty smirk, and every person, still present in the room, howled from laughter.

Wednesday . 

The shift was almost over, but Chris still couldn't get a proper chance to compliment his captain as was agreed. The man, acting aka ghost, was out of the marksman's reach all day. Firstly, he was stuck at the meeting for a good half of an hour, and then, after returning and spotting Redfield behind his desk, Wesker sneaked to his office, previously bypassing his pointman along the widest radius. The blonde was on the phone for another hour or so, talking to someone important, his blinds firmly shut.

It was their break-time, when Redfield got up from his desk to stretch his numb legs. He was wandering through the RPD's foyer when he spotted a group of girl scouts offering people to buy their home-made cookies. The marksman's stomach howled plaintively at the thought of how nice it would be to eat some fresh snacks before returning to pushing papers. The brunet made a few steps towards these girls, taking a crumpled bill out of the pocket of his faded jeans, when he spotted Captain Wesker making his way through the hall as well. The pack of scout-girls moved into his direction, and Redfield simply froze at the spot, intrigued by what would happen next. He was damn sure Wesker would shoo them all away in his usual intimidating manner; however, after hearing the scouts' greeting speech, the blond man unexpectedly slowed down. Wesker hesitated for several seconds, pondering, and then reached for his wallet to buy two biscuit packages. The girls, happy to sell some of their merchandise, thanked him cheerfully and continued their way through the hall.

Chris, still being under an impression of what he had just witnessed, quickly shortened the distance between him and his captain; then, barely holding an amused grin, he said, "You never gave me an impression of a man who likes cookies with, uh-" Redfield quickly peeked at the pouch of biscuits, "strawberry jam."

Wesker, being caught off guard, flinched at his words, though still trying hard to hide his confusion from being spotted doing something- so human-like. He cleared his throat awkwardly and hurried to justify himself, "It’s not for me. For a friend's daughter. She likes sweets."

Wesker's unexpected excuse and the obvious unease on his face looked somehow adorable, so Chris couldn't help but to add, "That's so sweet of you! I bet she'll be happy to receive such a gift."

The captain swallowed hard at his words and, sneaking a quick glance at the hallway he was heading to previously, hurried to say, "Well, yes. Probably. Anyway, I have to go, Redfield. See you at the office."

Well, if for anyone else it didn’t look like a cowardly retreat under the unbearable pressure of embarrassment from being caught actually caring for someone, then in Chris' head it definitely looked like that.

Thursday . 

Everyone was extremely anxious today, right from the very morning. The members of Alpha and Bravo teams were loudly discussing today's special combat training while changing into the proper clothes in the locker room. Nearly a week ago Chief Irons announced that a group of Special Forces from another town was eager to visit RPD, to arrange a small hand-to-hand combat coaching (more likely, to verify how well prepared this famous, elite S.T.A.R.S unit was). 

Lining up, the RPD operatives faced a group of big tough guys in dark clothes standing on the other side of the gym and darting glances full of poorly-hidden arrogance.

"They don't seem to be happy meeting us," Richard pointed out, standing at Chris' right. Even such a cheerful person as Aiken wasn't very enthusiastic about the upcoming competition. Too much pressure fell on the S.T.A.R.S members' shoulders at once. Should they fail, both Marini and Wesker would wipe them into dust in a split second.

"The feeling is mutual," Chris muttered quietly, narrowing his eyes. More than anything else, he hated interacting with such smug asses like these SWAT guys. He's seen enough of them in the Air Force, discharged from there eventually because of such an attitude. The flashbacks of his serving were more than unwelcomed now.

What distracted him from gloomy thoughts was an actual beginning of the training. Leader of the SWAT team suggested showing everyone a few techniques and called out to the superior captain of the S.T.A.R.S. to assist him in this task. Before Marini could get up from his seat, Wesker stepped on the mat in the middle of the room, his face calm and determined, arms folded on his chest. Chris was surprised to notice that the blonde's usual shades were absent on his face. 

"Huh, aren't you too young to be a captain?" The SWAT leader asked, smirking indulgently from where he stood. He was larger than Wesker, both in height and width, and this fact must've convinced the man he could start celebrating his victory beforehand. 

"Why don't you find it out?" Wesker replied, collected as always. A little smirk appeared in the corner of his lips. The blonde man did look like he hadn't even reached his thirtieth yet, and his young face probably fooled too many people by this point, making him look inexperienced. Chris, having been training with his captain occasionally, knew well that sometimes this man could defeat his opponent in a brief second.

The SWAT guy couldn't predict the outcome of this fight. He ended up firmly on his back, panting from a challenge Wesker gave him. The named man was looming over him, knee on the opponent's chest, looking like a snake ready to attack.

"You bastard! I'm impressed," the defeated operative said with a chuckle, trying to steady his shuddered breath. "Rematch?"

"Sure," Wesker nodded and straightened in one gracious move. 

It wasn't long until the blond captain won again, making an impressive final hip throw and pressing the SWAT man firmly to the mat. Wesker's thin brow was arched in amusement, a hint of smugness replacing his usually indifferent expression. 

This sparring match was accompanied with both S.T.A.R.S squads' loud yells, cheering their captain up and reacting at his every strike. When the second round was finally over, the operatives bursted out with whistles and hooting.

Later, the locker room was buzzing with the sound of people sharing their thoughts on the training and Wesker's impressive combat skills. The named man was calm as usual, silently nodding whenever another of his subordinates praised him. He had already changed into his usual uniform when Chris caught him by the door; the young marksman was still half-dressed, too carried away with chattering with his friends. 

"Captain!" He called out to the man, pushing people off his way as he tried to reach his superior. "Captain! You were so amazing back there. And that throw in the end-! Mmm, bet this jackass will remember it for a long time," Redfield blurted out in excitement. He was ready to receive a usual cold reaction, Wesker nodding at him or just humming in reply.

The blonde was smirking. That was the closest thing to a smile Chris ever saw from his captain, and that took him aback for a second.

But only until Wesker spoke, teasing notes woven into his usual monotone manner of speech, "Do you question my competence in combat skills? You shouldn't," the blonde man adjusted his shades, and before leaving, added, "Isn't it the perfect time for you to ask me to give you a few lessons, Christopher?"

"W-what?" Redfield blinked in confusion, feeling like he's missing something. Then, the realization of Wesker throwing him that exact suggestion, the one pointman voiced out yesterday at the shooting range, made the young man speechless. 

Did...he just joke?

When the blonde was finally gone, the locker room bursted with laughter and whistles. 

"I'm taking bets on when these two will start dating!" Frost yelled over the voices of others with enthusiasm. 

Friday .

It was the last day Chris needed to compliment his captain, but the young man wasn't really sure whether he should do this or not. Something in the blonde's behavior was bothering the young marksman. When the suggestion of praising just came, Redfield imagined Wesker acting indifferent as always, or being a little annoyed with the unwanted attention. No way Chris could predict that the captain would be teasing him back in front of everyone. That felt wrong. Besides bringing an additional reason for both squads to make fun of Chris further, that silly arrangement changed something in the men's interaction with each other. Redfield never considered Wesker as a friend to be joking around, the blonde just never gave these vibes like he could be befriended by his colleagues. Sure thing, Chris respected the man for his competence in everything he was doing, but the teasing was on a whole nother level. Not to mention the age difference. With anybody else it wouldn't be such a problem, but Wesker, despite his actually young face, was giving an impression that you are talking to an old man deprived of any sense of humor. Even the dad jokes. 

It was already far past nine, but the captain didn't show up at his working place yet. Just at the moment when Alpha team started to get worried by a strange absence of their superior, the door of the S.T.A.R.S office opened and the blonde man rushed inside, seemingly deep in his thoughts.

"I apologize for being late today, but I suddenly received an urgent request that needs to be dealt with ASAP," Wesker explained while heading to his private office, and starting to look for something in the drawers of his desk. When he stepped outside, with a stack of papers in his hands, he caught a pack of confused glances examining him from head to toe.

Chris stared too, inspecting his superior’s casual outfit, brows arched above his widened eyes. Wesker, dressed in a dark-gray turtleneck and dress pants, with a long trench-coat on top of it looked surprisingly normal. It seemed now, half of his intimidating aura was caused by his RPD uniform, the quarter - by his shades, and what was left - by the always present scowl on his face. 

"I never expected to see you in casual clothes, since you never hang out with us, Cap," Frost was the first to react, turning in his chair to take a better look at the blond man by the door.

"Well, would you expect me to wear my uniform outside the police station, Frost?" The blonde pointed out with a slight amusement. "That would be weird. Anyway, I'll be back in an hour, try no to ruin the office in my absence."

Wesker was half-outside the room already, when Chris, afraid he would not get another chance to compliment his boss (and also extremely eager to get done with this troublesome punishment looming over him through the whole week and spoiling his sleep), uttered, "The trenchcoat really suits you. Frost is right, we would like to see you outside with us more often."

The Alpha team, already used to Wesker ignoring half of what they were telling him (unless it was something important), was already on their way to return to their duty, when the captain's voice suddenly rang, the man still standing in the doors of the office, "Are you aware that fawning your superiors won't help your promotion, Chris?" The mocking undertone of his voice made everyone (and Redfield in the first place) abruptly raise their heads from what they were doing behind their desks. In the dead silence, Alpha team stared at Wesker in amazement, speechless from what they just heard. Then, these shocked glances slowly shifted and fixed on Chris's face, who was nearly dying from shame putted on him by that idiotic task Jill and Frost gave him.

"Sir-?" Redfield mumbled sheepishly, getting up from his seat on weak legs. Every person in the room could swear that the young man's face was ghostly-pale and bright red at the same time.

"You better stop flirting with me right now, because I'm not set up to get into relationships of any kind with my subordinates," Wesker informed him with the usual clinical calmness of his and then vanished behind the door.

The slam of that door was thunderous-like in complete silence, settled by this awkward scene (at least in Chris's head, deprived from any thoughts, it sounded exactly like this). Jill was the first to burst into laughter, unable to suppress it anymore. Then, the others joined her, almost dying from joy. 

