Chapter Text
Chris had anticipated quite a bit of trouble when it came to Wesker, but not like this. For starters, Wesker himself was the easiest to deal with. The man never woke up during transport back to the West African branch HQ. The medical team came to retrieve him, utilizing the same emergency protocol for if one of their own had been infected with a virus. The real trouble came with everyone else. Jill wasn't happy to see Wesker again, especially when she realized he was still alive and not in a body bag. Chris was prepared for that even though he was far too tired to fend off the full brunt of her disgust and displeasure about it.
Thankfully the second medical team came to interrupt their dispute to get Jill treatment for her wounds. Chris felt guilty for being so relieved to finally be left alone. He wanted nothing more than a shower, change of clothes, a hot meal and a cold drink. The BSAA had even been gracious enough to let him sleep it all off afterwards. It was a short lived pleasure when he woke up sore but rested, to the news that the West African branch and the North American branch were currently in an intense disagreement about how Albert Wesker should be dealt with.
The former wanted to keep him there to be tried and prosecuted for his crimes in Africa, meanwhile the North American branch wanted him extradited back. There was a lot of talk going on, and nobody was consulting Chris on any of this. He didn't always like leveraging his position of power within the BSAA, especially when so few people were aware of it to begin with but in this particular case he was willing to do just that.
“Albert Wesker will be extradited back to North America where his case will be thoroughly investigated. The North American branch, myself specifically, has been building this investigation for well over a decade. He's my responsibility.” Chris had stood his ground, unwavering in the face of the director and all the board members of the West African BSAA.
He expected resistance.
“We commend you for your hard work in bringing Albert Wesker down, Captain Redfield, but transporting such a high risk prisoner is out of the question.” The director stated firmly. “I will not lose any more good men to this fight.”
“Then give me a plane and I’ll transport him myself.” Chris pressed back. He’s certainly done longer flight drills in the past. He was willing to do it if it meant taking Albert back home where he belonged. “I am not leaving without Wesker in my custody.”
He stood resolute, even as excuses, bickering and even a few laughs that had mistaken his declarations as being well made jokes to lighten the tense mood filled the office. When the members realized he was entirely serious, and was refusing to back down, an intense silence fell over the room. Only the squeaky whir of the fan blades working their hardest to fend off the dry African heat could be heard.
There was deliberation. More discussions. Chris had already discussed the hypotheticals with the engineers and checked in with the medical team beforehand to formulate his plan on whether Wesker could be successfully sedated that whole time. He laid it all out before the board. Every last detail. Eventually they conceded, but they did not allow him to leave alone. The North American branch sent their own plane to pick them both up. Jill was scheduled to depart on a different craft in a few days when she was cleared to be stable enough for the stressful flight.
Due to the nature of Wesker’s superhuman abilities and his recent exposure to an altered variant of the Progenitor virus, he was sedated and locked in a specialized containment unit designed specifically for transporting living B.O.Ws for research purposes. It wasn't often that they got to utilize it like this. It looked like a large metallic coffin with a translucent front. A mixture of oxygen and a sedative gas was carefully measured and pumped into the unit to keep the man from waking up. The onboard medical officer that had accompanied them was taking continuous notes on Wesker’s vitals throughout the flight.
There was a little bit of turbulence they had hit about halfway through the flight when rough weather met their path. Wesker’s vitals had spiked momentarily, alarming the security team that had joined them. Every man was anxiously watching the unit, their hands settled on their guns. Chris was a little nervous of what might happen, a majority of his fear came from being trapped in a flying metal cage with a bunch of jumpy armed men with hair triggers, and all the horrible ways that could turn. He urged them all to relax as he approached the containment unit with the same comfort of all his previous approaches.
“You just keep sleeping, Albert. We’re almost home.” The medical officer was nervously checking the tanks attached to the unit to ensure they weren't damaged. His wide eyes jumped from their gauges back up to the monitor showing Albert’s vitals. Chris had noticed it too, but dismissed it as a coincidence as the turbulence settled down, that Albert had started to calm down as well.
