Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wesker could not remember feeling as terrible as he did at that moment as he wiped the sweat from his brow and returned to tapping against the computer keys. The report was due hours ago and he should never have left it to Joseph to finish. Grumbling, he made a mental note to give Joseph additional duties for the weekend, something simple he could actually accomplish.

Sucking in a tight breath, his hands shook slightly above the keys as another wave of pain rolled through his abdomen and upwards to settle low in his chest.

Wesker bowed his head, curling in on himself as he clenched his teeth tightly, fingers curling into fists trying to ride the sharp wave.

He had had a few such instances over the past couple of months but never this bad. The pain was seemingly random and nothing he could think to link them together. As much as he wished he could go home and curl up into a ball on the cool tiles of his bathroom floor, he couldn’t, not wanting Irons to come barging down his team’s door for the damn report.

Breathing through his nose and out his mouth, he stood on shaky legs and twisted his body left and right in hopes stretching would alleviate the pain but there was no give. Continuing to breathe in controlled breaths, finally, he stood straight, arching his back pressing his fists into the base of his spine, thinking maybe a walk would help and maybe some cold water.

Thankful for his shades, he avoided most stares from his subordinates but could feel a few heads turn as conversations quieted. He ignored them to exit the main office, veering for the water fountain first. Approaching it, he bent down and gulped several mouthfuls of the somewhat cool chlorine-tinged water. Normally he would have avoided it altogether, but he was desperate for some relief.

Wesker continued to drink, not caring that it slid down his chin to drip on the floor and after what felt like several minutes, leaned up to let the liquid settle in his stomach, only to feel suddenly worse. Like something was trying to claw its way up out of his chest and up his throat. The water an uncomfortable weight expanding his turbulent stomach.

Taking hissing breaths trying to staunch his irritation as slight panic rose, he swallowed down the excess saliva and bile that suddenly filled his mouth but knew it was a lost cause and took several bounding steps into the locker room to make his way to the nearest option to void his stomach.

Except nothing came up, just saliva pooling under his tongue and the taste of dirty city water filling his mouth as his abdomen rippled, and his tensed shoulders sagged against the sink as he let drool sieve through his teeth, not daring to look at himself but focused on the liquid continuously raining down into the porcelain. 

He gripped the counter as tightly as he could, a minute distraction from the intensity trying to keep down the bubble of sound that was trying to force its way up his throat.

He stood that way for an unknown amount of time, trying to just catch a decent breath when finally, Wesker remembered the damn report he had to finish.

“Son of a bitch, Joseph.”

“What about Joseph?”

Wesker startled and flinched his eyes up into the mirror. Barry was standing in the doorway, a concerned look as he observed Wesker’s still hunched form.

Silence permeated the room, but Barry didn’t budge, and finally, Wesker panted out, “Damn report that was due today. He never finished it.”

Barry hummed and crossed his arms, readjusting his stance to block the only exit, “You look like shit… and I am saying that in the nicest way possible. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

A humorless hiss escaped past clenched teeth and Wesker kept a white-knuckled grip on the sink, squeezing his eyes shut, “It’s… noth—”

Barry grumbled in his dad voice despite them being the same age, “Don’t placate me, I know something’s up. Get yourself checked out sooner than later, Wesker. We’re all relying on you to keep this team running smoothly without the fat fuck mucking in our business.”

Spiting, Wesker squinted his eyes back at the sink as he nodded wordlessly and that was apparently enough for Barry as the other man turned and headed back the way he came.

Sighing in irritation, Wesker turned the faucet on to cool and slowly leaned down to splash his face to try and remove some of the sweat that had accumulated on his skin.

If Barry was saying he looked like shit then he must really look terrible.

.....

Wesker slowly made his way back to his office, sitting gingerly as his stomach screamed at him. Dragging exhausted eyes back up, he looked at the computer and the blinking cursor. Pressing a hand to his abdomen, pain swelled as he sunk back into his chair, digging fingers desperately to curl under his ribs where everything seemed to radiate. He was beyond exhausted, but he knew he had to resume his abandoned task.

Maybe, he could finish it ASAP and take the next day off. Or two.

Normally Wesker would never think of such a concept as calling out, but this was almost incomprehensible pain, and nothing was helping. Not even chomping through 2500 milligrams of aspirin which barely made a dent.

Though, admittedly, it was not as bad as it had been earlier. Maybe the water had flushed whatever was in his system slightly.

Sighing, he ran his unoccupied hand over his thigh, wiping the already reaccumulated sweat off his fingers and palm, and dutifully resumed tapping away at the keys with one hand. He had to squint his eyes to see the screen as fatigue settled behind them, causing an unpleasant prickling sensation, his mind fogging.

But Wesker’s brain trudged through the muck of partially scrambled thoughts, ‘Just a bit more, and then we can sleep. For a day… or two… or three.’

*****

It was a week later, and the lack of any pain since that day gave Wesker a false sense of security. That is until he indulged in a quick meal offered up by his team. He opted for the healthiest option available from Sakura Palace, chicken and vegetables, but seemingly it did not matter as hours later, again finishing up paperwork for a quickly approaching mission, found himself hugging what he hoped was a recently cleaned toilet.

Though the smell that said otherwise didn’t stop him from groveling before it as his stomach revolted and any undigested contents from the quick meal hours earlier made its way back up. Sweat seemed to drench him entirely and his temperature skyrocketed as breathing became practically impossible as his body heaved violently to empty all contents.

Even when his stomach seemed empty, he could not stop the involuntary contractions to expel everything in his system which at this point, was just bile.

Finally, after what seemed like half a minute, maybe longer, Wesker was able to suck some air back into his deprived lungs. Letting out a shuddering groan as he tilted his head back, trying to suppress the trembling of such forceful actions upon his abdomen, his sides aching.

Wesker clenched his eyes shut and took another quivering breath, trying to ignore the foul taste permeating his mouth and the now seemingly sweat-drenched dress shirt sticking to his clammy skin even though his undershirt. The pain that seemed to start all of this was still there digging its way under his ribs and breastbone, constant and unyielding to anything he tried to alleviate it.

He couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped as he tried to contort and stretch muscles that were sore from vomiting from where he had crumbled after the violent upheaval.

Still, it was not enough, and the pain persisted relentlessly no matter how much he contorted himself.

Realizing that there was no point sitting on the floor of the bathroom stall any longer, he rose on trembling legs, reaching out to balance himself on either wall of the narrow space, using one foot to hit the handle to flush away the mess.

Not realizing how late it was, Wesker returned to his office. Everything was as he left it and everyone else had left for the day, that is except Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine who were lounging against their desks, arms crossed as their conversation was cut off abruptly.

Wesker felt like a deer caught in headlights at the concerned stares of his subordinates, and slowly he looked at his watch only to realize he had been gone for over an hour. Almost two hours.

Chris’s concerned tone caused Wesker’s blood to start boiling, “What’s going on Wesker? You have been acting weird lately. Are you ok?”

Jill chimed in, “Yeah, Wesker. You haven’t looked too hot lately… I mean not that you aren’t… I mean… Just that you look sick.” Jill flustered, trying to make her boss understand she was not trying to hit on him in any such way. If he wasn’t feeling like death on two legs, he would have bantered with her about the slip, but he had one goal right now, and that was sitting down.

Wesker stood in the doorway, one hand nonchalantly balancing himself against the frame, trying to suppress the tremble of his legs and gritting his irritation away. The last thing he wanted was for these two to think they were his nursemaids. Not that Barry hadn’t tried already with his dad voice but at least he had cut straight to the chase and told him to get whatever was going on checked out.

Wesker realized he had yet to speak as Chris and Jill looked at him like he had three heads and he dropped his caged stance in the doorway to ignore them as he stepped towards his office. Clearing his throat from the tightness he gave them his most stern tone, though it came out more guttural than anything, “Your shifts were over hours ago. Go home.”

With this said, he closed his office door behind him and tightened the blinds as shut as they would go. He did not want to deal with them right now. He just wanted to finish up the small bit of paperwork left and get home in one piece.

Removing all stomach contents seemed to help slightly as once more he felt some of the pain alleviate, but not all of it was gone as he took deep breaths. Thinking nothing of it, Wesker boiled it down to the food being bad. No one else had ordered the chicken and vegetable dish so he hoped it was just bad luck.

Though he mentally made a note to refuse any offers on the behalf of his team ever again to get anything from Sakura Palace.