The sound of their mutual laughter hit Redfield like a tsunami, making him choke on his breath, embarrassment and anger driving a lump in his throat.

"Stop fucking laughing, you jerks!" Chris snapped sharply, turning to his friends with a feral expression on his face, dark brows creasing violently. "I'm gonna kill you all when I'm back," he spit out his hollow threat and rushed to the door in desperate hope that Wesker didn't go far.

While the rest of Alpha team were howling from laughter, some wiping their tears, some bending in half from a sudden stomach ache, the pleading voice of Redfield, yelling "Sir! I wasn’t flirting! Please, sir, listen to me-" made the ones, who were still trying to reign their hysterical laughter to reasonable limits, literally wheeze.

Chapter Text

Some people believe in guardian angels, invisible helpers watching people from above, guiding them, keeping them safe from any harm. Chris was deeply convinced that his own angel was more of an overseer in prison, who keeps a close eye on him and brings Heaven's punishment on his head every time he is involved in some kind of trickery. How else could the young marksman explain the miserable situation he got himself into again?

It's been a month since that horrible week, when Redfield made an enormous fool of himself carrying out a shameful punishment his malicious friends had put on him so mercilessly. It cost him a few gray hairs later to convince his captain that he wasn’t trying to hit on him; the team's cruel will was to be blamed for such behavior in the first place. Wesker was unimpressed by this poor excuse, to say the least. Receiving his disappointed sigh and quiet, but firm 'You're an idiot, Christopher' statement felt embarrassing enough to make Redfield avoid any suspicious, risky activities, in which his inventive friends were involved, like a plague. Now, who, if not himself, could he blame for this disastrous fuck-up? Most likely, a few bottles of beer, poured into him 'by force' and an additional shot of gin. Why else would he agree to play 'Truth or Dare' (a definitely dangerous game for his unlucky ass) with his friends after everything he went through? 

At first, things were running smoothly: the questions were innocent, the tasks were rather funny (Chris was deeply enjoying himself while singing the Spice Girls with Frost, both too carried away with fooling around to pronounce the right words). Then, when the partying was nearly over, the stakes suddenly rose and the wishes became spicier. It was Forest’s suggestion that made Chris tense, a bottle of beer stopped half way to his lips.

"Ok, listen up, guys: I bet Chris won't dare to pick Wesker up and carry him around a bit. He is a little chicken shit, he doesn't have the guts to do that!" The Bravo member skillfully imitated the chicken sound, accompanying it with a specific movement of flapping wings. 

Being slightly drunk, Chris completely ignored his 'spidey sense' tickling in the pit of his stomach and begging him not to fall for this bite. He smirked boyishly and, raising his bottle, stated, "A piece of cake! Watch me doing this at our wedding, Speyers. You're invited!"

The comeback reply caused a mutual chuckle. Redfield, too proud over his own joke, still didn't fully realize he just dug himself a deep grave. Only when the laughs faded and Jill's sly voice rang did the young man awaken from his hazy state and a wave of unease, caused by a foreboding of grand trouble, went through his body like a jolt of electricity. 

"So, you agree on these terms then? Awesome! Wesker would be happy to end up in your arms."

"Wait- I didn't sign up for this yet!" Chris was starting to become a little anxious, recognizing those familiar devilish sparks in the friends' eyes. He knew too damn well how everything would end up if he just sat and waited for his fate to come; if he won't drive the conversation away from this dangerous topic, he'll be left with a humiliating task looming over his poor soul. Again.

"Yet! He said 'yet '," Frost pointed out with an amused snort. "So, theoretically you agree. We just need to keep convincing you a little bit longer."

"It doesn't work like this!" Redfield snapped, putting his bottle aside. It was definitely enough drinking for today, based on how the events started to unfold.

"Told you he is a chicken shit," Forest muttered simultaneously with Chris' outraged comment, lazily sipping his own beer. On that, he received a scorching gaze of the deep blue eyes, and the hot discussion resumed. 

Based on the tension of the atmosphere around their table, the company of friends would probably argue until tomorrow morning if not for Frost, closing this topic by giving the pointman a good sobering slap on his back. "C'mon, Redfield, don't be a pussy. '’S a piece of cake' , you said. So, get your shit together and accept your fate as it befits the man! Unless we don’t know something about you, and you hide a pair of tits somewhere here-" Joseph added with a mischievous grin and stretched his hands towards Chris' chest with an expression of a nasty pervert.

The marksman instantly slapped his arms and then pushed the man away with feigned offense. "They're here, don't worry. Just keep your dirty hands off me, you aren't worthy of touching them."

"Yeah-yeah, we all know who's the man of your dreams, Chris. You can thank us for this wonderful opportunity to show him your undying love later," Forest snorted and raised his hand to call the waiter. It was already getting late, and most of them needed to be at the police station tomorrow. No need to prolong this drinking contest further and piss off the captain of Alpha team with their sour faces. The man will have his piece of fun anyway, since Chris 'agreed' on pranking Wesker so kindly.

The next morning Redfield woke up with a headache and a dim recollection of his promise to accomplish the task he was burdened with (rather, his friends tricked him into doing it). Frost, as Chris now vaguely remembered, was the one to volunteer in giving a marksman the exact day and time on when this 'hugging attack' needs to be performed; before Chris could say another word against this horrific choice, Joseph was already deep in his scheming. In the end, Redfield’s co-workers decided that he needed to lift Wesker up as a greeting at the beginning of their tomorrow's shift and hold him for ten seconds in his arms. It was a terrible, ridiculous task, but everyone, except Chris, of course, seemed to be overhyped about it, looking forward to witnessing this embarrassing act. Later, standing in front of the bar's entrance and listening to his friends' childish giggling, brushing off their continuous taunting, Chris was heavily dragging on his cigarette; in his head, he anxiously sought for the most suitable scenario of how to survive tomorrow's morning. In perspective, it would be the cringiest experience of his entire life. 

Now, the more Chris sat in his bed, postponing the inevitable, his sleepy brain trying to process what kind of an ‘entertaining pastime' awaited him in nearly an hour, the more his body started to cover up in cold sweat. How could he ever agree on these terms? Was he that drunk last night? Or the suicidal side of his personality suddenly decided to pop up?

The little amount of time he had while preparing himself for the day and driving to the station wasn't any helpful in calming his wildly pounding heart. At the end, anxiety left him hollow inside, making him constantly bumping into people on his way to the S.T.A.R.S office. 

Jill and Joseph, chose to make sure Chris would obediently fulfill his part of the deal, greeted him with wide shark-like grins glued to their faces; after teasing him for this lifeless state of his, they started to look for a proper place to hide, so as not to get spotted by their captain. 

Redfield, deadly pale and flushed as a tomato at the same time, sat behind his desk, forcing himself to breathe properly; he then prepared for waiting. The three of them agreed to come earlier today, to catch Wesker off guard. Now, every minute of waiting, measured in ticking of arrows inside the watch hanging on the wall litteraly felt like torture. 

Finally, the doorknob turned and the much awaited man stepped inside, fully concentrated on reading documents he must've collected on the way to his office. Noticing his pointman being in place at such an early time (which was an event of itself, since Chris was always chronically late at work, no matter how early he got up), the blond captain gave him a suspicious side glance and started to take off his black rain trench-coat.

Redfield, seizing the moment of distraction, hurried to get up and, swallowing an enormous lump in his throat, stepped towards Wesker.

"Christopher-?" The only thing the blonde managed to utter before he was offhandedly lifted from the ground in a tight bear embrace. The sound of him sharply inhaling through his nose, as if he tried to absorb all the air in the room in one go, ripped through the silence; a small sound of surprise, resonated in the depth of Wesker's throat (the embarrassing yelp he couldn’t hold back) was amusing enough for the other S.T.A.R.S members, hiding behind the main desk, to bite on their fists so as not let out a chuckle. 

"Captain, I'm so happy to see you!" The young marksman blurted out sheepishly, well aware he sounded like a complete idiot. Even with enough time to think it over, he still couldn't come up with what he's going to say during this insulting action.

"What the hell are you doing, Redfield?!" Wesker yelled in a wonderful mix of embarrassment and fury. The tips of his pale fingers were deeply digging into Chris' shoulders, out of pure reflex, to prevent the man from falling. A faint thought flashed in the brunet’s mind about Wesker acting like a cat stuck on a tree. It could be a funny comparison, truly, and Chris would have enjoyed it any other time except for now; his legs were shaking too perceptibly, and not just from the fact that the man in his arms happened to be a little bit heavier than the pointman expected. The amount of adrenaline, rushing through Redfield’s veins right now threatened to kill the man in any minute.

"Put me down immediately!" Wesker growled through tightened teeth, his extremely widened eyes, previously looked like two pennies, narrowed in a squint that promised an instant death to Chris if he didn't obey immediately. 

The young marksman would be glad to leave his ‘victim’ alone, distancing himself from the furious captain as much as possible, but he simply couldn't do that right now. As was previously mentioned, another part of this damned deal was for Chris to hold Wesker lifted for ten horrific seconds. So, having no other options, the brunet took a deep breath, tightened his grip under the blonde's rear part, to prevent dropping the man (Chris would be a deadman if he let that happen), and started to count down.

"Are you deaf? Put. Me. Down!" Wesker repeated again, nearly hissing, and with that resembling an angry cat even more. When his command fell on obviously deaf ears, he hit his subordinate in the shoulder with all the irritation bubbling in his chest. It was the most ridiculous, annoying and bizarre morning of his entire life, and this cretin Redfield was to be blamed for it!

The blow that should’ve been effective in making this mistake of a man to let Wesker go made the pointman suddenly sway in his stance; the captain's anxious grip on Chris’ shoulders renewed tenfold, and his eyes widened again. 