The rest of the flight had no more hiccups. They arrived safely at the North American HQ of the BSAA.
Two more seizures.
Dozens of tests.
Even more samples taken from the superhuman man than Chris could count.
Four days.
He put a stop to it by the fourth day after the second seizure had happened. He did not bring Albert back here alive to become a test subject for the BSAA. They could take their samples for analysis and to create vaccines but he would not stand by and let these people- his people- become like Tricell and Umbrella.
If he had known what the North American branch had originally had in store for Wesker in their insistence to have him extradited back, Chris would have given the man the mercy he was looking for and shot him on the spot back on that ship. He was disgusted. He was furious. It was the first time he had raised his voice like that in a very long time. His words were deafening in the room as he shamed the board for their actions. He lashed into them with more venom than he's ever done before. Not since he stood in Chief Irons office at the R.P.D and fought against the man's disbandment of S.T.A.R.S right when they were in the middle of the biggest investigation of their lives.
Three hours later.
His throat hurt.
His voice was brittle and raspy from abuse.
In the end, Chris got his way.
Wesker was moved out of the lab’s containment cells and put in the intensive medical wing. He was given a proper room. It looked like a normal hospital room with it's blank white walls and polished white floors. There was a bed and a rolling side table beside it that could easily be arranged. A visitor's chair made of a hard translucent plastic. A camera in the corner of the room recorded audio and video. No windows. The walls and door were reinforced. Not even a Hunter could break out of that room.
Chris had visited the man. He was no longer under sedation but he showed no signs of waking up. His body had taken a massive toll in the past week. His vitals were stable and there was an oxygen mask that helped ensure he was breathing properly. It had been a full day since the last seizure. Chris couldn't help but notice how pale Albert looked like this. His wounds had healed. There was a scar on his back from where he had tried to cut the microchip out of his body.
The research department had already begun their analysis of it. There was thirteen years worth of data on the compact little device. The way the chip worked required the information to be offloaded to a server every few years to keep the chip from getting too overwhelmed. The team presumed that since Wesker had destroyed all of the servers Umbrella, and in relation, Spencer was using to collect this information, it couldn't be offloaded into their systems. And for whatever reason, Wesker either wasn't aware of it immediately, or didn't know how to do it himself. It recorded intimate details about the man’s life every single day since the last reset that was done on it. Just as Chris had suspected, it functioned in a similar manner to the data chips implanted in B.O.Ws in the past, implementing programs and protocols to control the behavior and actions of the subject. There were a lot of programs installed in Wesker’s chip, but it was getting overwhelmed without the regular maintenance they suspected should have been happening. It was prone to causing surges of erratic behavior, glitching out the protocols and overwhelming the nervous system in his brain.
“There's even a program that keeps him from removing it himself.” One of the researchers had pointed out in their analysis. There was a series of codes across the screen that Chris couldn't make heads or tails of. “It's a Self Preservation protocol.”
Chris frowned. “But he had tried to remove it himself when we found him.”
“I have a theory on that.” The agent leaned back in their chair as they pulled up the recorded vitals at the time of the fight. Wesker’s body was going haywire. Some of these numbers would have killed a lesser man. “When you introduced the extra dose of the virus into his system, you unintentionally overwhelmed the chip so badly it couldn't record and issue protocols anymore. It had to choose between one or the other. It's manufactured to prioritize recording data over anything else so of course it focused on that. So the self preservation part of its programming shut down long enough for Wesker to regain some control against it.”
“I see.” Some part of Wesker must have realized this, somehow during the fight. He wondered absently what that feeling must have been like. To be going through so much pain, to fight off a mutation with every last ounce of his own strength then to realize he had control in that moment. That he had the freedom to choose at that moment. ‘Was that why he ran away from us the first time?’
