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The emergency call rang in to the Raccoon Police Deparment's night shift at 9:38pm, and routed to the on-duty responding team by 9:39pm. S.T.A.R.S. Alpha unit was on-scene no later than 9:57pm.
11:13PM, Wesker's watch now reads. He taps its screen and the light blinks out, sending him back into inky darkness.
What a mess this has become, he thinks miserably.
Set on the outskirts of Raccoon City, inside a two-story ranch-style home, Wesker is the last of Alpha squad to continue his search throughout the building; the others, at his command, wait outside for medical responders to arrive. He peers around a corner, handgun drawn by his waist with the tip of a finger resting on the barrel above its trigger. A hallway expands before him, dimly lit by the crack of light coming from a single door haphazardly left ajar; dust and other particles swirl about in the soft golden beam it creates. The sight alone annoys him – a thoughtless in-action, to leave ones self so exposed, all from the self-declared best of the best. Wesker's mouth twitches but his eyes roam the area a moment longer, waiting to see if any further surprises lay in wait. The far end remains dark still, an enticing black void that beckons investigation – but that is not why he's here. He'll send Valentine and Burton once his objective is complete.
His footsteps, dampened by the worn runner carpet, are measured, steady, body half angled back on the unlikely chance he's been followed here. The foul, biting smell of rot and blood hangs in the air and Wesker blows harshly through his nose; a rare surge of frustration. Years of careful planning. Of preparation. Perfect precision trial after trial, crafted to ensure the optimal outcome when it was time to set in motion what had been lifetimes in the making. And yet here he stands, dealing in the aftermath of another misstep by Umbrella's finest.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
The cool churn of fury settles in his stomach at the memory.
A mousy man, red-faced and tousled hair – not much shorter than William, Albert mused – sprinted into one of the lower-level labs.
"Doctor Wesker–" he panted, as unused to physical activity as most of the scientists there were, "the hounds– there was a malfunction in the lockdown mechanism. The pack got loose– "
Wesker simply turned on his heel and left.
If you need something done –
Decades of work accidentally set loose to a world that wanted nothing more than to chew it up and spit it out worse.
The cracks in Umbrella are growing. This is why he needs to leave.
Soon, it will no longer be his job to clean up their mess.
A groan pulls Wesker's focus back to the door, soft enough to miss if one wasn't expecting it. His steps pick up pace. He doesn't rush – but it's a near thing. The hallway narrows to that one pinprick of light, warping the room around it as if nothing but what lays beyond it were real. The thrill of what rests on the other side draws him in, closer and closer. As he approches, one hand bracing against the warped, paint-streaked wood, a familiar shadow passes across the light. Beyond it the sound of fabric dragging across the floor, crawling closer. A mirror of Wesker's anticipation. He holds one final breath as the figure stops, separated by nothing but an inch of wood.
A cough, low, rugged. As if it wasn't meant to be heard at all.
"Who's there?"
The shock of the man's recklessness is quick but slices through Wesker. Damn fool, he thinks. What state have I found you in this time?
"Christopher," he says instead.
A finger curls low around the door, pulling it slightly to show the top of a head and two weary eyes. "Captain? What–"
Wesker moves forward, forcing the door open but careful to avoid Chris' near-prone body, and swiftly turns to shut it. The room, a simple square room lit by a single dim lamp, is mostly empty save a twin-sized mattress shoved into one corner. No windows. Safe enough, he assumes. Sahe enough for now.
He turns to his injured man, eyes honing in on the most pressing injury.
Chris' upperbody leans back against a wall, legs slightly parted to form a "V". Crimson trails of blood weave their way down Chris' face, smudges marking their every twist from where Chris likely tried to wipe the blood away. The wounds must be hidden past the hairline, Wesker notes, seeing the skin of Chris' forehead smooth and unscathed. Chris sluggishly blinks up to where Wesker stands over him, lips parted around slow breaths. His eyelids fall closer and closer shut with each passing second. Wesker drops to a knee beside him and takes a flashlight out from his belt.
"Apologies, Christopher," Wesker murmurs, taking Chris' chin between two fingers, tilting his face towards him as he clicks on the light. Chris' eyes slide open at the touch. "This might be uncomfortable."