"Uh, captain- I might drop you if you do that again," Redfield warned the blonde sheepishly, hissing from the pain that started to spread in his now sore shoulder. His injured hand was slowly giving up under the weight of the older man. Hopefully, it was only one second left and then Chris will be free of this ridiculous task his friends bestowed him with.

"Then let me go!" The blond captain demanded again and his hands grabbed Chris forearms; the blonde was trying to disengage the grip around his lower section enough to slip out of it. 

At that exact moment, when Redfield was finally ready to lower Wesker down (to his own relief), he heard a distinct chuckle behind the desk where Jill and Joseph were supposed to be sitting quietly (or he was just hearing things; he couldn’t tell for sure with the thunder-like pounding of his heart in his ears). Chris abruptly turned his head to the source of noise in an attempt to give both of his friends a stern look, shutting them up (they agreed Wesker will not find out that somebody else witnessed this shitshow EVER). As he did so, he felt another sway in his weakened legs. And as of an ill fate, Wesker threw him another punch in the shoulder, catching the most inappropriate moment for attacking.

Redfield barely managed to register what was going on when he was already falling to the ground, catching a glimpse of surprise and panic on the blonde's face before both of them collapsed on the floor. A sharp pain, flashed both in his forehead and lip, made Chris yelp in surprise. He quickly rose on his elbow, immediately starting to rub the aching forehead with his other hand. The pain was dull but still unpleasant, spreading through Redfield’s skull quickly, and the brunet couldn't help but close his eyes for a second, fighting a faint nauseating feeling rising in the pit of his stomach. Then, he heard a groan below and hurried to push himself on both elbows, finally registering what had just happened. 

A pair of icy-blue eyes were looking him right in the face. Wesker's facial expression was of a pure shock; the man must've forgotten human speech for a second, that's how far out of his element he was. Wesker inhaled sharply, still being numb from this sudden and brutal landing. Of course, it was purely a matter of time before the blonde would overcome his shocked state and beat the shit out of Redfield. But for now, Chris gained a unique opportunity to witness the endless confusion on his captain's face from the front row. 

He must’ve hit his head badly, since a tiny thought that never ever visited Redfield's mind during his whole serving in RPD suddenly slipped into his head. 

Wesker had pretty eyes. No, scratch it .

Wesker had beautiful eyes. Sure, blue was a common color for the region Chris lived in, and the man met a lot of people owning such eyes. However, Wesker's eyes weren't just blue; they were extremely pale, almost icy-gray, with a thick dark outline. A sight to behold. His eyelashes were devoid of color, like the man has been caught in the middle of a snowstorm and the hoarfrost painted his eyelashes white.

“Was Wesker always that attractive?” Redfield pondered suddenly. He actually never gave this thought a go. The habit of checking guys out wasn't common for Chris, and even if he wanted to stare at someone, of all people, he would definitely not choose his captain as a target to stop his wandering gaze at. Wesker always had this special aura around him, nearly screaming ' You better not fucking dare to check me out ', looming over his head 24/7 like a hazard sign. Redfield respectfully followed that intimidating feeling, seeing his superior as no more than a good leader and a strict boss that kicks their asses once in a while. 

That landing must've shifted something in Chris' way of seeing things, since he was shamelessly staring his captain in the face now, well aware his nose would probably be broken by the end of this day.

On the periphery of his vision, the brunet noticed how a dark thick drop of blood, dripped from his splitted lip, fell on Wesker's face, right on his upper lip. Holding his breath, Redfield watched the movement of this drop; how it slid along the curve of the blonde's lip, rolling into the gap of the man’s mouth and painting his barely visible tongue in crimson red.

It was that moment, when Chris caught himself thinking he wanted to lean and kiss these lips eagerly. A sudden wave of heat rolled over his body, making Redfield shiver violently; a shattered breath, caused by the realization of what exactly his sick brain just offered him to do, left Chris' lungs and caressed Wesker's face in a gentle breeze.

The warm breath on his skin and a heavy, iron taste of foreign blood on his tongue must've made Wesker finally wake up from his prolonged stupor.

"Get off me!" He shouted angrily, pushing his subordinate aside with poorly measured force, immediately scrambling on his feet. He was extremely furious, seeing nothing but red in front of him.

Chris, landed right on his ass from the force of that push, abruptly raised his head, watching his superior with a mix of shame and anxiety. A good half of insults Wesker bestowed him with simply passed the brunet’s ears; Chris was too occupied thinking over his suddenly disputable heterosexuality to actually care about the captain's yelling. The command to follow Wesker in his office did make the marksman rip himself from the floor, though. Giving his friends a quick glance and noticing the same panicked expression on their faces he himself must’ve wore right now, Redfield slowly followed the blonde into the privacy of his office.

Wesker stood behind his table, facing the wall, probably trying to calm himself down before he'll start throwing hands as he surely was eager to. When the blonde heard cracking of the floorboards, he abruptly turned around, his face fixed in a deep scowl; his slightly purple lips were pressed in one thin line, and the pale brows furrowed to the point they almost disappeared under the dark shades that were now hiding the expression of Wesker's eyes. For good, Chris caught himself thinking. The last thing the pointman wanted right now was to face the look of those frosty eyes, overwhelmed with fury.

"What do you think you are doing?" The blond captain asked, his voice was colder than the ice in Antarctica. It was clearly audible how much of an effort he put into sounding indifferent right now.

"It was just a stupid prank that went out of control, nothing more. I didn't mean to drop you on the floor. Honestly. I'm sorry, sir. It was really stupid of me to even think about it nor actually doing this to you," Chris explained quietly. He threw the very idea of lying to Wesker at the moment he saw how pissed the man in front of him actually was. Since Chis fucked up so badly, the only rightfull thing he could do right now was to be honest with his boss. Deep in his guts, he felt it was the only way to get away with what he's done without fearing of losing his job.

"I thought you were done with this childish behavior, Redfield ." Wesker folded his arms, his stance resembling a stretched spring that was about to burst. "You promised me it would be the last time, did you not? Do your words mean anything, I wonder?"

"I- don't know what to say, sir," Redfield muttered, his eyes locked on his badly lashed shoes, as if his laces would suggest what to say next.

"I assume. Such inappropriate behavior has no explanation and especially justification. It's an impulse of irrational nature, which every mature man should fight against. You, on the other hand, keep feeding your childish desires despite getting into trouble over and over again. I never saw you as a fool, Redfield. Don't make me change my mind."

Chris tightened his jaws; this insistent using of his last name was indeed a bad sign, a sign of Wesker's patience running almost dry. Usually, when the captain was annoyed or disappointed, he just used this formal 'Christopher' addressing. He called Chris 'Redfield' only when things were nearly disastrous. 

The brunet swallowed instead of answering. He then felt a tickling sensation of blood dripping down his chin and quickly raised his hand to wipe it off before it'll stain his working uniform. He must’ve bit his lip badly while hitting the ground. The tender flesh was painfully swollen and hurt like a bitch. Chris ran his tongue over the bite in an attempt to stop the blood, but it didn't help much. The taste of his own blood made the young man feel nauseous, and the crimson fluid just kept sliding down his face.

Chris caught a slight movement of Wesker's hand and in the next second the blond man was standing in front of him, offering a virgin-clean handkerchief. 

"Here. Go wash your face and press it to the wound until the blood stops," the captain said impassively, and when Redfield didn't respond or made an attempt to take an offered object, he shoved it into the man's hand with an irritated click of his tongue.

"So, you're not gonna fire me?" Chris asked dumbly, lowering his eyes at the handkerchief and then raising them back at his captain's face with an expression of great bewilderment.

The blonde snorted, the usual smirk stretched the corner of his mouth. "Fire you? For what? For messing around like an idiot? That would be a waste of valuable resources," the smirk on Wesker's lips became more obvious, even if Chris witnessed it only for a moment before the blond man turned away from him again. "I could suspend you for a good week to teach you some manners, but for your luck, and my displeasure, our team was assigned to a new case. As much as you deserve punishment, I will not let my emotions get over my common sense and let you stare at four walls for the whole week straight while others working hard instead of you."

Redfield couldn't hold back a little silly smile that was threatening to turn into a wide grin, should he relax a bit. He was almost ready to break in tears from how kind his captain was in such a situation (usually nobody considered Wesker as a kind type of guy, more like fair; this was truly an exceptional case). 

"Don’t get overexcited," Wesker hurried to warn his subordinate, his thin brow arching in annoyance. "There are no irreplaceable people, Christopher. You better keep that in mind."

"Yessir!" The pointman shook his head in total agreement and rushed to the door before his superior would change his mind on how to deal with Chris' unacceptable behavior. 

However, before leaving, the brunet spotted a trace of his blood still visible on Wesker's face. The heat of embarrassment, previously enveloped his body, returned and the urge to simply disappear from the office (and probably this city, and country too) renewed tenfold. But, before Chris could properly think over the necessity of speaking up, he uttered, "You have blood on your face. Here," the young man pointed on his own upper lip and immediately clenched his teeth when the memory of him wanting to kiss Wesker hit him again. God , this is awkward. He should really stop getting involved in such cringe pranks with Wesker if he doesn't want to catch a stupid crush for real.

The blonde tilted his head in confusion, running over what was just said, and then quickly raised his fingers to brush over his lips. Rubbing the blood stain away, Wesker then lowered his eyes at the crimson blood, spreaded over his fingers. He stayed still for several seconds, god knows what kind of thoughts rushing through his mind. Then, he finally looked up and Redfield could swear the look behind those mysterious shades was locked on his lips. Chris could almost feel it, a tingling sensation on his skin. Then, Wesker turned away. Not just shifted his gaze elsewhere, but moved his whole head too.

His dry voice rang after the moment of delay. "Dismissed."

If Chris didn't know the man for nearly a year, he would totally miss how the tone of Wesker's voice changed. One could say he sounded almost timid and that - that was unusual.

Chapter Text

The working shift ended up nearly an hour ago, and the anticipation of approaching weekends, the intoxicating scent of freedom pushed people to go a little nuts. 