*****

After what felt like hours, Wesker sat on the edge of his bed, showering for the second time since he got home, and twisting from side to side to see if there would be a better position to reposition his sore muscles from upheaving what seemed like a full day’s stomach contents.

Finally giving up, he gingerly laid back on his bed, not caring he still had a damp towel around his waist and his legs dangling from the side. Staring at the ceiling, the burning seemed to intensify and so he turned his torso to the right and nothing. After several minutes, he twisted towards the left, but it was only slightly better though not by much.

Sighing, he tossed the towel on the floor, shuffling up into the middle of his bed, contorting in hope of even the slightest relief. It was better than nothing. Dragging his feet up, towards the right, he angled his torso to the left and he pulled covers up over himself partially, still feeling flush and sweating slightly.

Slipping into a fitful rest, Wesker roused several hours later, still flush but feeling a bit better. The pain had dulled to an annoying pulsing, and he dragged exhausted eyes back shut. He rolled fully onto his left side, hoping it would further reduce any intensity of the burn that may manifest.

Wesker quickly fell back asleep, but it seemed like only seconds passed before his alarm was blaring at him from an inky blackness. Quickly he turned off the alarm and let his eyes shut once more.

Just five more minutes.

.....

Wesker ended up being three hours late, and he would never hear the end of it as Chris whooped his enthusiasm, only for it to quickly die when Wesker gave him extra duty assisting the weekend rotation.

After the excitement of their captain being late died down, he found himself sitting with his head in his hands, still incredibly exhausted and his chest and stomach tender.

The pain was gone, but he could still feel the residual pressure from the day prior, waiting for it to reveal itself once more with little to no warning.

A quick knock roused him, and he leaned his head up, swallowing a grunt from the movement.

It was Barry. Still, that concerned look over his features, and he stepped in without prompt as Wesker rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“I know how much it can be a bitch, but these just might help.”

Wesker was confused but the placement of antiacids in front of him seemingly explained what Barry was trying to say. Wesker stared at the bottle a moment and returned his gaze to Barry as he reached for the container. Popping it open he shoved four tabs into his mouth and then opted for a fifth, chewing loudly.

Slightly hacking through the chalky consistency, Wesker coughed out, “I’m not sure if these will help, but I—Thank you. Barry. I’ll try anything at this point.”

“Did you try seeing a doc?” Barry chastised him, still deeply concerned. Wesker hissed as he leaned forward, irritation turning to dull pain.

Barry turned to exit but stood and took one last look at the slight sheen of sweat already dabbing the blond captain’s forehead who was hunched over himself, arms circling his middle, “You really should get checked out. Sooner than later. Seriously.”

Wesker sighed and waved a silent hand in dismissal as he brought his other hand up to rub his brow, “I… It’ll… be fine.”

Barry without eye contact muttered facetiously, “Right…”

Wesker looked agitatedly up at the retreating form, but Barry was out of sight. Wesker tried very hard to ignore the tone that screamed Barry knew from experience to not let this go, but Wesker didn’t have time for this.

He was in top shape. Could leave most of his team in the dust, had always maxed out his PT tests in the army, and ran circles around even the senior detectives, except right now he could do none of these things. Even just walking upstairs had been troublesome and caused his body to flush and his breathing to become labored.

Exhausted but feeling slightly back to normal, the antiacids providing only the bare minimum of relief, Wesker looked at the calendar. They had a big mission coming up and he could not mess up all the effort they had put in over the past several months.

Afterward, he’ll go. He’d get William to give him a good once over. If William couldn’t find anything, no one could.

*****

Wesker found himself still at his desk late at night a few days later, stuffing himself with a cold greasy burger, finishing up forms for the team’s mission that was to occur in less than 48 hours. He still was not feeling 100% himself but he had no more vicious pain like he had days prior.

He felt flush the longer he sat, and suddenly his body flared as his skin burned feverishly as sudden severe pain seemed to burst from his side and heartburn forced up his throat an unsavory burp of what was left of his quick meal. The taste brought an involuntary gag as he pushed himself back forcefully from his desk, eyes staring dazedly at the floor as he swallowed thickly.

The screech of his chair wheels must have been louder than he thought as Barry poked his head in the open doorway, quietly asking if he was ok. Wesker sucked a shallow breath in, but glared in agitation, “I’m fine!” Barry was unconvinced but without a further word stepped back out exiting the office.

Wesker looked at the time, surprised at how late it really was. Wiping sweat from his forehead he stood, taking a moment to get his bearings before gathering his things and staggering from his office. Gaping slightly, Joseph and Chris were still there, and they stared at him as Wesker lurched for the door handle. Upon noticing the extra eyes on him, he turned, hissing, “What are you all staring at?!”

Everyone mumbled and seemingly returned to their tasks despite the late hour. Wesker couldn’t stand the looks and scoffed, stalking out their main office into the hallway, closing the door with a slam behind him.

Wesker only barely made it home, and this concerned him greatly. He had difficulty seeing and wrenched his sunglasses off and tossed them onto his passenger seat. He sat in his complex a moment, as confusion clouded his head, and pain radiated up his chest to settle in between his shoulder blades.

Slowly making his way from his vehicle, he took the climb to his apartment slowly. Finally arriving, Wesker dropped his pack near the door, shoes, and clothes following as he made for a hot shower, thinking distantly that maybe the pain was from pulled muscles from the workout that morning, despite it being fairly light.

The hot shower did very little and still, the discomfort became more accentuated. Swallowing another large dose of aspirin, Wesker laid down in his bed barely drying off the cooling water from the shower. Again, he tossed and turned, but still, the constant throbbing eating away at him never relented and after again twisting he finally was able to fall into a fitful sleep.

Wesker was not sure what wrenched him from his rest but the first thing he noticed was that he felt slightly better, only a dull ache in his side but no intense pain like before and he could breathe easier. Without even checking the time, Wesker sprawled out on his left side and passed back out.

.....

He had only slept maybe an hour or two after reawakening when his cell phone was blaring next to his head. Bloodshot eyes cracked open and clumsy hands fumbled around till they grazed his nightstand where his phone rang again.

When he finally roused long enough to grab it and answer he barely had the time to ask who was calling him only to hear a panicked voice on the other end telling him to get his ass over to the precinct to gear up, that the mission had been moved up due to new information and if they didn't do their bust tonight, they would miss the chance.

Wesker only managed to grunt into the phone as he curled slightly, a hand pressing against the renewed gnawing pain in his abdomen at the shift of rolling over to answer his phone.

Wesker contemplated if he should just rip his innards out and get it over with because that is what he felt like was happening at this moment. Waking up earlier was a fluke, as he was feeling the renewed pain again but if possible, he felt even worse than when he had made his way home only hours before.

‘Fuck.’

Unable to find the energy to push himself upright, Wesker rolled off the bed, catching his feet under him with a loud grunt before he could fall completely to the floor, least he was not able to get back up. Rising to full height, he could not help but hunch to his right where the majority of his agony throbbed.

He knew there was no time to waste so he grabbed his clothes from the evening before and threw them on and grabbing his vest he stumbled out of his apartment 10 minutes after the alarming phone call.

Arriving at the precinct, several STARS had already made their way to the rendezvous, and he was left trying to see what left was needed or forgotten. He absently checked his phone again and realized that he had missed several calls over the 20 minutes from Chris, Jill, and Barry, and finally, Marvin who had tried several times until Wesker answered.

Sighing, he sucked in a breath between clenched teeth as another wave hit him. He refused to allow himself to keel over now. His team needed him. He couldn’t let them down. He could die after everyone was back safely.

Wesker arrived at the first point, having been driven by another detective on call, of which he was thankful he did not have to operate a vehicle. He had barely even managed to get back to the office in one piece after his wake-up call. Yet surprisingly the pain had alleviated to the nagging pressure of a dull ache in his side and abdomen.

Wesker had continually been trying to call his team with no luck. Everyone’s cell had been turned off and he was frustrated, practically screaming into the voicemails, “Chris?!! Jill?!! Fucking answer your fucking phone!! Damn it!!”

Arriving, he jettisoned out of the vehicle, scrambling to find his people but again they had gone on ahead. He paced and the other officers on the scene eyed him warily. He could care less as he paced, mouth a deep frown. He knew his people had to do a job, but they were not supposed to lose communication.