Wesker wasn't one to run away from a fight, even one that had the odds shifted against him. He enjoyed the challenge. He enjoyed the thrill.
‘Did he really?’ That was the upsetting part about it. Chris was second guessing everything he knew about the man. What was actually Wesker and what was this chip distorting his behavior and making him do the things he did.
“Keep analyzing the data.” Chris had urged the agent, giving their shoulder a firm appreciative pat. “Good work.”
The man straightened up in his seat and shot Chris a little smile. It was an innocent thing but it clearly did the job of motivating their efforts. His quiet amusement as the sound of hasty keys being clicked started behind him as he turned to leave.
The first time Wesker woke up, Chris was up in his office going back over all the information they had collected over the years. The data, the files from Spencer, Umbrella’s own research. Even several reports written and submitted by Agent Kennedy in his own studies of B.O.Ws, specifically those of the tyrant class. If Wesker’s mutation could be classified as anything close to it, the tyrant class seemed like his best bet.
He was drawn out of his concentration by the sound of his office phone ringing. The medical officer in charge of Wesker’s care informed him that the aforementioned man was awake. His first words were asking for Chris.
“I'll be right there.” He assured them before hanging up. He was already on his feet and was rushing out of the office for the nearest elevator. It had been nine days since he brought Wesker back from Africa. Nine days since he last spoke to the man. Since he spared his life.
Chris would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous about seeing him. He tried to mentally prepare himself on the way down, expecting anger or confusion. Maybe even outrage or the usual snide remarks. There were so many possibilities, but Chris didn't think any of them would follow the lines of gratitude. He wouldn't get his hopes up expecting something like that. The elevator ride was too short for his comfort. It dinged to signal he had arrived. The boring sterile white and pale blue walls of the medical floor had always made him uncomfortable walking down. It resembled a lot of the research facilities they've infiltrated, making him expect trouble around every corner. Today, it wasn't a bloodied up B.O.W waiting for him when he turned down the correct hallway leading to Wesker’s room, but the medical officer and his two subordinates anxiously standing outside the door.
“Is something wrong?” He asked, slowing his approach.
“No sir.” The officer declared easily. “Once we realized he was conscious, we vacated the room and contacted you.”
‘Ah.’ They were probably uneasy about being left alone with someone like Wesker. No matter how capable these three were in their field, and their handling of B.O.Ws in the past, Wesker was that one subject nobody wanted to be around. He was dangerous, unpredictable and one of the most brilliant medical minds of his generation. He could understand their immediate discomfort.
“Alright. I'll deal with it.” He assured them with an easy going smile. The two subordinates were surprised by his relaxed demeanor before swiping his ID across the sensor and punching in his personnel code. The automated door lit up with a green overhead light permitting him access into the room.
Everything looked the same as all the other times Chris had come down here to visit the man. He would sit in the hard uncomfortable plastic chair and talk to Wesker while he slept. The room was dimly lit. There was no window to give any natural light to this space so the overhead lights could be manipulated to give the impression of an early morning just before the sun rises. The sleepy gray shadows that clung to every corner were normally a comfort. The whole room was sedated, only the quiet sound of Wesker breathing through the mask interrupted it.
He still looked so out of place in the bed with all the tubes and wires attached to his body. An EKG kept a steady monitor of his heart rhythm, an I.V line was attached to one arm, an oxygen tube criss crossed them to reach his mask. It still felt strange to see the man without his glasses. Chris had collected the damaged remnants of the lenses he destroyed before leaving that cargo ship on a whim and delivered them to the research department to get new ones made. For as long as he's known Albert, he has never seen the man without them on his person. Analysis on the remaining lense had shown they were some sort of high powered prescription grade lenses with a military grade frame. Their function appeared to confirm the researchers' earlier suspicions that Wesker’s eyes suffered an acute sensitivity to light exposure. Whether this sensitivity was something he was born with or came as a side effect of his mutation or exposure to the viruses was unknown.