This time, the never changing disastrous trio was accompanied by Jill and Richard; the young man was eager to hang out with the other members of S.T.A.R.S.  of his age. The guy was only twenty one; he often caught himself being bored in the company of the grown-ass men of Bravo team who were cutting off the very thought of messing around. 

The troublemakers were wandering around the RPD for a while, trying to find a free room to play some card games; Frost brought his 'special' pack today and insisted on this activity. He actually was the one to suggest raising the bar a bit and play strip poker. Two winners stay safe while everyone else need to take something off – those were the rules.

Chris agreed easily. Not because he didn't do his 'homework', but because there were no potentially dangerous wishes looming on the horizon, setting him up lately. Also, the ones who were going to theoretically witness his birthday suit, were reliable people; they were his friends after all (even if the marksman was convinced they wouldn't miss a chance to taunt him, should he end up getting naked).

Finally, the group of friends found a tiny storeroom, abandoned and therefore perfectly suitable for the upcoming spicy game. People hurried to get inside and under the mutual chattering took their places on the floor and on a few metal folding chairs scattered around. 

The S.T.A.R.S members knew they were short on time, and that’s why they decided to choose something quick to play, to force more people into taking their clothes off.

While playing, Chris discovered a few things: Jill was frighteningly good at card games (she lost only once; the tactical vest she was wearing previously was now laying in her lap, the girl looked annoyingly smug over her skills); Forest decided to wear a pair of ugly socks with ducks today (Redfield wondered what kind of a man would agree to put those on willingly). Lastly, Chris was shamelessly losing today. This fact wasn't in any way disturbing; again, there would be no punishment, and the young man rightfully believed that this time he won't end up fulfilling another humiliating task that involved one particular captain. 

After an hour or so, he ended up sitting in his colorful boxers only, toes curling every time his legs touched the cold floor. During this hour full of fun, Captain Marini revealed their hiding spot but pretended he saw nothing, only asking not to get wasted at the police station. Enrico was a much more understanding man than Wesker could ever be; that was the truth each person in the RPD knew. In the minute of weakness, when Chris was extremely petty about being scolded by Wesker again, he dreamed of having Enrico as the captain of Alpha team. But, Miss Fortune was expectedly unfair, so all of them had what they were bestowed with, and nothing more.

It was their last game, and Redfield swore he would end it keeping the last piece of fabric in place; his hopes weren't destined to fulfill, as always. When Chris wanted something eagerly, he never got it.

The small room instantly filled with hooting and whistling. Rolling his eyes, but grinning anyway, the young marksman timidly raised from his seat. He narrowed his eyes, and letting out a chuckle, stated, "One could say you guys are dying to see my dick. Especially you, Frost. You are too hyped about it, it bothers me; keep in mind, you're not in my taste."

The group of friends immediately burst into laughter; even Richard, slightly taken aback by such an explicit comment, was giggling with others.

"One could say there is something extraordinary to look at," Jill shot back with a smug snort, rubbing Chris' words right in his face. "I nearly witnessed it during your failed stripping attempt and no sir, I will gain no pleasure in actually seeing it now."

"Ouch, that was harsh. You are truly a cruel woman, Valentine," Forest reacted to her comment. Catching Richard's confused stare, the Bravo member hurried to explain, "Chris once got so shit-faced he must’ve decided he was a high-rank stripper. He went half-through his hideous clumsy stripping when he threw up on my carpet."

"It wasn't actually that bad," Redfield smiled apologetically, being rewarded with Aiken's shocked stare.

"It was more than bad. It was disastrous," Speyer hurried to add. "The only thing I regret is not having my camera with me back then. Imagine those photos. Mmm-" The man kept up with his mockery. "I wonder what Wesker would say, receiving a few shots of you in a half-naked state," Forest smirked nastily, wiggling his brows.

This suggestion made the pointman scowl. After the last time he shamefully disgraced himself in front of his captain he swore to never ever getting into any Wesker-related deals.

"He will say nothing, since he won't receive any of those photos. I personally will sneak into your house and shove the whole stack up your ass, Speyer," Chris threatened the man, although everyone seemed to let his words pass their ears, overjoying themselves with thinking of the possible expression on Wesker's face. "Ok, if nobody is eager to see my Redfield-junior, maybe we'll skip this part and just let me dress?" The brunet marksman suggested then.

"No-no, my friend. There's no turning back," Frost snorted on that poor attempt to avoid the task Chris was assigned to. "Unless you want another punishment instead. 'Cause I'm just in the mood to-"

"To hell with your punishment, Joseph! Fine, I'll take my pants off! Are you happy now?" Redfield rightfully panicked, hearing his unbearable friend starting to scheme again. That never ended well. "I'm well aware of what you are going to wish for. Rather, who will be involved in that wish. I'm not actually in the mood to make a fool of myself in Wesker's eyes today, Frost. Besides, the man should've gone home by now. Thank God."

Frost greeted all the accusations with an expression of pure innocence on his face.

Then, after a few seconds of doubts, taking a deep breath, Redfield finally stood in front of his friends and reached for the waistband of his underwear.

"C'mon, we wanna see some meat!" Forest shouted and everyone supported him with hooting.

"Fuck it," Chris muttered under his breath and pulled his underwear down to his knees.

The brunet couldn't quite call himself a shy guy, but this forced exposure felt embarrassing enough to feel a slight heat touching the tips of his ears, probably painting them pink.

The expressions on everyone's faces wasn't exactly what Chris was waiting for. He was confident they would laugh at him and then let him finally cover his exposed dignity.

Everyone was speechless. Sure, they tried to hold back laughter that was threatening to explode like a nuke, already making some people shake from the postponing of such a desired reaction. However, Chris' friends also looked shocked. The young man couldn't yet decide if he should get offended by this reaction or not. Were they disguised by the sight or impressed?

"So? See what you wanted, or I need to wiggle my dick in front of your faces, so that you finally let me put my pants on?"

The group of friends stayed numb, as if being under the dark spell, and that felt annoying and disturbing at the same time. "What the hell is wrong with your faces? What- what are you all staring at?"

Right after the young man turned around with a deep scowl on his face, he saw Wesker standing behind him.

The blond man looked as if he was struck by lightning, or turned into stone by Medusa's dangerous gaze, no less. His shades weren't completely opaque, so Chris could see his shocked stare again (the second time this month). If Redfield could joke right now, he could say it'll soon become a routine between them, the pointman making his captain lose his shit. 

But Chris couldn't joke. He couldn’t even think properly, his fragile mind crushing under the weight of a huge, choking wave of embarrassment. This scenario, in which he unwillingly became a main protagonist, felt like it came out straight from his nightmares. The ones where you're standing naked in front of hundreds of people; this time, it was just Wesker. Just him alone was enough to feel like Hell's fire started to lick the heels of Redfield’s feet in a promise of devouring him whole later.

And if it wasn't cringe enough, the blonde's hypnotized gaze slowly slid off along Redfield’s torso, so heavy and thick it could almost be palpable. It stopped then, glued to the marksman's exposed groin. 

The brunet watched Wesker’s lips parted, and a shattered breath slipped past them.

Then, the blonde quickly snapped his eyes back to his subordinate's face, finally putting himself together and recalling that he should've already been spitting venom to this point, and not staring at his co-worker's private parts like he never saw a dick before.

"What the hell is going on here?" He asked, his voice betraying its master.

The question pulled Chris out of his stupor, and the young man hurried to put his underwear on and rush into the depths of the storeroom to collect his other clothes. He refused to look Wesker in the eyes right now, and refused to answer, fearing his voice would be shaking too much.

"We're playing cards. Wanna join, sir? Chris just lost, so his place is vacant," Frost jokingly suggested. 

"Absolutely not!" Wesker answered indignantly. He should’ve sounded more intimidating, but it was the best reaction he could squeeze out of himself after the shocking scene he had just witnessed ( it was still flashing before his eyes, as if being burned into his retinas). "Such games are deeply inappropriate for playing at the police station, are you aware of it, Frost?"

God his witness, Wesker tried to keep himself frosty, professional, but his gaze kept returning to Chris' persona, who was trying to put his clothes on in such a hurry he almost tripped over his pants once.

"Captain Marini saw us. He said nothing," Joseph hurried to say in their defense. He wasn't sure if it was fair of him to rat Enrico out after the man was so kind in keeping a blind eye on their shenanigans. Didn't know, didn't care. It was their lives at stake, after all.

"I'm your captain, not Marini. And I'm telling you to collect your belongings and immediately go home, before I've reported you all to Irons."

The wave of disappointed groans rolled over the room, but Wesker was adamant. With a deep scowl on his face he repeated his threat, and before stepping out of that tiny room, warned everyone that he better not find them still sitting here or in any other room of the RPD after he finishes his work.

It was his final word, and everyone knew that the blond captain meant it when he said they'll get themselves in big trouble if they dare to ignore his order.

"Such a party pooper," Frost muttered a few seconds later and started to collect his cards from the plastic bag he had found in the depths of the storeroom and then spread on the floor.

Chris just finished collecting his own stuff and was about to go away without much of a word, when Jill gently touched his arm, her face full of concern.

"You ok?" She asked quietly. 

"I'm fine," Redfield retorted a little bit harshly. It wasn't the right time to talk. The young man was just eager to reach his home as fast as possible and drink all the beer that awaited him in the fridge. Though he appreciated Jill noticing the change in his mood and not teasing him as he rightfully expected. She was indeed his best friend.

"Not going to stay? We wanted to go to the bar, since Mr Overseer threw us out of here," Forest was lacing his shoes when he spotted Redfield in the doorframe, ready to leave.

"Not in the mood," The brunet shrugged him off. There were plenty of other things, hanging on the tip of his tongue, that he was eager to spit out right now to ease his irritation; still, Chris knew that none of his friends could be blamed on Wesker catching him with naked ass. As well as him losing the game. Or agreeing to play in the first place. He should really start to ponder about why he keeps constantly getting into embarrassing situations like this.