Discussing with the people there on the sidelines, they all agreed, something was definitely up that there was supposed to be open lines, even if just to hear the background static. Someone had to go in as backup.

An intense flare of agony burst from between his shoulder and it made Wesker's legs jerk under him, threatening to crumple. Refusing to give in, Wesker growled silently, locking his knees to maintain upright. His team could be in danger, and he swallowed down the rising ache, volunteering without hesitation. There was no one else left with the skillset of his team and he could not trust any of the other officers to have his team in their best interest. Right now, he could care less of the perpetrators, he needed his team alive.

.....

The impact to his side caught Wesker completely by surprise and he dropped to his hands and knees, curling around the massive bruising likely blossoming under his vest that had caught the round at such close range, his attacker seemingly coming out of nowhere. The reaction was more severe than he imagined and he was paralyzed by pain, sucked in heaving gasps as his brain screamed at him to move. Then a heavy boot collided with his side, his surroundings a blur as he rolled down a short flight of stairs to a concrete landing, his right shoulder taking the brunt of his weight.

Wesker felt something pop inside him from the full force of the collision and it was the most surreal thing he had ever felt, and the deep pain seemed to disappear momentarily only to flare back up, gradually getting worse and worse. As he hit the landing, he suddenly felt drenched with sweat, his body temperature skyrocketed, and upon managing a choked inhale, he belted out a sudden screech of deep agony. It felt like something inside him was being roasted over hot coals.

Breathing heavily with shuddering coughs as dust caught in his lungs, Wesker was able to get a short glimpse of his attacker. He tried half-heartedly to get up to protect himself, but another attack brutalized his already damaged side, a steel-toed boot digging in as deep as it could manage, not allowing him a moment’s reprieve to search for a weapon. As much as he wanted to fight, his body refused the direction only able to huddle into a ball to protect the raging increase of flaring agony.

Loud shouting broke through his attempts to get air back in dusty-filled lungs and the pummeling of his sides stopped. He could not hear very well what the shouting voices were saying, only able to lay curled to decrease the pang short gasps caused to his chest.

A familiar voice started to bear over the others, ringing louder and louder near his ear. Sudden hands on his neck checked for a pulse despite his body trembling violently. Wesker had incredible difficulty getting his body to respond to any commands to move and speaking was not an option.

“Wesker!”

The sound caused him to jolt and spasm, pressing his face into the dust-covered floor which caused him to cough harder.

“WESKER!!”

Gasping now, he flailed helplessly trying even harder coordinate movements, but it was impossible as he curled into himself further, no longer under attack.

“WESKER!!!”

He was being lifted up, his view shifting severely, his stomach gurgling, and his mouth was filling before he realized and turned away the best he could from whoever was trying to get him to sit up. Vision bleary, the vividness of watery red, yellow, and orange sparked a thought that he should be somewhat concerned but not a reason why.

A nagging voice was muffled in his ears, and hands on his clammy cheeks forced his hazy gaze into a red-bearded face, the pressure of the position forced his face to scrunch up tightly, the edge of the vest digging into his hips and pressing against his sides. His breaths became more labored as the pain became unbearable and he tried to push himself to fall onto his side but more hands gripped him to keep him upright.

Struggling weakly at his vest to relieve some pressure, a miserable sound bubbled up from his throat. The intensity of which grew and he grit his teeth as his hands fumbled until someone moved him towards his right and he could not stop the scream that tore from his chest. The hands drew him onto his back, but he whimpered through his teeth.

“Wesker! Wesker!! Listen, we have a med team coming, just hang on man! Hang on!! We got you!”

Voices faded and a hand gripped his own and he tightened in response as hard as he could.

“Shit! He’s going to break my fucking hand!”

“Get the vest off him!”

“I don’t care! Cut it off! Now!!!”

Jill was working as fast as she could, cutting up Wesker’s side and shoulders, and pulling the material away to hand off to the nearest person. Absently, she could feel the broken plate on the right side.

Once the vest was removed, Barry jerked the dark blue shirt up from where it was tucked in and popped buttons looking to see if the bullet had made it through the Kevlar. Barry patted over Wesker’s already deeply bruised side and even the light touch sent their captain howling again, back arching, legs kicking out blindly, and unsettling more dust as he attempted to curl around the tender flesh. Hands scrambled to keep him on his back and another to hold down his legs.

“That looks really bad, but he should not be in this much pain. The bullet didn’t go through. Something else is wrong.”

“Where are the fucking medics! Come on people!!”

“We need to calm him down first!”

“There’s no fucking time for that! He’s already showing signs of shock!”

Chris gaped at the agony apparent on Wesker’s face, feeling helpless that there was nothing he could do. Pale eyes squinted open and suddenly jerked towards him as another wail erupted as they squeezed back shut, tears trickling through smudged dirt.

It was then medics rushed in pushing the STARS members back to gauge Wesker’s condition. Chris watched them flutter around the writhing form and surprisingly quickly managed to somewhat calm whatever it was that ailed their captain. Or gave him a sedative which was more likely. Looking at each other in fear, Barry scoffed, “I fucking told him to get his dumbass checked out. Probably never did.”

Arms crossed, Joseph absently muttered as the medics rolled Wesker onto a backboard and strap him in place, “Geeze Barry, the man never stops working. What did you expect?”

Barry quickly retorted heatedly, “I expect him to at least take care of himself. He’s a grown man!”

Jill kept her eyes on the medics as they prepared to move Wesker out of the building, strapping him down tightly despite the writhing to get free and curl around the pain in his side, “What the hell are you talking about, Barry?!”

Barry scoffed, arms folded, glaring at her confused expression, “You haven’t noticed? There has been something off about him for weeks! And the fact he left early yesterday?! Come on! He almost never leaves early.”

Joseph absently muttered, “Yeah man, he’s been leaving early a lot recently. Not to mention missing gym time.”

Several heads startled toward him, and he shrugged, “He always got on my ass about missing sessions, so I do a couple of extra hours a week, but he’s been a ghost for a while.”

Chris swallowed, unable to keep his eyes from their captain’s ashen face, rarely seen pale blue eyes eerily rolling, glazed and unseeing, “Hey, Moss, he’s not in shock, is he?”

Moss, one of the medics scrambling about, absently threw over her shoulder as several others lifted the backboard to start moving Wesker down the several flights of stairs, “What do you think! We’re trying not to let it get too far!”

Loud shouting accompanied the transit down, STARS members in tow.

Chris still couldn’t help but be frightened for Wesker. He’s known cops and soldiers who’ve had to quit due to severe injury. He couldn’t imagine STARS without the gruff leadership, with moments of leniency for shenanigans.

A hand clasped his shoulder, catching his attention with a startled yelp.

Marini grunted, looking concerned as Wesker’s hands twisted against the nylon straps, red lines appearing in the pale wrists, “Go with him, Kid.”

Chris looked back as Wesker was whisked away toward an ambulance, lights flashing, “Wh-what? Why me?”

Marini chuckled dryly, “He doesn’t want to see my ugly mug if he wakes up. Probably accuse me of trying to steal his spot. Plus, I'm acting and need to find out what the fuck happened. This was a shit show.”

Barry patted Chris’s other shoulder, “Nor me ‘cause he knows I’m going to tell him ‘I told you so.’ And we all know he would really lose his shit.”

Chris was silent remembering a very badly timed mission and Barry angrily stared Wesker down, both shouting and finger-pointing until Barry yelled ‘I told you so.’ It was not a pretty fight and Barry ended up suspended a week with pay, which was Wesker’s way of being nice but not verbally acknowledging Barry was right. Kenneth almost lost a leg, and it was lucky Jill had her knife.

“Yea, I’ll go with him. Make sure he doesn’t kick it.” It was an empty joke, and they all felt the weight of the possibility. A hand slapped the back of Chris’s head as Forest jogged by, “Not funny Chris. You’re point, the team’s guardian angel, act like it.”

Chris growled and rubbed his head and started towards the ambulance that had just settled Wesker inside, “You’re an asshole, Forest!”

An immediate retort shot back, “Takes one to know one. Keep us posted. Seriously.”

Chris managed a weak ‘yeah’ as he stepped up and sat in the back corner out of the way as hands rushed to cut away the remaining material of Wesker’s clothes, across his arms and side to expose the massive bruise that had already started growing darker, the skin puffed up and blotchy.

Eyes not leaving the rippling of his captain’s abdomen as the muscles spasmed, Chris absently muttered to the two medics, “Have you ever seen this kind of reaction from a vest catching a round?”