"What are you–" Chris tries to slur out but Wesker hushes him.
"Don't move."
Wesker preciselymoves the flashlight around Chris' field of vision, speaking under his breath as he checks for further signs of a head injury. The cut will have to be treated later, but Wesker's concern is the extent to which he could be concussed. Chris winces with each swing of the light but stays still in Weskers' gloved hold. Wesker's lips gently curve; Good boy, he thinks.
A few short minutes later Wesker clicks off the flashlight and sits back on his heel, quietly relieved with his findings.
(Vickers' nervous assessment was, it seems, not entirely inaccurate – when he stammered his way through the explanation for why he'd leave an injured team member behind, he'd mentioned Chris' fall, and the fear that he'd only injure him further by attempting to move him. For now, Wesker muses, he'll forgive Vickers this one transgression; he couldn't have known the true danger still lied inside the abandoned building with Chris, after all.)
He turns, eyes raking over the rest of Chris' form. His green tactile vest has been removed, now tied tightly around his ankle and splotchy with stains; Wesker allows himself a brief moment to mourn Chris' signature piece (as he liked to call it) but he knows it won't be hard to produce another just like it. Jagged tears litter the rest of his standard-issue S.T.A.R.S. fatigues, leaving the clothing in near tatters and exposing the scrapes Chris earned from the fall that put him in this very situation. A better situation, Wesker supposes, than he could have been in.
Heart thumping in his chest, Wesker begins to inspect each individual cut across Chris' body, looking for the signs he'd drillled into his head – he'd manufactured – for years.
If the situation called for it… at least he'd be the one to do it.
"Captain?"
"Yes?" Wesker grabs for Chris' right arm, gently turning it in his hands it to expose the cuts wrapping around his forearm. Quietly surprised at the lack of any signs of infection, given the state of the house. From the corner of his eye he can see Chris watching him work.
Chris' lips smack once. Twice. Before Wesker can snap at him for the third clicking smack, Chris asks in a low, languide tone, "What're ya doing?"
Wesker's gloved fingers nearly twitch around Chris' opposite arm, having moved from the other on since finding nothing more than a few shallow cuts. He lets the question hang a moment longer as his fingers slide up the toned arm beneath them to push Chris' t-shirt sleeve up past his shoulder; there, another deeper slice hidden under the ruined fabric, what once had likely been a steady stream of blood now oozing sluggishly as the wound begins to repair itself. Beyond the expected redness, nothing abnormal presents itself around the area.
With one soft, contented sigh, he addresses Chris as he moves, inspecting his injured ankle.
"Vickers reported you fell through the second story's floorboards in chase of the suspect. Considering this building's been vacant for over a decade and its state of disrepair–" he pauses, deciding the ankle will have to be dealt with later, "I'd rather not risk a tetanus infection."
A beat later and Chris hums in response, head lolling to face away from where Wesker kneels.
"Kinda…" Chris tests, licking his lips. "Kinda hoped you were just feelin' me up, Cap."
Wesker looks at him sharply, freezing – the audacity to be thinking of such things, when he'd been spared from death just some time ago. But from this angle he has the privilege of watching a deep red bloom across Chris' profile, a welcome contrast to the unnatural paleness he'd found him with. The corners of Wesker's mouth quirk. A wicked idea forms from the sight. One single break from the tension – he can allow that. He shifts across the floor until he's kneeled at Chris' feet.
"Oh? Is now really the time for that?" His palms come to rest against the exposed skin of Chris' shins, thumbs rubbing over the ripped seams along his pants. The smooth leather of his gloves softly traces the shape of a small cut, just close enough for his touch to ghost over Chris' skin. The limp leg twitches under Wesker's hand and his grin grows. Chris turns back, just enough for Wesker to see the beautiful, rosy flush high on his cheeks. His dark eyes shine even in the dim lamplight.
"We're alone…" Chris breathes out on a long exhale. His eyes, half-lidded, staring down at where Wesker sits between his legs. With one last gentle caress of the ruined skin Wesker stands again, tilting his head coyly as he looks down at Chris.
"That we are."