Luckily, the people in the room quickly caught the hint and didn't stop the pointman from leaving.

Redfield was already halfway through the corridor when he noticed the door of the S.T.A.R.S office being opened. He slowed his pace and suddenly spotted Wesker standing amidst the room. Their eyes met for a brief second and then, when Chris was ready to leave, the burning shame painting his face and ears in all shades of red, he heard Wesker addressing him.

"Christopher. For a moment," the man waved his hand, inviting his pointman inside.

Well, that would definitely be rude to ignore him now, when the captain saw Chris previously looking at him. And so, seeing no other options, the young man approached his superior with a dark look, ready to defend himself if needed.

"Look, it was just a card game. No bets, no nothing. I didn't expect you to find us, and definitely didn't expect you would come in during those three seconds I was standing with my bare ass," Redfield blurted out before Wesker could start chewing him out as usual. 

If the blonde had something on his mind to say previously, it wasn't an option now. Wesker opened his mouth just to close it again. Then he slowly took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers with an expression of a man going through his worst headache. 

" Just. This word keeps coming up every time you try to explain why you got yourself in trouble again. Maybe it's not ' just'?" The blonde suggested, finally taking his hand off his face. He looked disappointed, Redfield couldn't tell for sure. Even without his shades on, Wesker still was a master of the poker face.

Chris snorted annoyed. Just couldn't push that reaction back. Any other day he would listen to Wesker's lecturing obediently, head down, like a good boy he was ought to be. Just, not today. Chris just wanted to be left alone, to be able to sort out why he got so irritated over this trifle of a situation in the first place. Would he feel the same gnawing feeling if it was someone else bursting into the room? Chris had no proper answer to that. 

Lately, he was shamefully avoiding his captain at all costs. There was this strange tension between them the pointman just couldn't ignore. Wesker became even more demanding and picky towards Chris, and Chris only. The marksman couldn't understand why. Probably, he pissed the man off with his unstoppable pranks to the degree Wesker was going feral just seeing his pointman at work. 

But that was only half of the problem. 

Chris started to stare, letting himself hold his gaze a little bit longer at the lean figure of his captain when the man wasn't looking. He also started to notice things he would never pay attention to before. For example, Wesker has well-kept hands with long fingers, his lips usually had that slight shade of purple, same as his eyes. Redfield read about this phenomenon a bit, people having albino eyes, but simultaneously being normal in other aspects of their appearance. That was one of the possible reasons why Wesker wore his glasses all the time. To protect his eyes from the bright light.

Chris shouldn't know all that, shouldn't even bother to pry. And that was disturbing, this need to know Wesker not just as the superior officer at work, but as a man too.

Redfield pushed the instant desire to snap back deeper into his mind. Sure, the parental tone of the blonde wasn't helping in staying calm, but Chris persuaded himself to at least try being polite.

"What do you suggest then, to lock myself in a priory, to avoid all the sinful activities popping up at every corner?" The young man joked instead. 

He expected Wesker to frown at him. 

The man was smiling. The smile was barely there, but still. It was a smile. "That's actually a good idea," the blonde uttered and Chris couldn't believe he just heard his captain teasing him again.

"Believe me, the place would be burned in ashes in a few days with me being there. I pity the monks," the brunet smirked and leaned on the nearby wall with his shoulder, feeling how all the previous tension just evaporated.

Wesker chuckled quietly. It was barely a trembling of air leaving his lungs, but the sound of it made Redfield unwillingly shudder.

"I know you keep asking yourself why your pointman is such a mess of a man. Probably, because I'm young. Don't see a reason to lock myself up in four walls with books and classical music when I can hang out with my friends instead," Chris shrugged casually, pointing that out. 

Wesker hummed in reply and moved to his private office, to finish organizing things before leaving. Then, when the brunet was almost certain the discussion was over, the captain suddenly asked, "Have you tried? Reading books, I mean," and there was that slightest tint of mockery on top of usual indifference in the man's voice.

Chris froze on the spot, not sure if he should laugh or get offended by the question. 

"Well, pardon me, I'm not illiterate. I might not have finished high school because I had to earn money for my sister and myself, but that doesn't mean I never read a book in my life," the pointman folded his arms, frowning.

Wesker hummed again. He, probably, was too proud to apologize for his previous question, so he decided to say nothing instead.

"I was once young too. Didn't enjoy 'the taste of life', as you, youth, like to name it. There is nothing pleasing in getting drunk, or starting a fight. Besides it being mostly illegal activities, it can get you in trouble and spoil your reputation. Not worth it," the captain said, finishing sorting papers and stepping out of his private office, to lock it for the night. 

Chris gave the man a side look and couldn't help but smirk at the image of young Wesker sitting in the bar with earplugs and a deep scowl on his face, complaining about loud music. "With all respect, sir, you just don't give that vibe that you can actually- well, enjoy yourself," the pointman blurted out before properly thinking over the tactfulness of his words. When he received a displeased look of squinted blue eyes, it was too late to take the statement back, so the brunet just kept talking, digging his grave further. "I mean, you always refuse to go out with us, your team."

Wesker parted his previously tightened lips and, putting his shades back on the bridge of his nose, uttered with a sigh, "I don't think it's a good idea. I'm your superior, I should not get involved in dubious activities with my subordinates, while 'hanging out', as you named it."

"Have you tried? Hanging out, I mean," Redfield ping-ponged the same words in Wesker's face with an amused grin and received a quiet chuckle. "Anyway, I gotta go. Thanks for not firing me, again," he added quickly and made a step back, crossing the threshold of the office. It was actually getting late and the young man was starting to feel how the claws of tiredness firmly settled on his shoulders.

"Sure. See you tomorrow, Christopher," Wesker retorted absent-mindedly, still staying in the office to put his outwear on. "Oh, and Chris," the man hurried to add, before his pointman could disappear in the darkness of the RPD corridor, "try not to moon anyone on your way back home. That would be deeply inappropriate."

Redfield could've shot something witty back if he wasn't laughing so hard from this sudden teasing request. Finally, recollecting his breath, he answered back, a wide smile stuck on his face, "Cannot promise you a thing, Cap. You know me, I'm highly unpredictable."

Chapter Text

It was a middle of a pretty busy working shift; people started to slowly crawl out of their corners to go buy some food in the nearby cafeteria. The youngest (and reckless) ones arranged a sprint race to the named place, wishing to be the first in a row for fresh sandwiches or burritos. Or any other tasty stuff the local shop was selling there. Chris, and Frost as well, were usually the ones running towards the cafe headlong, as if the Devil himself was sitting on their heels, to buy the most fresh snack before anyone else could sneak it under their noses.

Today, however, wasn't the case. Redfield was simply not hungry. 

It was a rare occasion, and his friends were a bit concerned if the man got sick, trying in vain to figure out the reason for Chris' sudden melancholy mood. The pointman’s lips were firmly sealed. He was anything but eager to share those bothersome thoughts swirling in his head, fearing that his comrades would simply make fun of him if the truth would be revealed.

The reason for his strange behavior was a person; one specific man, to be specific. This man alone was filling all of the free space in Redfield’s head, and a bit more, making the pointman restless in his thoughts.

Something strange was going on between him and Wesker, something the young man couldn't quite put his finger at. Chris pointed that out for himself previously, when the usual speech of his current captain suddenly started to intersperse with teasing comments (which suspiciously sounded like flirting to Redfield’s liking). That specific night, when Chris got caught with his pants down, decisively shifted the course of his life to the point of no return. One day, Redfield noticed that Wesker suddenly acquired a habit of watching him during their working shift. The pointman caught his captain doing this several times (the blonde was often throwing glances at his 'best man' through the window of his office, or observing him during their mutual training at the gym). Such an attention quickly became unnerving, the pointman couldn't tell if he enjoyed those sneaky glances or was intimidated by them. Also, Wesker started to smile more often. Even in the situations where previously he would get irritated, unmistakably rolling his eyes behind his shades, the blonde was putting a little smile on now, especially when Chris was fooling around; the smile carried a barely visible shade of taunting, as if saying 'You are stupid, but I like it'. Redfield adored that smile, always feeling much happier just witnessing it, and was ready to jump through hoops only to receive that precious reaction from his captain again. 

However, even daydreaming of calling his boss out and having a few proper lines prepared for such an occasion (Chris had run over them in his head countless of times), Redfield never actually took a chance to use them, just didn’t have the guts. 

One could recommend throwing the inaccessible man out of your head, but that was easier said than done. No matter what Chris was telling himself, his obsession was only getting worse. Just yesterday, leaning on his boss' doors' threshold, talking about some casual stuff he would never consider talking with Wesker about, named man standing in merely a half of a meter in front of him, all Chris could think about was to scoop Wesker into his arms and kiss the very sense out of him.

That felt deeply wrong, to invade his captain's personal space in such a way. Redfield knew he would gain nothing but being thrown out of S.T.A.R.S. (the job he valued dearly), should he become too bold to confess.

It would be just great if all those arguments worked. But, unfortunately for Redfield, his heart refused to obey his mind.

A big part of S.T.A.R.S squad already left for the lunch, giving up on the idea of dragging Chris out of his chair, in which he settled with his guitar and a sour expression on his face. Jill was the only one left, still standing in the doors and giving Chris a long determined look. She knew something was amiss, and she was adamant in finding that out no matter what.

"Hey, Chris," Valentine addressed the pointman from where she stood. Noticing that Redfield’s gloomy gaze was now fixed on her, she continued, "You know, I wanted to talk."

"Not in the mood," the brunet cut her off quietly and lowered his head to give his guitar his full attention.

"Yeah, that is exactly what I was hoping to talk to you about. Your mood," the girl pointed out, Chris' previous reply falling on deaf ears.

"Jill. Not now," Redfield muttered as a warning, without even awarding his co-worker with a glance.