They ignored him a moment, muttering between themselves when Wesker heaved, retching and he watched as they mechanically cleared the mess of vomit away with a suction line, wiping any bile that ran down quivering cheeks.

“Not really, it’s gotta be something else. Maybe an ulcer or something ruptured.”

Chris kept quiet after that, observing such out-of-character noises and jerky movements for his superior who always seemed so controlled and calculating. But he lay there, straining against the straps, quiet grunts as he fought against the chemicals that were supposed to keep him compliant and relaxed. His usually slicked-back hairstyle had loosened during the scuffle, and it was a dusty mess, totally throwing Chris off.

A sudden loud wail startled all of them, and unconsciously Chris gripped an exposed ankle where they had cut up the leg of his pants, “We got you, Wesker! You’re gonna be ok!”

Panicked eyes that had been clenched tight jolted towards him, rolling slightly as they tried to keep centered on Chris’s face, but ended up somewhere to his left, hands twisting as if trying to reach out to him, or strangle him, Chris wasn’t sure. A guttural rasp grit past chattering teeth, “W--Wil-ll… W-Will… I-I’m… sor…”

Chris tightened his hold firmly, brows pinched, he didn’t know any Will, “It’s Chris… Chris Redfield. Who’s... Will?”

Surprisingly, Wesker relaxed slightly, eyes fluttering shut as another spasm shook his frame, “Ca-Chr…Ch-riss?”

“Yeah, I’m here. You’re not allowed to die today. You don’t have my permission.”

A gruff noise escaped that could have been mistaken for a chuckle, but it was abruptly cut off into a cry of agony. Chris said nothing further but kept his hand on Wesker’s ankle, absently rubbing his thumb across the bone in what he hoped was reassurance.

The ride seemed to take forever, and it was difficult for Chris to watch as Wesker’s condition deteriorated, more convulsive jerks and breaths becoming more shallow and rapid, and he could only observe as an oxygen mask was gently strapped over Wesker’s mouth.

When the ambulance jerked to a halt the medics stood, gathering items and directing Chris to step out so they could get Wesker inside as fast as possible. Stumbling and almost falling as the doors were jerked open, Chris gapped at the gaggle of people waiting to receive Wesker. Looking back, Chris gulped at how still Wesker had suddenly become, ghostly pale, hands clenched tightly at his sides. No longer were sounds erupting but just rapid, short breaths fogging up the clear mask.

He trailed behind the gurney as it was wheeled into the ER but was abruptly stopped as the back of his jacket was clutched, “You can’t go. You’ll get in the way.”

Chris jerked back at the person keeping him from following and slapped at the hand angrily, “But…!!”

The medic who had held him back looked weary, and Chris huffed as they pointed to an empty desk, “Trust me, kid, they will kick you out. Just stay here and they’ll direct you where you can wait.”

Chris grumbled but complied and turned only to find a maze of hallways, and Wesker completely gone from sight.

Another hand seemingly came out of nowhere, and Chris jumped as he was jarred from his thoughts, “Come on, officer. I’ll show you where you can wait and will update you as soon as we can.”

Nodding in understanding, Chris shuffled along and was directed to a small empty waiting area. Too nervous to sit, he opted to pace, looking around each of the corners hoping for someone to come. And after what felt like an hour, an out-of-breath nurse appeared, “Hey! You with the blond?”

Chris rocketed to his feet, having finally sat, nodding and ignoring the way the nurse labeled Wesker by his hair color, “Yea, Wesker. His name’s Wesker. I mean Albert.”

They waved in dismissal, “Got it, Wesker, uh Albert. He has a ruptured gallbladder. He’s in surgery now. Not sure what else they’ll find but it looks pretty bad. They caught it in time before sepsis really set in too far. Someone will let you know when he’s out.”

Most of those words were gibberish to Chris, who became more terrified the more the person spoke. It sounded really bad if they had already had Wesker in surgery, “Wait! Can you explain, I don’t understand!”

The request fell on deaf ears as the nurse trotted away, another acknowledging wave. He stood in disbelief, running his hands nervously through his hair, pacing when he remembered he had his phone and he quickly scrolled through the numbers to find Barry.

Waiting for an answer was agony, and Chris became more and more irritated with each ring, “Pick up! Pick up! Pick up! Damnit! Come on, Bar—Barry!!”

“Hey kid, what’s Wesker’s status?”

Chris stumbled through what he was told, already forgetting half of it but able to pass on the gist that Wesker was in surgery and something about his gallbladder.

Barry mumbled angrily across the line, “Shit, I should have known it was something like that. Anything else you remember?”

Wracking his brain, Chris remembered the sepsis, that they caught it in time.

“Damn. Well, maybe it all was for the best. That asshole woulda died at his desk. Sheesh. Alright, call me back if you hear anything else.”

Chris stammered a quick ‘yeah’ into the line just as it clicked, mind having zeroed in on ‘woulda died at his desk’ part.

Looking at his watch, Chris realized he had only been there about a half-hour despite it feeling longer. Not much more he could do, he slunk back into one of the chairs, leaning his head against the wall.

Rubbing his eyes, Chris muttered quietly to himself, “Fuck this day couldn’t have gone more wrong.”

A soothing baritone startled Chris from his introspection, “Correction. If your guy had waited any longer, there’s a good chance he would have had a lot more complications. So, this was the perfect set of circumstances.”

Chris eyed the newcomer with wariness, “I don’t understand.” Guilt overshadowed his demeanor for not recognizing that Wesker had been so ill. He knew he hadn't felt well but not on the level of potentially deadly. 

The new arrival sat across from him, a hand reaching out, “I’m Matt. I’ve come to give you the specs on your friend.”

Chris opted to not correct Matt that Wesker was not his friend per se but his boss, but Chris took the hand with a firm shake, glad to finally get some answers.

Matt explained that if Wesker had waited any longer to go to the hospital it would have likely killed him, or at the very least, put him in for a very long recovery. “So yes, the bullet hitting his vest and whatever tumble he had following the impact basically caused a bomb to go off inside him. The infection had been manifesting for some time before today's events. I don’t think I’ve seen so much pus—”

A hand covering his mouth as his complexion paled, Chris put a hand up as he wheezed out, “Please stop! I’m good, you don’t need to tell me what it looked like!”

Matt shrugged, but continued, “Bottom line, your buddy must have been in horrible pain for months. Either he’s really, really strong, or really fucking stupid.”

Chris took slight offense but said nothing, thinking back to several instances when Wesker would disappear for hours only to come back looking like death warmed over yet looking normal the following day. Chris lowered his eyes, sitting back to rub his forehead.

“Can’t blame yourself, man. People like him hide their pain and they do it well. Sometimes too well. If you really didn’t know until today how bad he was feeling, well, the guy would make a killing as a spy.”

A hand clasped his shoulder, squeezing his tightened muscles, “He’ll be fine. Just it will take a long time for this to heal. Give ‘im a few months, he’ll be back to his old self.”

Chris didn’t know how much he really needed to hear that and when he snuffed up the building snot, he nodded his head silently, quickly wiping his eyes with the heal of his hands, catching any wet before they could roll any further, “Thanks. Just we’re all really worried.”

Another squeeze and his shoulder was released, providing more reassurance than Chris thought possible.

“If anything changes, I’ll come let you know. He’ll probably be in ICU a while but shouldn’t be too long. Two, maybe three days at most.”

Nodding as Matt left, Chris leaned back in the chair, pressing his head against the wall, and bringing his hands up to press against still pricking eyes. The full realization of how close they all were to losing Wesker—how close he was to losing a person he admired—hit him straight in the gut. Wesker definitely was not a father figure, more of a mentor and someone he looked up to. A great boss and leader balancing the delicate line of the mission and comradery. Losing Wesker would have been crushing beyond comprehension.

Chris choked off a sudden sob by swallowing and clenching his teeth, pressing his hands harder against his eyes as if the pressure would reverse the wetness there. Huddled over, Chris covered his face entirely by dragging his hands down, trying to curb the emotion before the emptiness of the hallways caught wind of the abruptness of him reliving the detrimental loss of his parents.

Chapter Text

It felt like only a few minutes passed that he closed his eyes, and someone was shaking him awake.

“Hey wake up, kid. Your buddy’s out and in ICU.”