Stepping closer to the bed, Chris made his way slowly towards the chair to take a seat. The monitors displaying the older man’s vitals were steady.
‘He must have fallen back asleep.’ That was alright. Chris could wait a little while.
Chris was having trouble keeping his eyes open. The sedated peace of the room, the low lighting, the steady monotonous rhythm of Wesker’s breathing, it all wasn't helping him stay awake. Even the careful temperature control of the room had his body feeling comfortable enough to try for some shut-eye. It was a struggle to keep his eyelids from drooping.
‘I have to keep my guard up.’ He firmly reminded himself. Since rapidly blinking the urge to sleep away wasn't working, he rose stiffly off the creaky seat and tried the method of getting his blood flowing again. Chris hadn't taken more than three steps away from Wesker’s bed when he heard the soft rasp of the older man’s voice call.
“Christopher?”
He turned suddenly at the quiet sound, studying the prone form of his former Captain for any signs of activity. Wesker’s eyes were barely open enough for the red glow of his iris’ to peek through. The heart rate on the monitor rose a few beats as the man roused.
“Albert.” Chris called softly back.
There was a smile. A weak fragile thing partially hidden behind the mask on the man's face. “You're here.” It came out in a great breath of relief. Chris felt a little uncertain of how to respond to that. This Wesker was still unpredictable to him.
“Yeah. The doctor called me when you woke up.”
“I see.” The older man sighed. His voice was getting a little stronger. It sounded more solid with every attempt. “How is the rest of the team? Is everyone okay?”
“Wha- team? ” Chris’ confusion couldn't be missed. He straightened, studying Wesker for some clue as to what the man was playing at. It had to be some kind of joke, right? Albert was toying with him-
“It was an avalanche, wasn't it?” Albert shifted weakly on the bed like he wanted to sit up to talk to Chris better but he lacked the strength to do it. His head sank back with a wilted defeat. “Did Alpha team get out safely?”
‘Alpha team-’ He felt his blood run cold. ‘Is he talking about the Blizzard of ‘97?’
There was a ferocious blizzard in the January of 1997 that S.T.A.R.S alpha team had been dispatched to do a rescue in. The storm hadn't kicked up yet to its fullest, and they were racing the clock to save two families that were trapped up in the mountains with no power and no way down. Their homes were so far off the grid, it became impossible for them to get back down to the city. Alpha team was deployed to get them out but the storm kicked up bad, and they had to walk the victims down two miles to a safer pickup location. They were afraid the sound of their helicopters may trigger an avalanche on them. Unfortunately, it came anyway when the blizzard reached its peak. They barely managed to get the victims out but Joseph Frost and Captain Wesker had been caught up in the falling snow.
It was sheer luck that they both managed to survive. Albert had seen it coming and clipped his safety belt to Joseph’s climbing harness. Then made their way towards the trees at the edge of the landing zone where they attempted to use the sturdier ones to weather the flow of snow by climbing up above it in the hopes they wouldn't get swept away or crushed under the ice and debris. Joseph had suffered a dislocated shoulder while trying to hang on, and Albert had several more minor injuries as well as a concussion.
Chris had been upset that they were forced to fly back to their base camp and leave the two of them behind. Their main priority was the survivors they rescued. The storm was getting too out of control for him and Brad to fly in any longer and they risked everyone going down if they didn't leave soon. It took four hours for the blizzard to reach enough of a calm for them to return, tracking the locator beacons on Joseph and Albert’s vests to find them on the mountain. They were dangerously close to hypothermia and both struggling to stay conscious, but they managed until help arrived.
‘Did he lose his memory?’ That was a very real possibility. None of them knew what they were dealing with right now. Still, it hurt to think about. To think of Alpha team again like this. To revisit these memories of a time when Chris loved and trusted this man implicitly.
Chris cleared his throat and tried a measure of ease as he reassured his former Captain. “Yeah, Alpha team is alright. Joe walked away with a dislocated shoulder but thanks to your quick thinking, he survived.”