He steps forward in easy, graceful steps, until he's nearly straddling Chris' hips. Crotch even with Chris' eyes. The rise and fall of Chris' chest quickens, each ragged breath punctuated by his shifting against the floor.
For a moment neither move. Chris, dazedly fixated on the bulge taking shape in his Captain's cargo pants. Wesker, gazing down his nose with curious interest. Both breathing heavily.
One shakey hand rises from Chris' side, inching forward hesitantly as though anticipating rejection. Heat curls low in Wesker's groin, fighting to meet it half way as he watches the bruised and beaten man below reach for him, desperate for him; the mere thought alone errotic enough to push him to the edge.
An inch away from contact and a gloved hand snatches Chris' from the air. Chris looks to Wesker in shock but he's already bent at the waist, face hovering just beside Chris'.
"Come now, Christopher," Wesker whisper hotly, lips brushing the shell of Chris' ear with each word. "What kind of captain would I be if I left my best man injured while I sought pleasure from his body?"
A weak groan escapes Chris' body. Wesker smirks, enjoying the shiver that wracks through the man beside him. Chris turns into Wesker, lips trembling against Wesker's jaw. The hand Wesker holds weakly grips back, his fingers smoothing along the leather into a gentle curl.
"Wesker – please, I need– I need you," Chris' softly wrecked voice begs.
How long he's waited to hear that.
And how tempting it was. To take Chris here. In this decrepit old home with its dangers certainly still lurking, knowing the rest of their team anxiously awaited their return. Assuming the worst at their Captain's delay.
Wesker draws back, taking Chris' hand in both of his, bringing its scraped knuckles to his mouth, dry lips brushing against bruised skin. He presses a delicate kiss to the spot, tongue darting out after to lap at a small cut along the rounded curve of a joint. Wesker looks up through his lashes at Chris' reddend face when he's rewarded with another low, wanting moan. He tracks a single dark strand of hair as it falls across Chris' face, loose where the rest stick to his forehead.
He thinks about taking his gloves off. Reaching out. How soft, even soaked in sweat, Chris' hair would feel as he ran his fingers across his skull. Even something so simple is making him hard –
No. Patience. Wesker privately laments, sighing heavily. The other man will simply have to wait.
"I'm afraid we really must get you out of here. It's not safe." Wesker squeezes Chris' hand once more before letting it go. He ignores the confused look on Chris's face and turns his back to the other man. "Put your arms over my shoulders, I'll have to carry you."
A weak hand grips at the fabric of his sleeve. "Come on Cap, you know me, I won't be long. Let me just–"
"Enough, Christopher. You're a grown man, can you not contain yourself?" Wesker interrupts. He peers over his shoulder sharply, meeting Chris' petulant expression, lower lip jutting out childishly. Chris may be stubborn, but if the man thinks Wesker would risk his life for a weak, bloody handjob, he's even stupider than Wesker imagined. They stay locked in stare-down another moment until Chris deflates, relenting; looking, for all intents, like a kicked puppy.
Pleased, Wesker cocks a brow and offers smirks.
"Good man. Now, come here."
The awkward crawl Chris makes across the floor leaves him panting, arms coming to rest over Wesker's shoulders and finges interlocking in a grasp above Wesker's chest. Wesker hands him his pocket flashlight for when they leave, then reaches behind to grab at the back of Chris' thighs and in one smooth movement stands and pulls his point man up onto his back. Chris oofs when Wesker lifts him slightly to get a better grip but he quickly settles, face coming to rest beside Wesker's.
"This sucks," Chris softly whines, still catching his breath. He clicks the light on as Wesker nudges the door open again. The hallway is just as quiet as when Wesker arrived. "Can't believe I fell through the fuckin' floor."
Wesker nods. "Hopefully you've learned your lesson. Be more careful next time. Raccoon City isn't exactly the shiny new metropolis you grew up in – many of these homes have been vacant for years."
He feels the vibration against his back as Chris scoffs. Perhaps he'll take some pity on him.
"Come now, Christopher," Wesker consoles, a mocking lilt in his low tone. His hands tighten once around Chris' legs. "Behave yourself, and I'll let you have a taste once we're home."
Chris just burries his face in Wesker's neck.