Looking around dazedly, Chris rubbed the sleep from his eyes, seeing bright scrubs and a few new occupants in the waiting room, “What? ICU?”

A floating voice hovered from above him as he pinched his eyes to dislodge crusts that had formed, “You clonked out. It’s been over four hours.”

Chris jolted to his feet, eyeing the person that the voice wafted from, who startled back at the animated response, “F-four hours!!”

Stern expression in response, the nurse sighed, “Normally, that kind of surgery takes less than two, but the rupture and infection, well, it wasn’t good. Let’s keep it at that. Now come on, let’s go. He should be waking up soon if he hasn’t already.”

Chris found himself nervous beyond comprehension, almost afraid. Not quite sure why but he never saw Wesker other than how he presented in the office or the occasional dress-down at get-togethers. The man was always pristine even when sweating bullets after running the team into the dust at the track.

But how he looked during the ambulance ride and the absolute agony, face pale, and breathing ragged had been frightening. He really didn’t know what to expect Wesker to look like.

Following after the technician still wiping sleep from his eyes, Chris realized the nervousness was because the last time he was in hospital it was to identify his parents. Claire was too young to really understand and his mind flashed back to those moments as clear as day. The existential dread deepened causing his heart to pound despite knowing that Wesker was alive.

He was not exactly friends with Wesker, but there was a general understanding between them, having some common ground of their time in the military, preference for craft beers, and battle for who was the better marksman. A sort of unspoken mentorship. Kind of like an uncle but not quite, but definitely mutual respect.

Arriving at an elevator, they went up several floors which opened into a long u-shaped hallway where other patients were being observed, some doors closed with blinds open, some blinds were closed, and others open reflecting empty beds. A station in the middle of bustling personnel.

Nurses and techs shuffled back and forth, taking vitals and moving about hastily, which only accentuated his nerves and he shivered, hands folding over his chest to keep the sudden chill out. He was brought to a closed door, the blinds open but it was dim inside, and he couldn’t make out very much of the bed’s occupant. A hand gestured towards the door, and Chris swallowed thickly, thanking the tech as they wandered off.

Hand on the handle, he sighed heavily as he cracked the door open only to stand at the threshold. Chris gazed at the older man covered in thick blankets flat on his back on the other side, the soft beeping of machinery monitoring Wesker’s vitals. Several minutes passed as he observed the quiet breaths, an oxygen mask over Wesker’s mouth as an occasional intake strained slightly.

Finally, Chris hesitantly crossed the doorway so that he could get a better glimpse of Wesker’s face before making any kind of disturbance. The face was ashen but not as white as he had been during the ambulance ride. His eyes were closed but seemed to flutter gently beneath the lids.

Chris didn’t know very much past the fact he had his gallbladder removed and some kind of infection but guessed it was probably a pretty intensive surgery if it lasted longer than the normal two hours.

Regardless of his intense scrutiny, Wesker didn’t stir, save for the unconscious rise and fall of his chest and after several more moments of observation, Chris stepped further into the privacy of the room, pulling the door partially closed behind him.

Still, no movement, or verbal acknowledgment of Chris’s presence as he stood over his captain. Several lines were taped to the inside of Wesker's left elbow, his right enclosed with a blood pressure sleeve and a finger clamp, other machines softly beeping the slowed heart rate.

He felt awkward hovering so looking around the open space not cluttered with machines, Chris found a chair and quietly moved it to sit so he could observe any changes in wakefulness.

He sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Observing the older man take the occasional slightly wheezing breath. Eyeing every small detail of Wesker’s face, Chris absently memorized each line. The skin was practically unblemished, light stubble having grown over the course of the long day.

Unkempt hair spread partially across his forehead and pillow, and Chris almost felt compelled to push the hair back into place to where it would normally be slicked back. He never realized how long it was without the thick gel and it made Wesker look younger despite the dark bags under the closed eyes.

*****

Expecting Wesker to wake up, it had been over an hour and more fluttering of the man’s eyelids but nothing more. So, as quietly as he could, Chris stepped out looking for a nurse not seemingly overly busy.

Shuffling up to the center desk, Chris tapped nervously on the counter until the person on the other side made eye contact, “Hi? Umm? Do you know anything about—room 5’s occupant? I was told he would be waking up soon but that was over an hour ago.”

Without a word, the person dropped her gaze as she tapped away at computer keys and in a tired voice, responded just as he expected, “They have him on sedatives for the next 24 hours minimum so he’s not waking up anytime soon. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?”

Chris mumbled absently, hands nervously twisting upon themselves, “Does he have any emergency contacts on file? I mean… I’m not family and no one else is here. Has anyone been called at all?”

The nurse harrumphed as she eyed him suspiciously with a raised eyebrow as she tapped away, finally relaying, “There’s no emergency POC for Mr. Wesker on record. Were you with him when he was brought in?”

Surprise widened Chris’s eyes, “Ye-yeah. I was with him for the ambulance ride. He’s my boss.”

Thought’s fluttered through Chris’s head, frown deepening, ‘No one else even knows he’s here.’

She sighed again, sliding a clipboard across the counter, “I guess that makes sense. Please sign this so we know you’ve been here and can let you back in as a visitor.”

Chris stared solemnly as he signed in, thinking that at least he had Claire, but Wesker had no one. Not even a close friend to call and it made him feel sad. Mind-numbing as he asked himself if Wesker ever truly felt lonely as he took one last look at the immobile form in room 5 before deciding to head home and update Barry and Enrico.

.....

The nurse watched as Chris exited the floor and as the elevator doors closed, she yanked the phone next to her up and jammed irritably the numbers listed on a yellowed business card with a red and white emblem.

A clipped, annoyed older gentleman with an accent answered, “Code?”

Fumbling, the nurse plucked the card off the wall and turned it over, “Code… star... 013?”

There was no response as the line clicked and she stared at the phone for a moment before placing it back on the receiver. She never had to make such a call despite being in the department for over 30 years. However, anyone who had been there for 20 years knew to make the call if a record popped up with a number in the same emblem in the file system.

She eyed the rest of the staff and sighed. All of them have been there under the 10-year mark.

She rose, shuffling over to room 5 to check the chart and eye the bed’s occupant. Sighing she upped the morphine drip and checked the intravenous line and bag that it was sufficient to replenish fluids.

Shuffling bedding, she pulled the loosened hospital gown up to check the large incision that was lined with thick staples. There was no redness, but he had only been in the ICU for less than two hours now. Righting the material and pulling the bedding back up she checked his feet which were covered with compression stockings to reduce the likelihood of blood clots. Thankfully, there was no swelling.

Regardless of exposure to the cold air, Wesker did not rouse from his medicated slumber.

Scanning the chart again, she made a small mark for the next check-in in a half hour.

This patient was the pride and joy of Umbrella Corp and if for some reason should Albert Wesker kick the bucket under their watch, she knew that it would not end in just a terminated employment for the entire floor.

Chapter Text

Upon receipt of the unexpected call from Raccoon City General Hospital, Sergei Vladimir immediately dialed his Lord Spencer to notify him of the fact his prized STARS captain was in the hospital and that he received the call.

Directed to further the inquiry, Sergei ended the call and dialed one William Birkin who answered on the fourth ring, “Who is this?! How did you get this number?!”

Not having much patience to deal with Birkin nor Albert Wesker for that matter, Sergei clipped the snotty response off quickly, “Get to the hospital now before I choke out what little life your butt buddy Albert is clinging to.”

*click*

William Birkin, having been woken from a pleasant dream was momentarily stunned as he squinted at the phone in his hand. That is until it clicked who was on the other line and what had been relayed. He tossed bedding off him as he stumbled frantically to find clothes.

“Will… what’s wrong? Who was that?”

Scrambling to pull socks on, William jolted at his wife’s voice who normally slept like the dead.

“Annie?! Albert’s at the hospital! I need to get there before Sergei does! No telling what that monster will do to him!”

Alerted to the panic in William’s tone, she also jostled out of bed, “What happened?!”

“Sergei didn’t say but it must be bad. I haven’t heard from Al in a while.”

He bolted from the room, steps thumping down the stairs and towards the front door to slip loafers on, Annette following quickly behind him, “Once I find out what’s going on, I’ll let you know.”

She understood the urgency and nodded as he wrenched the door open, sprinting towards his vehicle. Annette stood in the doorway, watching as her husband sped away, tires squealing.

“Mom?”