Albert sighed, appearing to be genuinely relieved by that news. “Good.”
The soldier licked his lips, chasing away how dry and chapped they had become during his visit to Africa. “How are you feeling, Captain?”
“Like a mountain fell on me.” His old boss joked dryly. His voice rasped at the end, growing weak and breathy. Albert sounded so tired. “I trust you're managing the workload in my absence.”
“Yeah.” Chris grunted, a wiggle of a pained smile. This felt wrong. So terribly wrong. He prayed it was just some sick joke on Wesker’s part, some sadistic attempt to fuck with his head a little more as payback for everything Chris had done to him. But the look in the elder man’s eyes told him this was genuine. Wesker meant every word he said. His concerns were sincere. “All that paperwork. I got Irons breathing down my neck for it.”
“If Irons has a problem with how you run things, you can tell him he's more than welcome to have a chat with me.” There was that warning edge that Chris was more familiar with. The intensity that was both a warning and a threat. A shiver of unease crawled down Chris’ spine.
Albert released a tired sigh that rushed out of him, sinking him back into the bed. He was tired. His eyelids were drooping. The soft wispy words that followed were the last Chris heard from the man for the day. “ I trust you to do good work, Christopher. You're my best man after all.”
It wasn't long before Albert started to slip back to sleep. His head tilted into the pillow as his eyelids fell closed. The steady rhythm of his vitals returned to their earlier numbers. Chris lingered, conflicted by hope and dread before he finally managed to make his feet move. He had a contact report to write up regarding Wesker’s current state of mind and everything they discussed.
After submitting the report, the medical team was made aware of Albert’s skewed sense of awareness. It was something they intended to study more closely subjecting the elder man to more tests. They took several more scans of his brain, did x-rays of his spine, and imaging of the area where the microchip had been removed in search of some answer as to why this lapse in memory was happening. Unfortunately Chris couldn't stick around to find out the results.
He had been pulled away for a different investigation the BSAA was having a lot of trouble with. His expertise was needed elsewhere. His absence had only lasted a week. The problem was resolved quickly after his arrival. The most taxing and time consuming part of the whole thing came afterwards as he juggled the logistics of moving equipment and manpower around in a clean up effort. Their staff was spread thin at the moment so he had to make due with what he could. Both the North American branch and the European branch had sent many of their agents to assist the West African branch with their own recovery efforts. Offering manpower and temporary transfers until new hires and recruits could be trained to fill the massive gaps in their ranks. There were quite a few veteran members who were willing to be transfered permanently to fill leadership positions to prepare the next generation of agents.
By the time he returned to his office, there was a very large folder from the head medical officer waiting for him. It was filled with test results, medical charts, detailed reports about every encounter with Albert Wesker for the past week by every single staff member, and even an in-depth report by the security team tasked with observing and documenting every change in Wesker’s behavior as seen through the camera in his room.
The general consensus was, he did not have amnesia. Which puzzled Chris deeply. As he continued to read the medical officer’s final conclusion, it was suspected that whatever damage that happened to Wesker’s body between the time Chris and Sheva injected him with PG67A/W and the time of his first awakening had done something to his brain. The closest comparison they had to go off of was the experience of time slipping often observed and recorded in dementia patients. Wesker didn't have the usual signs of dementia that they would expect, just this one particular issue. It could have been the overdose of the virus or the numerous seizures or even the removal of the chip after so many years that had done it to him. They didn't know.
He wasn't always in the S.T.A.R.S era headspace as they had taken to calling it. There were several instances where Wesker seemed to be his normal insufferable self, criticizing and critiquing the other medical personnel as they attempt to do their jobs. He mostly behaved himself and complied to their requests with reluctance, but snide remarks aside, he posed no real threat.