Ignoring him for the second time and quickly crossing the distance between them, Valentine quietly sat on the corner of Redfield’s table. Placing her hand over his bulky forearm in a comforting gesture, she finally said, "Listen, I may not be a brilliant psychologist, but I can see something is gnawing at you. Everyone noticed, not just me. Mind to share?"

The pointman ripped his gaze from the guitar's neck, stopping the slight movement of his fingers against the strings, and sighed heavily. Jill could be really persistent sometimes; she'll make even a deadman talk if you give her some proper time.

Redfield would never confess, but he was nearly dying to talk to someone about this 'problem', to anyone who would dissuade him from hitting on Wesker, or at least give him proper advice on how to act in such a situation. But the fear of being mocked for being homosexual (could he even consider himself as one, never being attracted to men before?) was too real. It was terrifying, to the point of blood freezing. To be judged by society, by his friends, to see the disguise in Wesker's eyes – Redfield wasn’t sure he'd handle it with dignity. 

"I'm fine, really. Just slept badly, that's all," Chris chose to lie. He shrugged casually, but the tension in the roll of his shoulders was so obvious, anyone would notice it.

"Bullshit," Jill expectedly snapped, barely letting the marksman finish his poor excuse. "C'mon, there is nobody here except us! You can tell me," the girl leaned a bit closer and dropped her voice, "We both know this can't go on like this. You've been in this state for how long? A week? Chris, really," Jill's face distorted with worry.

A prolonged moment of silence was finally interrupted by another heavy sigh. Putting himself together, Chris reluctantly confessed, "Ah, shit! Alright. The problem is- I may have some feelings for one person, but I highly doubt they will ever share my affection. I can't just confess, this is out of discussion," he hurried to add, seeing Jill's mouth opening to bring out an obvious question. "I really tried to just let it go, but it's actually a tough task to do when you see your crush every goddamn day. Feels like a sick obsession, if you ask me," Redfield uttered and his head involuntarily turned towards the captain's office, to check again if the man was out. No noise was coming from the named room, which let the pointman keep going without fear of being overheard. "It’s driving me crazy, Jill! I don't know what to do."

Valentine stayed silent for a while, looking more serious than ever. Then, finally, she carefully inquired, "We are talking about Wesker, right?"

Such an accurate guess felt like being suddenly punched in the guts. Chris’ heart jumped, making his stomach tighten with a nauseating spasm. The pointman barely held back a ‘ How did you- ’ yelp and simply nodded, lowering his head with shame. He couldn’t make himself look Jill in the eyes right now, terrified of what kind of emotions he’ll see there.

Valentine sighed heavily, as if Chris just told her he has cancer. Then, she asked quietly, "Are you serious about that?" and cut herself off immediately, catching Redfield’s offended, pained look. "I mean, if it's our dumb jokes making you think-"

"It’s not! I guess-" The pointman hurried to interrupt her, but then stumbled over his own words. The seeds of doubts, being sprouting in the depth of his chest from that very moment Chris felt an attraction towards Wesker, deprived him of his previous confidence. "I don't know. Does it matter?" The man added, irritated. "The fact remains the same: I feel something towards him, some kind of a fucked-up hyperfixation, I don’t know. When I see him my brain just short-circuiting and-” Chis cut himself off before he could start to pour some heavy details of his fantasies, wet dreams that keeps him awake some nights. Jill doesn’t need to hear all of that.

Just at the moment when the tickling of the watches on the wall started to become unbearable, Valentine breathed out, her voice barely audible, "I'm sorry,” she patted her friend on the forearm again, trying to bring him some comfort. “ Now that I know, it feels like our fault. We should've never raised that topic-"

"No, don't! Don’t start," Redfield stopped her with a wave of his hand. "How could it be your fault? How could anyone be possibly guilty of this? Do you really think anyone could put such thoughts in my mind by force, make me like men all of a sudden?” Chris inquired, his eyes narrowed. Hearing no objections, he continued with a calmer tone this time, almost wistful, “I start to wonder now if I’ve always been like this. Broken, abnormal. All those pranks could be just a tiny push to embrace the whole concept of who I am,” the marksman ended, closing his eyes. 

However, he couldn’t even begin to fall into that pit of self-hate again as Jill’s persistent, strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Her voice came harsh and full of emotions, “You’re not broken, Chris! You're a great, wonderful guy!” She exclaimed, angry (not at him, probably, but at the whole concept of a person being considered a freak for his sexual preferences). Valentine didn’t even give Redfield a chance to open his mouth, to spill out another nonsense, when she continued, furious and so ready to prove he was wrong. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and God help those fuckers who’ll try to change my mind!” That one statement made Chris laugh, a wet sound leaving his throat. “If you ask me: will Wesker accept your feelings or not, I would probably say ‘no, he won’t’, no offense,” she added, feeling how Redfield’s shoulders drooped under her palms, “but that doesn’t matter! If not him, that anyone else. Anyone great and caring will love you.”

It was the nicest thing he probably heard in months, the right thing he eagerly needed right now. Chris’ eyes started to sting, moisture blurring his vision, and the marksman hurried to shake himself off that state, before he turned into a horrible weeping mess. He squeezed out a weak smile, and pushed Jill back a bit, to shift in his seat. “Thanks, really. Don’t mind me talking all that shit, ok? Better go and buy yourself something to eat. I don't want to leave you without lunch, forced to listen to my mumbling instead."

Valentine furrowed at Redfield’s poor attempt of driving her away, but gave up nonetheless. "Are you sure you’re not going with me?” Receiving Chris’ negative nod, she stepped back, surrendering. “Fine. But I'll order you a sandwich, and you will eat it. It's going to be a long day, and you’ll need strength."

Then, Jill gave him one last glance and vanished behind the door.

Chris watched her go and then, when the door slammed shut, he cursed under his breath. "Shit, I should’ve told her." Still, despite being embarrassed for this 'little slip of thoughts', Redfield felt much better now, finally being able to share his concerns.

Giving Wesker's office another dark glance, the pointman closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. "The best fucking choice of lover ever being made by a man," he muttered quietly, mad at himself.

There was still a whole half of an hour of the lunch break left, and Redfield, having nothing else to occupy himself with, took the previously abandoned guitar in his hands. Recalling the song he used to play, Chris leaned in his chair and, adjusting his guitar comfortably in his lap, began to croon. He wasn't the most skilled singer, to be honest, but his voice was clear and confident, carrying out the melody with such persuasiveness anyone could easily tell it was something personal he tried to spill out in this song.

Everything that was happening felt so unfair.

For so many years Redfield avoided having relationships, to be able to fix his full attention on earning money. He knew Claire needed him more than ever after their parents died a few years ago; she needed all he could give her, all his resources and attention. It felt completely unfair to share his free time with someone else while his little sister was out there, having only Chris to care about her.

Now, when things got a little better, to fall in love with Wesker, of all the people, felt like a mockery of fate. It was a sad tale with an expectantly bad ending; too many obstacles, starting with age difference and ending with Wesker’s hierarchy position and gender were getting in the way. And yet, while singing, Chris couldn’t help but daydream again. He dreamed of how unbearably good it would feel to confess his feelings after countless sleepless nights, dozens of booze bottles and cigarette packs. Redfield was dreaming of spending the whole day with Wesker, going to bed together, their bodies tangled in a tight embrace under the warm blankets; in the morning, lying silently in their shared bed, he could watch how the sun gently caresses Wesker's face and play with his pale-blond hair.

“And I will love you, baby. Always~” The bitterness of those words itched severely, lying heavily on Chris’ tongue. The man couldn't care much; to this point he almost got used to the dull pain in his chest, caused by an unrequited love.

His hopes weren’t destined to fulfill, and the realization of this simple truth was shattering.

***

Wesker was sitting behind his desk, words of his recent report blurring in front of his eyes, while the man tried to concentrate on writing. At the beginning of the lunch break he quickly made himself a coffee, to keep his mind awake for long enough, and returned to his working place, deciding not to spend his precious time on the meaningless sitting in the cheap caffe, eating tasteless food instead of actually doing his job. 

Nearly ten minutes after he heard voices. It was Chris, who seemed to return from whatever place he excused himself to, and Jill. They were talking, but the voices were muted by the thick walls of Wesker's office. He didn't want to eavesdrop at first. But then, the mentioning of his name made the blonde take his hands off the keyboard and sharp his ear. 

Redfield sounded annoyed and upset over something. It was obvious that, for some reason, this whole week he has been in a state of unease. Wesker didn't demand an explanation; he wasn't even sure if he had the actual right to interfere with Redfield’s private life, considering that the man handled his duty well.

Valentine probably tried to loosen Chris' tongue (Wesker could swear the woman had a special ability to influence people). It was nearly impossible to discern the words and the context, and Wesker quickly gave up, suddenly feeling annoyed by the inability to hear what these two were talking about him. It felt like something important to know, and it was fully out of his grasp.

Wesker couldn't quite tell how long he had been sitting in front of his computer, rereading one sentence over and over again, while his thoughts were dancing around the recent discussion in the next room. What woke him up from this stupor was the sound of music.

At first, Wesker suggested that someone forgot to turn off the radio, getting irritated beforehand out of need to get up and turn the device off himself (since nobody seemed to care about doing it before). Then, hearing someone singing, Wesker completely abandoned the thought of working and quietly approached his window, pushing previously shut blinds apart.

It was Chris, playing the guitar. And actually singing. Such an unexpected scene to witness, and Wesker found himself glued to the window, unable to turn away or to interrupt his pointman and make him disperse from the office. The blonde could hardly see Redfield’s face from this angle, but the marksman's voice was so wistful and gentle, a yearning for something (or someone) unmistakable, it was able to touch the strings of any soul, even as callous as Wesker’s.

“And I know when I die, you’ll be on my mind. And I’ll love you, always.” Chris sang, his voice raspy, bitter with affection.