Annette jolted, breath catching as she jerked to see her daughter at the top of the stairs, eyes wide in fear, “Sherry… what are you doing out of bed?”

Taking one last look into the empty streets, she closed the door, returning her attention to the apparent fright in her daughter’s eyes as she slowly descended the stairs, one hand clutching the banister, “Mom, what’s going on? Where’s Dad?”

Motioning for Sherry to come down all the way she pulled her into a gentle hug, “There’s an emergency, Baby.”

Sherry welcomed the contact, but was still wary of what was going on, “For work?”

Annette was silent a moment before pulling Sherry closer, “It’s your uncle.”

Jerking back to stare at her mother’s concerned gaze, Sherry sputtered out, “What’s wrong with Uncle Albert?!”

However, there were no answers for Annette to give to come even remotely close to answering that question, “I don’t know, Baby. I don’t know.”

*****

Sergei Vladimir was a very imposing man. It was the reason why when approached by hospital staff he just needed to shift his gaze, barking to be brought to Albert Wesker’s room. Muttering in Russian under his breath, he trudged after the unfortunate soul who knew where exactly the STARS Captain was in the maze of floors and hallways.

It was a painful elevator ride for the tech to the ICU where the person of interest lay incapacitated in a medicated slumber.

Being the early morning hours, the ICU floor was well devoid of the daytime bustle, but it was still populated with techs, nurses, and doctors keeping tabs on the floor’s occupants.

“Sir, you need to sign in.”

Of course, Sergei ignored the individual at the desk, again demanding where Albert Wesker was.

After being prompted to sign in again, Sergei turned, grumbling darkly, and stormed over to room 1, yanked it open, and spied its occupant for his target.

Not seeing the blonde man, Sergei moved to room 2, then 3, and on to 4. As he gripped the door handle to room 5, a familiar voice rang out staying Sergei’s grip.

“God damnit, Sergei!” William Birkin had arrived, bursting through the emergency stairwell, ragged breaths causing him the wheeze slightly.

Sergei ignored him and proceeded to yank open the door to the darkened room 5 and as his sight adjusted to the dimness, he grinned stalking into the room with the sandy-haired man directly on his heels.

They stood on opposite sides of the room, gazing at the supine form that was completely stilled and unconcerned of its visitors, oxygen mask providing unburden air, machines beeping softly.

Finally, William moved first, taking the few feet to the bedside to observe the form of his closest companion and conspirator, leaning over to observe the slackened pale face pushing unkempt hair off the smooth forehead.

Suddenly, the dimness brightened, and William snapped his gaze to Sergei who had flicked on the lights, “Have some decency man!”

Sergei continued on his mission, approaching the opposite bedside to roughly lift one of Wesker’s eyelids, snarling into his ear, “Wake up, wake up, Mr. Policeman! You have job to do and no time to be laying around like dead log!”

Outraged, William slapped at the beefy hands to try to dislodge them but only managed to cause them to jerk Wesker’s head towards the Russian.

“What do you think you’re doing!” A hand landed on Sergei’s bicep and muscle memory cause the arm to reach back to grip the neck of the disruptor. Releasing Wesker, whose head flopped bonelessly. Sergei turned to whoever was the owner of the neck he was gripping to see an older doctor who was scrambling against the fingers disrupting his air supply.

“Very rude to interrupt. I was talking to Mr. Wesker.”

William panicked, quickly shuffling around the bed to help dislodge the unfortunate doctor from Sergei’s wrath, “Sergei, let him go! You’re making a scene!”

Eyeing between the two and a gaggle of hospital employees outside the room, with a sneer, Sergei pushed the doctor backward until he was out the door before releasing his hold letting the man collapse past the threshold who heaved in air past his abused throat as he collapsed into waiting arms.

Nonchalantly, Sergei grabbed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign from the inner door handle and placed it on the outside before slamming the door shut, ignoring several calls from the staff to identify himself, what he was doing, and we’re calling the police. Which prompted Sergei to reopen the door, quickly flashing a badge, “I am the police.”

The statement quieted the crowd slightly, and Sergei again slammed the door shut, turning to gaze darkly at William who now stood between him and Wesker.

“You’re fucking mad, Sergei! What the fuck!”

Miffed, Sergei stood imposingly over the shorter man, a finger flung out to point at Wesker, “What I need to know is why HE is fucking here!”

Huffing and stepping back, William’s gaze darted around for a chart and back to the burly Russian, not wanting Sergei to leave his sight for too long, lest he also be attacked. Finding it, William grasped it, shifted between the lines, and Sergei who stood haughtily with arms crossed.

“I do not have all day, Birkin.”

Brows pinching in concern and stuttering slightly as his eyes ran across the pages, mumbling quietly. Irritation bubbling, Sergei snarling, taking an advancing step, “I do not have time for this, Wake up, Wesker!”

William curbed Sergei quickly, arms out once more to deny the gray-haired man access, “He’s sedated, Moron!”

A quick hand caught William’s cheek and wrenched his head to the side, “Manners, Dr. Birkin.”

Eyes glassy with contempt, William tried to keep the absolute rage he was feeling from his tone, “Mr. Vladimir, this man was on his deathbed not hours ago. So, if you please, restrain yourself from assaulting him further.”

Straightening, Sergei halted his advance, mockingly glaring at the blond lump that was unmoving, “Deathbed? But I thought Albert Wesker was invincible?”

Dropping his arms now that Sergei was unlikely to take any further actions against Wesker, “It says gallbladder rupture and sepsis. Do you understand that, at least?”

Sergei growled, “Do not test me, Dr. Birkin. Get him moved.”

Sputtering in outrage, a hand flung to the people staring in from the ICU floor on the opposite side of the glass, “And make this look even more suspicious than it already does! We shouldn’t even be here!”

Turning toward the observers, Sergei shifted to roughly close all the blinds to curb any further inspection.

“He needs to stay here! There will be too many questions! You—”

The thick accent clipped off William’s tirade, “Did you know about this? You plan this with him?”

Mouth gaping as he gawked at the Russian like he had two heads, “Plan this—No!! I haven’t spoken to him in weeks! We’re too damn busy! Do you think if I knew I’d let him get to this point?!”

Grumbling, Sergei pointed once more at the bed’s occupant, “This is bullshit! He is a stubborn fucking cocksucker! Who knows what setback this will cause!”

Exasperated, William agreed, “You think I don’t know that! I’ve known him longer than you have!”

“Fix it.”

Gripping his hair to stare back at Wesker, William started to protest but was cut off as a finger jammed into his chest forcing him to take a step back.

“Fix. It.”

William knew there was no point in arguing as the Russian turned heels and wrenched the door back open, disbursing the gathered crowd with silent glaring as he made his way back to the elevator.

Gaping in absolute shock, William sighed in relief as he rubbed his chest, turning towards Wesker who hadn’t moved, “You asshole. What did you do? Why didn’t you call?”

“What was that?! Who are you?” An irritated voice barked catching William’s attention who was already at his wit's end with the situation.

Muttering as he pinched tired eyes, “I’m his friend. We used to work together years ago.”

The speaker, an older female nurse, confronted William, “Funny you weren’t his emergency contact.”

Face scrunching in irritation, frustration prickled William’s neck, “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Continuing as she approached the disrupted patient, she repositioned Wesker’s head gently on the pillow to a more comfortable angle from where Sergei had jarred it, “He had no emergency POC is what I’m saying.”

Running hands over his face, William grumbled, stepping close to the bedside now that Sergei had taken his leave, “Of course, he didn’t. So, what’s his prognosis?”

Eyeing him, she stayed silent, upon which William waved the chart in his hand, “I could just read it myself then.”

She tried to snatch it back, but he turned away with it and read through it more thoroughly, “Damnit Albert, you idiot. You should have called me!”

“And why call you?”

William turned towards her as she checked the IV lines, “I’m a doctor!”

Rolling her eyes, she checked the incision in which William was able to take a look at the damage, quieting as he scrutinized it closely.

A raspy voice caught their attention, “It was the best we could do in the circumstances.”

Shifting to the newcomer, William realized it was the doctor Sergei had assaulted, obvious bruising around the older man’s neck. William stayed silent but shifted his gaze downward apologetically as he sighed watching the rise and fall of Wesker's chest that was covered in blankets once more.

“He’s always been damn stubborn. Always hated admitting something was wrong but… thank you.”

The doctor shifted, “Just doing my job.”