There was a follow-up page from that afternoon where the doctor commented that Wesker was still recovering his strength. He had trouble walking or standing on his own and spent most of his day sleeping. Despite there being no windows or clocks in his room, he had a knack for waking up just as the sun went down becoming far more active throughout the night. This was less a concern for his wellbeing and more of a unique observation on the research team's part as they pondered whether the virus had a nocturnal effect on the man’s habits. Chris could answer that rather easily without the biology degree to back it. He's known the man long enough to know his former Captain was a habitual nightowl that preferred the evening shifts over the early mornings.
It wasn't that surprising to read. But Wesker's tendency for time slipping as the team had put it, was what worried Chris the most.
“Captain Redfield.” This time an agent came directly to Chris’ office with the urgent report. He had only just returned from a meeting with the director when the younger man caught him in the hallway just outside his door. “You're needed in the medical wing.”
‘That’s discomforting.’ Chris clenched his jaw in mild irritation, turning suddenly on his heel to backtrack to the elevator. The young agent who's name he couldn't recall off the top of his head - maybe he was a new recruit- didn't follow him. He just stood there, silently staring after the soldier as he pressed the button for the correct floor. The man looked nervously back at Chris before scurrying off to whatever new task he was eager to occupy himself with that didn't involve the extremely dangerous super genius B.O.W they were keeping a few floors below their feet. Everyone in the BSAA seemed to have two modes when it came to Albert Wesker.
Venomous disgust or pale faced terror.
Chris was possibly the only person in the entire building who faced that name with tired resignation.
The door closed. The elevator ride was slow and tedious. It dinged upon arrival at the correct floor.
Once again the medical officer was waiting for him near the door to Wesker’s room. Chris barely even got his boots on the ground when the man started his report. “He was cooperating with us all week and now he refuses to let anyone near him until he can talk to you.”
That….wasn't what Chris was expecting.
“Has he hurt anyone?”
“No.” The officer replied. “My staff has kept their distance from him the moment he started becoming agitated.”
“Good.” With a sigh, he waved off the medical team and swiped his ID in front of the access panel. Punching in his code, the door lit up permitting him entry. For whatever reason, Chris was expecting the room to be trashed. He was genuinely shocked that it was still just as neat as it was the first time he came in to chat with Wesker.
The man in question was sitting up in the bed with the pillows adjusted to better support his reclined posture. The oxygen mask was gone and so was the EKG that was closely monitoring him last time. Only the I.V remained fixed to his arm. The bedding was disheveled. The top blankets were askew across the older man’s legs like he had tried to kick them off the bed or move them around to no avail. He had a sour look on his face as red eyes glared at Chris in the brightly lit room.
“Finally, someone with common sense.” Wesker snapped, his voice was rife with a heavy note of cold sarcasm. “Chris, would you do me a kindness and please shut that fucking light off?”
He spoke the word with the expected level of vitriol that was typical of a normal Wesker. The soldier paused in the doorway before glancing at the security pad by the door. It was locked and required one of the staff to access it to make adjustments to lighting and room temperature. Chris punched in his code to unlock the screen before dimming the lights down to zero. The sleepy shadows fell back over the room as Wesker’s sour expression started to soften slowly to something more relaxed and neutral. His agitation was clearly caused by some form of pain as the older man raised his hands to massage at his temples.
“Is that all you called me down here for?” Chris asked with a tug of his own irritation curling in his gut. He thought it was something actually urgent. “You could have asked the staff to do the same thing.”
“Of course not.” Wesker spat, sounding a bit more offended by the insinuation. “I'm not so petty as to unnecessarily waste someone's time with something so fucking trivial.”
“Okay.” He approached the side of the bed where the plastic visitor chair was situated against the wall where someone had shoved it aside. He wondered if it was moved when they transfered Albert to another part of the facility for tests and they just never put it back. He glanced around at the side table and the bed, brows furrowed in confusion. “Where are your glasses?”
“Last I recall, you blew them off my face with a rocket.” The man grimaced as he squeezed his glowing red eyes shut to find some relief from whatever strain the bright lights of the room may have caused him.