It hit Wesker in a way it shouldn’t. He never actually loved anyone, eradicating any feelings that could sparkle in his mind before they would sprout further into his consciousness. Love was an irrational feeling, impossible for the mind to control. Love makes you weak, vulnerable in the eyes of your enemies. Loving someone meant willingly putting a target on your back and embracing the fact that no matter how smart, stealthy and strong you are, they will find out, and then they’ll make you pay. Make you jump through hoops, humiliate yourself, curry favors like a lap dog. They’ll capture you, cut you open, make you beg, make you cry. In the end, everything you ever loved will be devoured by a hellish fire, only for you to be the witness of it. To make you learn your lesson.

That’s how it was for Wesker, that’s how it was for nearly anyone he worked with, grew up with. Over a decade of working for Umbrella, he’d seen families separated, spouses killed, all thrown into a recycle machine called “science”. He heard them scream, beg and weep. If Wesker ever truly questioned the moral side of his work, he surely stopped caring a long time ago. It wasn’t reasonable to care, he was telling himself every time, watching them suffer. Those people they slaughtered for ‘greater good’ weren't even individuals. Just guinea pigs, nothing more. Research material.

He actually tried to ponder about it once, of how it would feel if someone important to him would end up in one of those ‘testing subject’ cameras, with Wesker on the other side of glass, having no opportunity or desire to save their life. Not that he actually had someone dear to him to perform such mental gymnastics, but he gave it a try nonetheless, as an entertaining experience between tedious waiting for a result of just another of his endless tests. Suddenly, his mind brought an image of Chris laying on his side in the pool of blood, feverish, on the verge of dying, addressing him in a broken whisper. The marksman’s trembling hand raises only to rest on the glass, leaving a bloody handprint on it.

“Why, Albert- ?” He asks, a whiz leaves his damaged lungs every time he tries to breathe out. He doesn’t sound scared nor desperate. He is disappointed and deadly tired. His eyes are hollow, dim. No more bright smile, no more cheerful laughter. No joy, no life. Nothing.

This image made Wesker shudder so violently, cold sweat covering his skin, that he had to grab at the corner of his lab table to ground himself. It was the first and the last time he allowed himself to think about his subordinate in such a way. And yet-

Unable to suppress an itching urge to hear Redfield’s voice more clearly, crawling under his skin like a needle with poison, Wesker silently moved from his spot. Noticing his door being unlocked, the blond man exhaled in relief. That fact was giving him an advantage of leaving his office unnoticed. It would be stupid to blow his cover now with a single creak of the doorknob.

Stepping out, Wesker leaned on the threshold, folding his arms on his chest. He barely registered that even his breathing became shallow and muted, so as not to startle his pointman and end whatever the hell was going on right now. Pressing his temple to the wooden surface, the blonde closed his eyes and let himself listen.

Now that he actually thought about it, the way Chris sang felt like he was confessing to whoever he was so fond of.

How would it feel to be loved by Redfiled? To love him back?

Chris was so childish, a literal booby. Always goofing around, sputtering out whatever stupidity comes on his mind. He was so full of everything that Wesker despised with the very core of his soul, was taught to hate in people and to suppress in himself. And yet, Chris was also loyal, brave. Always so ready to help, save, protect people around him, putting his life at stake if someone needed to be shielded from the bullet, taking it as a man, a soldier. Would Redfield sacrifice his life to save Wesker too? The answer was too obvious.

In the end, Chris was his best man .

Could Wesker love him? Actually love Redfield, instead of pitying him over his desperate attempts to receive praise, to be useful? If Wesker gives it a try, he’ll be dead. Like, dead dead. Umbrella would never let him survive another day, knowing he got attached to someone from outside, and that sickening vision of Chris in a cage would come to life.

If only Redfiled chose to take Wesker’s side, things would be much easier. 

But, that’s never going to happen. Chris was too righteous for this. Too pure.

At one moment, Redfield’s voice subsided, his skillful hands alone pulling a melody out of the guitar. The marksman sighed heavily and, lowering his head to his chest, suddenly whispered, his voice barely breaking through the sound of a guitar solo, “Fuck, Albert, why did it has to be you I fell in love with, of all the people?” The man asked himself angrily, chastising himself for such an unfortunate choice of a lover for the hundredth time.

The words were thunderous in Wesker’s ears, a sensation of them crashing into the blonde was palpable on a physical level. An icy shiver ran up his spine, tightening around his neck, pulsating at the base of his skull like a morse code. Barely managing to hold back a gasp of surprise, the blonde pushed himself from the threshold he was leaning onto, like it was hot-red iron.

“Is this song dedicated to- me?” Was the only adequate thought among the havoc now reigning in the blonde’s head.

Chris was in love with- him?

How could he actually miss the signs of it? He, the man always in control of everything! Surely, Wesker was a busy man, often working himself into a state of exhaustion, but still- He couldn’t be so blind. Must've been those ridiculous pranks and Chris' heated reassurances that everything’s fine making Wesker let this valuable information slip past him. Now, running through every little detail of Redfield’s bizarre behavior, Wesker was seriously asking himself: were all those pranks just jokes, or did Chris try to get close to him in such a clumsy way?

Wesker must’ve been thinking it over for too long, fighting with bewilderment and anxiety (he never got anxious over someone else’s feelings towards him before, and that fact alone was unsettling), because he nearly missed the moment when the music abruptly stopped and his pointman turned around, a whole-body shiver running through him. Chris' widened eyes pierced through the blonde with a maddening intensity, and the captain, trying to recollect the last bits of his coolness, hurried to utter, "Please don't mind me. Go on, finish the song." 

He would never admit it out loud, but his heart of ice was pounding so hard against his ribs right now, it could shutter in any moment. His fight or flight instincts were nearly screaming at him to leave this place, before things went too deep into shit, but his legs just refused to cooperate, glued to the spot with an invisible force.

Redfield straightened up in one nervous move, putting the guitar aside somewhere on the floor. The instrument rattled plaintively. Then, Chris hid his visibly shaking hands beside his back (although Wesker did notice it anyway), and blurted out, “I was just finishing, sir! Didn't mean to interrupt you from work. When did you actually return? I might’ve missed that moment. Jeez, sometimes you move like a ghost," the pointman let out a laugh, but it was so shaky and pathetic-sounding that he fell silent immediately, so as not to disgrace himself any further.

Wesker tilted his head to the side. Wasn’t Redfield going to explain himself, or he just chose to play a fool in hope that the situation would simply disperse by itself? Maybe, that's what Wesker should've let happen, drop this topic for good. It’s just that terrible ache to hear the words of confession from Chris’ mouth directly was clouding the blonde’s mind. “I never left. Was in my office all this time, finishing paperwork,” Wesker said impassively, involuntarily raising his arms to fold them on his chest.

Redfield swallowed hard. A blush slowly crept to his face as a terrible realization thunderstruck him where he stood. If the pointman ever had to go through a near-death experience, he was sure it would feel less horrible than a burning shame he was experiencing right now. No proper words of justification came to his mind, each excuse sounding even more pathetic than the last one.

“It’s not what you think it is”, “I didn’t mean what I said”,  that’s what people usually say in such awkward situations. It won’t work with Wesker, Redfield knew it as well as he knew the sun was hot.

So, instead of pleading for mercy, silver-tonguing his way out of this mess, the only thing Chris managed to utter was, “Oh- I see.”

Wesker's eyes narrowed behind his shades. He could’ve started asking Redfield himself, drawing a strict line between them once and for all, but something was telling him not to push things for now. Be patient and you’ll be rewarded.

And, as the blonde expected, Chris broke the silence again, “So, you’ve heard…” The marksman raised his eyes from the floor, not without an effort, looking in a stillness of Wesker’s face, in the reflection of his glasses for a hint, a confirmation that his true feelings were indeed revealed. Chris found nothing to grab onto, Wesker’s face is a stone mask of equanimity, unlike him, a pathetic blushing mess. The pointman swallowed again and uttered, “I’m sorry,” biting on his lower lip so hard it almost splitted under the pressure of his teeth.

“-for what, Christopher?” Wesker shifted from one foot to another. It might feel cruel to interrogate a man so desperately in love with him, but when did the blonde actually care for being cruel? He was vital to receive a straight answer, to be able to decide how to handle this situation further, and that was the only thing that mattered now. “Are you apologizing for me hearing you sing? Or for other things that flew out of your mouth?” Wesker inquired, arching a brow. “Maybe you’re sorry for what you feel in the first place?” The blonde suggested, and Chris’ eyes snapped on him.

“I don’t,” Redfield responded, and although his face was still painted with fright and embarrassment, there was a spark of determination in his eyes, which unexpectedly sent a wave of shivers down Wesker’s spine. “I don’t regret- feeling the way I feel”, and again, even when all cards had been revealed and the need to lie and pretend further disappeared, Chris couldn't find the guts to confess his affection openly. “What I’m sorry for is interfering with your job. I should’ve been more cautious with what I say and where.”

Incredible, how even on the verge of losing his nerve, Redfield still managed to show his teeth.

Wesker was silent for a moment, a sudden realization that he had nothing to say back driving him into stupor. There, he got his affirmation of love (not in the way he wanted to, but it’ll do anyway), but his mind still went blank, a white noise filling his head instead of constructive suggestions of what to do next. He made a step forward, watching how Chris backed away from him immediately, unable to guess what was on his boss’ mind. Wesker himself hesitated in his intentions. Should he scold Redfield, should he offend and humiliate him to the point he would start to despise Wesker and forget about that ‘little man-crush’ for good?

Should he just kill Chris before his smiles and jokes (which felt so damn good sometimes) would get under his skin to the point Wesker wouldn’t be able to pull them out unless tearing his skin and flesh off with it?

“Play me something else. Anything,” Wesker asked instead, softly. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say, and far from what needed to be said. This sudden plea surprised the blonde himself, but the words just slipped out of his mouth before he could think them over, as if having their own will.

Redfield was shocked too. His brows’s furrowed, a hint of confusion splashing in his deep-blue eyes. Wesker took another step, and another, until he ended up an armth length from his best man. He repeated his request again, calmly, his eyes expectant and attentive behind his shades, and Chris could see him staring from such a short distance.