Obviously, the doctor was Wesker’s surgeon, and William handed the now rumpled chart over to him, “Can you run me through everything? I’m probably the closest thing he has to family. No one else will come for him.”

Rubbing his tender neck the doctor hesitated, “I’d have to ask the director for permissions, and you’ll have to sign some paperwork.”

Eyes narrowing, William nodded in understanding. His being there was chancy as it was, but he couldn’t have Sergei confronting a recovering Wesker and potentially making his recovery longer with his unconventional methods of ‘motivating’ the process.

Everything had to be dealt with as delicately as possible.

Chapter Text

“Why do I have to clean up after his messes?!”

“No, it’s every time! Every damn time!”

“He needs a fucking leash, is what he needs!!”

“I don’t care if it’s above my pay grade!”

“You know what! No! No! I’ll do it myself! Do not send that rabid dog back here!”

“Do not threaten me, you imbecile! Do you even know what I do for this company!?”

“Maybe you should look it up then, Moron!”

William grumbled peevishly as he pressed end on his cell and stalked back into the private ICU room, running a hand over his stubbled jaw as he glared at the lump that was Albert Wesker.

They had replaced the oxygen mask with a nasal cannula, but he could still hear the strain as the blond’s breathing labored.

“You are such a fucking pain in my ass sometimes! Sometimes I really wonder who the mature one is between the two of us!”

Turning, William paced out the door to look for the surgeon, still waiting for approval on Wesker’s condition and prognosis.

What he did not notice was the slight shift of the lump and the roll of eyes under heavy lids as Wesker attempted to open them upon William’s shrill phone conversation.

He couldn’t understand why he felt so heavy and so damn tired or why his abdomen ached with a throbbing pulse. Correction, he knew why his abdomen hurt. It was an unpleasant and constant reminder these days. But for some reason, it felt different, sharper. Regardless, that didn’t explain the extreme exhaustion or the heaviness. Almost as if he had been… drugged.

Drugged… Panicking with a gasping breath, fists clenching, he fought to open his eyes, lids fluttering, and bright light flooded his vision, and with a short cry tried to lift a hand to shield his delicate eyes. But that too felt like lead, and as he tried to bring them up again, he felt a tug and pain in the back of his hand, and then he tried a third time, but his hand refused to cooperate, and he let them drop back to the mattress with a huff.

Letting the exhaustion overwhelm him once more, despite the panic of not knowing where he was, kept him from completely letting his mind shut down.

Voices. One of them was the same as before, and as they drew closer, he realized it was William. He tried once more to crack his eyes open to no avail.

“Alright, well, please can we cut to the bottom line here, will he be able to get back to… well… normal?”

“That’s a very complicated answer, Dr. Birkin.”

“I have the time, Dr. Moon. This has a direct impact on my employer.”

Wesker heard shuffling around him but was so drowsy that moving was not quite as important, knowing that William was there.

“Prognosis! Please… I’m sorry. It’s just I—we are all concerned with his wellbeing.”

A heavy sigh and Dr. Moon decided it was not worth the time to argue. He was on the clock, and any emergency that could happen, he’d have to attend to immediately, “Yes. Right. Well, his gallbladder had become infected over—hell, I don’t even know how long it was festering. Long enough to cause an intern to pass out and two more to get sick. Just… puss… everywhere. Cleaning it all out took a very long time, if you can imagine.”

“I can…” William trailed off quietly, and Wesker was imagining the many experiments they had worked on together and separately dealing with similar infections, and it made his mouth water, trying not to imagine himself in such a state.

“We removed the organ—”

“Not to be rude, but any chance I get a look at it.”

“Umm, I’ll see what I can do. Organ removed. Cleaned out any more infection we could see and closed him back up. End of story”

“You… didn’t see any other issues?”

“Not that we noticed, no.”

“And stable enough for no respirator?”

“Correct.”

“How far did the sepsis—”

Wesker could not take it any longer.

“Shut. Up.” Trying to fight the drugs in his system, he managed to crack his eyes long enough to confirm William was actually there and he was not imagining things.

Dr. Moon shuffled to his other side, dragging each eye open and running a light pen across his vision as they rolled back in their sockets, and he hissed, trying to move away, but the leaden weight of his body was winning.

“How the heck are you even awake?! You’re… you should not be conscious at all!”

Answering for him, William snorted, “Fast metabolism.”

The assault on his eyes finished, Wesker tried to bring his hands up to rub them, but they were halted, and he glanced briefly at what the cause could be to realize his wrists were padded and strapped to the sides of the bed, and he raised his eyes up with as much contempt he could manage only to close them again.

“Why… am I… restrained?” Each word droning quieter as he fought off the darkness.

“You know why.” William eyed him with a frown, and Wesker ignored him, swallowing thickly, but rolled his head in his direction regardless.

The sandy-haired man leaned over, eyeing him boredly, poking Wesker in the shoulder until he cracked his eyes back open. Wesker immediately noticed the bags under Will’s eyes were deeper and darker than normal.

“You know, you interrupted a very nice dream.”

Not feeling guilty despite William trying so hard, Wesker rasped, “I am not apologizing… for inconveniencing you.”

The normally calmed demeanor erupted into a sudden snarl, “Do you fucking hear yourself, Al?! This is a BIG fucking inconvenience. What would NOT have been a BIG inconvenience would have been you waking me up in the middle of the night to give you a damn physical MONTHS ago!! Stubborn ass!”

Wesker could feel the spital from William’s irritation as it spat against his face, but he just had no energy to care, his side starting to ache with each breath, “Please, Shut… up.”

“No! No! I will not shut up! Just… fuck…” William paced, glaring down at the slitted eyes that barely kept up with his movements, and he stopped at the end of the bed, hand covering his mouth in disbelief. “Why did you let this go for so long? Why didn’t you ask for help? My help?!”

Rolling his eyes up, heavy lids shut, mumbles tried to answer, but they trailed off to incoherent grumbles, “Too much work… too many incompetent fools… not enough hours in a day… not enough days in a week… three jobs…”

“Albert—”

William’s squabble was cut off, “Scratch my nose, Will… please… or take these… off.”

Both had ignored Dr. Moon until that moment, as he reached down to gently scratch Wesker’s nose.

“Albert—”

“I’m tired, Will… let me sleep. I have three meetings coming up tomorrow.”

Dr. Moon had been observing the back and forth but quickly cut off the tangential conversation, “No meetings. You’re here in ICU for at least another week.”

Trying to squint at the sudden newcomer, Wesker jolted at the voice, “Wh-what? But… the meetings… paperwork…”

“Not happening. You by all means should be sleeping right now, not bickering.” Dr. Moon quickly adjusted the IV line to increase the saturation and quickly, before William could protest, injected a syringe of clear liquid he had pulled from his lab coat. “Get some rest, you have had more than your fill of drama for today, Mr. Wesker. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.”

The itch of panic prickled up Wesker’s spine once more as he arched his head to try and see the lines, but it also caused his torso to pull and the staples to stretch along his skin, ripping a groan from deep in his throat. He barely heard William’s quipped ‘moron’ as he sank back into the bedding.

“Rest, man! For once in your damn life, just rest!”

But Wesker could not help but fight the sudden rush of chemicals dragging him back to the depths of darkness. There was too much to do, but it became increasingly harder and harder to keep his eyelids open, and finally, they closed heavily once more as unconsciousness dragged him down.

“He needs rest.”

“I know. Just… do not let that commie pig back in here. If he does, tell him this man was moved to another hospital. No telling what he would do.”

“He. Needs. Rest. He could have died. Do you want that for your friend? To complicate this further.”

"I'm here to make sure he stays here." Huffing as he watched Wesker’s body relax and the stiffness settle, William brought his full attention to the surgeon, arms crossed tightly, “Now what?”

“Now, I will go over what to expect next.”

Plopping into a chair, William waved a hand as he expected Dr. Moon to go on, head falling against a fist.

Despite the chemicals, Wesker was still vaguely aware of the conversation, he just had no way to tell the two men to remove themselves from his presence, and he was forced to hear a majority of what he should expect in the coming weeks, and he was not thrilled.

He was definitely not looking forward to the oncoming healing process at home either, but… now he had no choice in the matter if he wanted to make it through this fiasco in one piece.

Chapter Text

After fully waking up, the doctors came and practically scolded him for how irresponsible he was, and upon receiving any further snide comments, he breathed out a silent ‘fuck you' as if he was there to inconvenience their lives by ignoring the pain in his side for months.