Chris refrained from the urge to roll his eyes. “No, your new pair. I put in an order that a new set was to be made for you. Were they not provided yet?”
Wesker opened his eyes and straightened up, giving the soldier a confused look. Accompanied by a very firm and unsatisfied. "No.”
“Excuse me a moment.” He turned away from the man and made his way back to the door. A quick punch of his code permitted him back out of the room with a noisy beep. The medical officer was still hanging around just beyond the doorway on the chance that Chris would need his assistance with anything. The door had closed behind Chris giving them the privacy that Wesker wasn't afforded. “Where are those glasses I ordered for him?”
“Glasses?” The officer echoed, puzzled as he stared at the soldier like he had grown a second head. “What glasses?”
“The prescription grade sunglasses I ordered from the research department. I provided the originals to have a new pair duplicated for Wesker when we arrived.” Chris elaborated. With the look the man was giving him, the soldier may as well have been explaining the laws of gravity to a brick wall. The officer quietly excused himself to go inquire about that specific request that apparently never made it to the medical wing. Chris’ growing irritation was getting harder and harder to brush off lately with all the mistakes being made since he returned from Africa. He didn't have the time or the energy to honestly spare to micromanage every department to make sure things were getting done in a timely fashion. It's been well over a week. If there was an issue with replicating the sunglasses for whatever reason, then the least they could have done was inform him of the problem so they could try to find a way around it and look for a new solution. But he wasn't even given that basic courtesy.
After several minutes in a presumably long phone call with the research department, the medical officer returned with an update. He looked uneasy as he shared the information that the research department had given him. “The glasses you requested were completed last week.”
The man took a nervous breath in preparation for an explanation Chris felt he wasn't going to like in the slightest. “However, the permission to give them to the patient was denied by the board. They are considered a nonessential item that the subject has no need for since there is no window in his room, and he will not be leaving this wing for the foreseeable future.”
It took every last ounce of self restraint and discipline in his body to not raise his voice or punch a wall in anger. It wasn't the medical officer’s fault, or the research department’s. They were just doing their jobs and following orders. Even if those orders continuously sabotaged all of Chris’ efforts to keep some sort of balance and sanity after every fucked up thing he had to go through in Africa. His fists tightened at his sides until his knuckles ached in protest from the force alone.
A careful breath eased him down enough to stop grinding his teeth until he risked cracking a tooth. “Tell the research department to send them here anyway. They are medically necessary regardless of what the board says. They're not the ones in charge of Wesker’s case. I am. If the board has a problem, they can take it up with me.”
He didn't care if it was disrespectful. After a lifetime spent having people who never had to do their own dirty work try to tell him how to do his god damn job, he had quickly quit caring what anyone thought about his actions. The only man who had ever gained Chris’ respect to the point he never had to deal with the push back and frequent stints of insubordination until the very end was currently a B.O.W locked in the room behind him. He wasn't sure whether that said more about his own fucked up mentality, or was a shameful yet surprising example of the differences between a brilliant war criminal and the board of an organization devoted to ending those acts of terrorism.
“Understood sir.” The officer looked incredibly uncomfortable with these new orders. Chris didn't really have the energy left to care. He didn't wait for the man to leave before turning back to the keypad to re-enter Wesker’s room. The man was still sitting up in the same position as Chris had previously left him. His face had relaxed some, easing a lot of the tension and discomfort out of his expression from earlier. Albert still didn't open his eyes. He kept his hands close to his temples as he breathed deeply through his nose and sighed.
“Where were my manners?” His former Captain quietly called to the soldier. Polite and apologetic. The pale lines of his face were darkened and distorted by the shadows giving him a more aged and sinister appearance. “It's a good day to see you again, Christopher.”
“Albert.” Chris grunted back in greeting. “How are you feeling?”
“Better today than I suppose I was a week ago.” He said it with a slight note of hesitance. Like he wasn't entirely certain of that fact and was searching for a confirmation or correction that Chris wasn't sure he should give.