Redfield’s jaws tensed and then, raising his head to look Wesker right in the eyes, he asked, voice shaking from incomprehension and anger , “Aren’t you supposed to be mad at me? Disguised?” The marksman’s eyes were throwing daggers. Chris guessed the blonde was mocking him by playing nice, and that- that he couldn’t take easily. Wesker arched his brow with a silent question in this movement, and another wave of fury and shame raised in Chris’ chest. He wanted to throw his hands and grab Wesker by the hem of his uniform shirt, to shake him violently, to ask not to be sich an impassive fucking prick, but Redfield’s hands were shaking too much, and he doubted that assaulting his superior was what he really needed to perform right now. “I just told you that I like you, and you have nothing to tell me back? Anything? A man confessed his attraction to you, emasculated you with it, and you're just going to take it like nothing happened?” Redfield was well aware that he sounded hysterical, but fuck if only he cared about it. Not when Wesker is so bluntly invading his personal space, and his cologne smells so good-

The blonde furrowed. 

Really, he should’ve cared. Weren’t they all living in a time when ‘being a man’ was so damn important? It must’ve been something with Wesker’s upbringing, him fixing his whole attention at much more important things instead of caring for humans’ private parts, or sexual preferences of others. He barely had the time and desire to comprehend his own orientation and the existence of the right he has been tentatively deprived of, to want someone unsuitable as a lover. Now, when this question was shoved into his face with such persistence, the man finally pondered.

“I think,” Wesker finally uttered, slowly, “that yes, I’ll take it.” 

Chris was gaping at him. His brain short-circuited at such an unexpected answer, the realization that this conversation had surpassed all of his wildest dreams left the man breathless. “What now? ” An expected question popped up next. A lump of panic raised in Refield’s throat, making it hard to breathe.

Wasn’t it just wonderful that even such a violation of social norms didn’t offend Wesker? Chris could’ve just brush this conversation off at this point, laugh it off like he always did. He wouldn’t receive an answer to the question gnawing at him this whole week, so what? If that meant a preservation of his dignity, he should take it without another word. Any sane man would do so.

But, something in Wesker’s softened features, in his hypnotic stare forced Chris to choose the only thing he should’ve done under any circumstances.

He dug his grave deeper.

Wesker’s lips were cold and thin, but so pliant under Redfield’s pressure. The marksman sure knew how to kiss well, having few friends-with-benefits situations going on in the past, but at that moment, finally gaining the access to such desired lips, he could only bite and lick, erratic breaths leaving his lungs through his nose. Wesker let him lead, or was too taken aback with this sudden turn of events to actually fight for dominance.

When Redfiled leaned back to catch his breath, his heart hammered like a drum before the gallows. “Are you going to take this too?” He asked in a raspy, unsteady voice, raising his eyes again to watch Wesker’s reaction.

The blonde was completely blown away. Chris thought he saw his captain out of his element before, accidentally dropping the man on the floor and then looming over him like a creep. He thought wrong. Now, it was something completely different. Wesker’s eyelids were half-folded, a beautiful shade of pink painting his strong cheekbones. Short, ragged breaths were slipping through those swollen, bitten-red lips (the result of Chris’ doings), a mental battle going on in this fair-haired head. Finally, the blonde slowly shifted his gaze and those mesmerizing blue eyes looked straight into Chris’ one-

“I-” the man barely managed to utter, his voice small and uncertain, when Redfield jumped at him again like a starving carnivore.

The second kiss was much more skillful, Chris’ reining himself in enough to keep track of his actions. One of his hands laid on the back of Wesker’s head, pressing their lips firmer. Although Redfield’s whole being was twisting from a desire to grab onto this ‘always-neat’ hair and pull, he just ran his fingers through the surprisingly soft crew-cut, giving Wesker’s scalp a gentle scratch. The blonde let out a noise, quite close to a purr, and the sound of it went straight to Chris’ cock. His other hand flew to the small of Wesker’s back, pulling the man closer with such a fervor, the blonde yelped into Redfield’s lips out of surprise and barely managed to press his outstretched arms to the wall on both sides of Chris’ head, to keep his balance. His fingers curled into a fist, grabbing onto the fabric of Redfield’s leather jacket, hanging on the wall, for dear life. The cool material helped Wesker to stay grounded, so as not to lose contact with reality under such an intoxicating attention. An anxious thought, an alarm bell in the blonde’s head was telling the man to push Chris away (he shouldn’t have let this whole thing happen in the first place!), but it felt so unexpectedly good to be touched like this (he couldn't remember the last time he kissed someone, let alone allowed to be kissed), that Wesker let himself to prolong this moment of passion a little bit longer. The way Redfield’s lips moved against his mouth, the wet sounds, muffled moans they made while kissing – Wesker really started to doubt whether he was as immune to sexual influence as he previously thought.  

When the men finally let go of each other, the blonde immediately leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the wall just above Chris’ shoulder. His breathing was erratic in the pointman’s ear, the world swaying a bit under his eyelids.

“Are you ok?” Redfield inquired carefully, his hand sliding from the blonde’s waist up, to his shoulder blades. Wesker didn’t answer, just kept standing there, silent, his right hand still grabbing at Chris' jacket. The pointman wondered now if his reckless behavior scared his captain off and so, instead of guessing blind-fold, he addressed the man again, “Wesker?” When this didn’t give a result too, Redfield raised his voice, and uttered more persistently, “Albert!”

The mentioning of his first name must’ve done some magic, because Wesker shuddered and slowly straightened, lowering his eyes to look at the pointman closely. “Christopher-” he uttered, neither in a question, nor in a statement.

For a moment, both men just stared at each other, trying to read each other’s facial expressions and think over what just happened. Chris was the first one to speak up. Giving his captain a tight, timid smile, he started, “Does this means that you are considering an option to be-”, the next words stuck in the brunet’s throat, as awkwardness rolled over him.

“-considering to be?” Wesker prompted, arching his brow.

“-to be my boyfriend?” Redfield finished, and seeing how the blonde winced at the word, let out a light laugh. “Well, I know it sounds sappy, but I just can’t come up with another word right now, Cap. My brain refuses to cooperate.” Despite every effort, the marksman couldn’t resist and broke into a wide, love-stuck smile.

Another of Wesker’s brows arched. “Don’t push it,” he said as a warning, taking a step back and breaking free from Chris’ embrace. Redfield let out a displeased sound in the back of his throat; it made the blonde smirk right away. “Don’t push it, Christopher,” he repeated, seeing that the brunet’s wide grin wasn’t in a hurry to disappear. “I need to think it all over. Ideally, I should've let you approach me like this at all, since you’re my subordinate (‘and can blow up my cover easily if I let you under my skin’, Wesker added mentally), but given the situation- I’ll let you know what I’ve decided at the end of the day.”

Despite such a cold answer, Redfield still beamed at his captain, feeling high from pure adrenaline rushing through his veins; he actually feared he could start hyperventilating at this point. “So, how good are my chances to be your man?” He inquired, following Wesker on his heels to his private office.

The blonde rolled his eyes behind his shades. “Currently, forty percent,” he informed dryly, taking his seat behind the table. His hand instantly found its place on top of the mouse, and the man slightly jerked it from side to side, to bring the computer out of a sleeping mode.

“Oh, come on! Why so little?” Redfield whined, offended.

“Thirty eight,” Wesker corrected himself, glancing at his subordinate above his black shades in disapproval.

The pointman jerked back in a feigned fright. “Ok, alright! I get it, I’m leaving,” he raised his both hands, palms opened, in an act of surrendering. Then, already heading towards the door, the marksman slowed in his steps, as if changing his mind, and hurried to return to Wesker’s working place. The blonde man barely managed to lift his head, to give his subordinate a stern look, as Chris took him by the neck (a bit possessively, one must say), and landed a quick peck on Wesker’s lips. Two more kisses followed, each more sensual than the last one (the marksman probably decided it wasn’t enough kissing for today).

At one point, Wesker grabbed his pointman by the wrist, softly but decisively, and that touch alone was enough for Redfield to retreat.

“Sorry, got carried away,” the pointman murmured in a low voice against the captain's lips. “I never actually tried drugs, but guess I know how it feels to be addicted now.”

Such a corny statement made Wesker involuntarily chuckle. Clicking his tongue, he pushed Redfield away. “How poetic,” the blonde teased with a smirk. “Now, begone. I haven't adopted your habit of slacking off yet, so you forgive me if I’ll return to my work.”

“Yessir!” The pointman saluted him jokingly and then stormed out of Wesker’s office, nearly taking the door off its hinges, ecstatic as ever.

When the door of the S.T.A.R.S. office slammed shut under the force of Chris’ unhinged happiness, Wesker breathed out heavily. He slowly took his glasses off, to run a hand over his face. Although he was still a bit shaken, agitated by such a wild turn of events, his mind managed to start clearing up nonetheless. Against his will, a little smile curled at the corner of the blonde’s lips.

He had plenty of time to think everything over, the necessity of this affair with Chris, the possible risks it may cause. If Wesker manages to keep everything under control, reducing their relationships to purely physical interactions, it would work. He will be able to take pleasure from it, both of them, until his fake mission here, in RPD, ends, this house of cards burns to ashes.

And as Wesker was ready to plunge into his work again, Chris's brunette head showed up in the door gap again, forcing the captain to sigh in annoyance.

“Are you still here, Christopher?” The blonde asked, not even taking his eyes off the monitor.

“Yeah, I forgot to ask: do you want me to buy you something in the cafeteria?”

Giving this offer a thought, Wesker shifted his gaze to look directly at his bothersome ‘best man’ and nodded, saying, “Espresso, two sugar, no milk.”

Redfield broke into a smile again and exclaimed, “Yes, sir! Understood, sir.”

Such cheerfulness was, seemingly, contagious, because Wesker couldn’t help but to smile back.

Yes, things could definitely work between them.