The soldier remarked easily. “You look better.”
He shoved the hard plastic chair closer to his former Captain’s bedside to take a seat. Oddly enough, being in here alone with Albert was the least stressful part of his week. He sat down with far more weight to his motion than he intended to. The chair protested adamantly and scraped across the floor. The wave of mental fatigue had escaped him in a great sigh. He needed a vacation. A long one. Or maybe even an early retirement. Would that be too selfish of him? It was getting harder to keep himself motivated in the fight. It's been well over a decade and nothing ever really seemed to change.
“You look worse.” Albert observed. Chris tilted his head to inspect the man with a curious glance. A pair of slitted red eyes watched him intently. “You're trying to carry the world on your shoulders as per usual.”
Chris rolled his eyes. Then changed the subject. “I put in another request for your glasses. Hopefully you should have them soon.”
Albert’s expression softened, growing thoughtful and considerate. He settled his hands to rest in his lap with a quiet nod. “Thank you, Christopher.”
There was a very very small group of people who could comfortably and freely call Chris by his full name and not face backlash from the soldier. Most of them were public servants that dealt in paperwork where his full legal name was necessary. Even fewer were in his social circle, and Wesker was the only person outside of his own family who had called him that back in his S.T.A.R.S days. Often times only in private moments like this when it was just the two of them. Likewise, Chris had always assumed the same privilege of himself in being able to call his former Captain by his first name.
Hearing it now, using them now, felt strange to him. It was a rare moment when he did use Albert’s first name back then when referring to the man to his face. But after everything he discovered about his former Captain’s past and the origin of his last name, and what it truly meant, he found it hard to rationalize calling him by that anymore.
The room fell silent. Albert had this look about him like he wanted to say something. Chris waited patiently, watching the man as his hands fidgeted restlessly with the edges of the blanket. It was bunched up around his hips, obscuring the thin fabric hemming of the hospital grade white pants he had been provided. His upper body was left bare. There were red splotch marks that were glossy from the hard to remove adhesive left behind from the long term presence of the EKG patches. Faint scratch marks resided around the reddened spots where Albert had itched at them repeatedly. His blond hair was just as disheveled and messy as the rest of him appeared to be. The little strands of his bangs kept falling across his forehead pointing out at different angles. Presumably from a long stint between washing it and the usual bedhead that came from sleeping so much. It was a look Chris rarely got to see in the meticulous man who obsessed over every detail of his appearance back in the day. Nothing less than perfection was acceptable.
“Christopher?” Albert’s voice was quieter now. His inhuman gaze was fixed on the messy tangle of blankets over his knees. Chris tilted his chin a fraction, his own eyes never strayed from studying his former boss. A hum rose in his throat in acknowledgement.
Albert didn't speak immediately. There was this lost look in his eyes that he refused to turn towards Chris. His fingers balled up the blanket in his grasp. He looked like he wanted to curl up underneath it all and hide just to avoid what was troubling his mind.
“Is something wrong, Albert?”
A small nod. Barely a jerk of motion that could easily be mistaken for an indecisive twitch or an aborted gesture.
“I-” The sound broke off in his throat as Albert lowered his head. “The real reason I asked for you to come is-”
Chris had this uneasy feeling in his gut. He sat forward, resting on the edge of his seat in an attempt to give Albert his full attention. To show he was engaged and listening to whatever he had to say. The mood in the room had shifted in a direction Chris wasn't expecting and didn't really know how to deal with without further explanation by the aforementioned man. If there was a problem or some concern that Albert was warring with, then Chris would need him to feel comfortable enough to divulge these things to him so they could be addressed and resolved.
It came in a rush of air that deflated out of him. Words so small and scared that Chris almost missed their utterance in the first place. Albert looked pale, his fingers tugged anxiously at the blanket as that admission finally processed in his head and started to really sink in through the shock.
“I can't feel my legs anymore.”