He was filling their pocketbooks. Well, Umbrella was, but still, it was their job to keep him alive, not to bitch at him until his ears bled at things that could not be changed.

Now, Wesker was bored to tears out of his mind. Sick of soap opera surfing and glaring at infomercials selling obscenely overpriced items and completely over yelling at asinine contestants on rigged gameshows, he finally asked for a book, a magazine, anything that wouldn’t continue to rot his idle mind staring at the boob tube.

Not wanting to deal with him, one of the orderlies graced him with a pile of entertainment magazines, and grumbling, he accepted them. They were certainly better than the shit he had been watching on the television.

He was used to working, more work, and even more work. He didn’t need or require breaks unless to rest and eat, and usually, he ate while working. There was always something to keep his mind occupied.

This was absolute torture, and he swore it was a conspiracy to break him. That and along with the lasting ripple of pain that didn’t seem to give despite the concoction of pain meds, antibiotics, and vasopressors, not to mention being still on oxygen.

To top everything off, they had put the IV line in right on a nerve causing his arm to ache severely, and with every shift of limb, a tremor jolted through him, causing his belly to ache even more severely. When he demanded a new line, it took him speaking to three different people to finally get them to switch it out, but it was only a small reprieve from the overall discomfort he was in.

Exhausted listening to the nurses telling him over and over what he could, but mostly what he couldn’t do, he defied them every chance he was given. Now, he could barely stomach lying on his back much longer and was warned not to get up without someone present until he had clearance, or they would make sure he couldn’t move at all.

Having already dealt with being secured to the bed, as was explained ‘for his own safety’, he had demanded the use of his arms once sufficiently aware.

Deciding he couldn’t suffer laying there one more second, Wesker squirmed, trying to think of a way to detach himself from everything to make his escape to somewhere that was not his bed. That is, he was mid-though when his door opened abruptly, and Brian Irons’ large frame filled the open doorway, Enrico and Barry trudging dejectedly after the tubby man with sullen looks of apology.

Deflating, Wesker sighed, laying back against pillows that had molded to his head, “Who do I owe the pleasure of seeing your… bushy faces today?”

“Speak for yourself.” Barry quipped.

Wesker frowned, hand patting his own scruffy face, and he cursed. He knew it had grown quite a bit but not that much.

“Wesker, you’re on medical leave until further notice, so don’t waste my time. Marini is partly filling in on admin, and Barry’s taking over personnel issues.”

Mouth gaping, Wesker was barely given a moment to grasp the chief’s annoyed tone, as if it was Wesker doing to force the chief to visit him in hospital. A visit that could have easily been just a simple phone call.

Head aching just by hearing the chief's voice, Wesker snidely made a quick observation, “You mean do what they have been doing… for five days now. Why are you here, Irons? To give me more a headache than I already have? It’s certainly not to check my health and wellbeing.”

“Clam it, Wesker! I heard from the grapevine you intentionally ignored this, and now look at you. Fucking useless lump!”

Cheeks reddening as muscles trembled, Wesker sputtered and snarled, “Useless??! Useless!!!? You fat prick! Do you have any idea how much paperwork you and your lazy-ass lackeys thrust on my desk on a daily basis??! That I take care of because…”

“Zip it! Just pass off your duties. I’m already tired of looking at you.”

Wesker was fuming, despite Barry mouthing with over-exaggerated movements, ‘I’m so sorry.’ But as Irons turned glaringly, Barry molded back to his stern face and watched the chief leave slamming the door behind him.

Enrico popped his head out of the room just to make sure Irons was well on his way out of the premises. Not seeing the large man, he withdrew and closed the door again to ensure some privacy.

“What the fuck was that all about??!” Snarling as he gaped between the two. he felt awful, even more so now his blood was boiling, and his stomach rippled severely.

“Wesker, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think he would do this! Guy’s got a screw loose.” Barry stepped towards his bed as Wesker settled back jerkily, groaning as a hand pressed against the incision. The tensing of muscles aching where they had been cut.

“Did you tell him, Barry?”

Barry glared back, “It didn’t come from me. No clue where he caught wind of it from.”

Wesker had to think who else had known, but he had been out of it for a while. He remembered an irritating conversation with William and a couple of visits, but no one else from Umbrella had come to check on him. That he knew of anyway.

Maybe William had talked to Irons. Wesker made a mental note to ask William the next time the man presented himself.

Not having access to his cell phone was an inconvenience, “Could someone drop off my cell next time? I have some calls to make.”

“You’re not supposed to be working. At all. You heard irons.”

Sighing heavily and immediately regretting it, Wesker managed through grit teeth, “It’s not for work. It’s for personal matters.”

Enrico folded his arms, winking a few times as he smirked at the pale visage, “Right.”

“Damnit, Enrico, do you think I’m fucking around or something?!”

Enrico laughed at the short outburst, “I don’t know, are you?”

Barry chuckled, “Nah, he’s married to his paperwork. Right Wesker?”

Heaving slightly with fueled anger at the mocking tones, “You know what, I’m not helping either of you one bit. Figure it all out on your own.”

Enrico laughed heartily, catching Barry’s amused expression, “Aww, don be like that. I promise you we’ll take care of those huge lumps of piles of paperwork on your desk. It’ll be as clean as a whistle by the time you get back. You won’t even know what to do with yourself.”

Their presence had quickly become insufferable, and he groaned, leaning further back into pillows, brows crinkling together, wrapping both arms around his middle as he dragged his knees up to try and relieve some of the pressure, but the throbbing had already settled, and he rolled onto his left side.

Observing the sudden silence, Barry reached over to grip a trembling shoulder, “Need us to call someone? We didn’t mean to rile you up, Wesker. Just some lighthearted banter.”

Breathing heavily through his nose, Wesker shook his head in the negative, “Just need a moment. You two are assholes.”

Enrico chuckled as he sat a little way awake out of range, pulling a small notebook from a tactical pocket, “We’re being serious though. We need to know where you left off on the projects so we can cover down.”

Hissing, Wesker nodded, “Yeah. Fine.”

Upon finding a comfortable spot, Wesker resignedly relayed what he could remember of the accounts he had been working on and made it known in absolution that no one was to touch his computer because he’d know. And he would break fingers.

“We promise no one will touch your baby, Wesker. Right, Barry?” It was meant to be a lighthearted comment, but Wesker let his puss face manifest in response, grumbling colorfully.

Barry observed the sudden paleness and heavy bags under Wesker’s eyes, barely able to keep them open. The blond certainly looked so far from his usual self that it was unnerving. Though having been recovering for a few days, he was still in ICU and on oxygen, and Barry nodded his head towards the door once he caught Enrico’s bright gaze.

“I’m just messing with you, Wesker. Just a couple more things, and we’ll get out of your hair.”

Eyes closed and curled into himself, Wesker waved a hand to get on with it but said nothing.

“Problem children. Who do I need to keep an extra eye on?”

Barry watched as bloodshot eyes cracked open as Wesker was about to say something when Barry spoke up, “I can fill you in, Enrico. We can catch a few beers.”

Gazing at the wariness of the bed’s occupant, Enrico nodded, “Alright. You’ve been dragged through the mud enough for today, Wesker. It looks like you could use some shut-eye.”

Mumbling, Wesker’s eyes rolled, but nothing coherent could be made of the sounds.

“This really did a number on him.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna be a long time before he’ll be back anywhere close to where he was before.”

“Gettout.” It was a deep grumble and the cue for the two STARS members to take their leave.

“Ok, ok. We’re leaving. We got the message.”

Wesker had no energy to respond, having settled into the bed in hopes of some much-needed rest.

He heard the door open and close quietly, and just as he was drifting into the inky blackness of unconsciousness, the door opened again, and his name was called, this time from his young pointman.

He shuddered, and his lungs caught, but he couldn’t manage to open his eyes to acknowledge the brunet who stepped quietly into his room, “Capt’n?”

Shifting weakly, Wesker managed to drag a short noise from his throat, but it was nothing close to the name of his newest visitor.

A quiet ‘shit’ was muttered apologetically as he heard rustling and what sounded to be something placed on the rolling table that had been pushed away from his bed so as not to be knocked over but within reach.

He heard more shuffling and what sounded to be quiet clicks as Chris quietly spoke despite Wesker not truly responding.

“I used to play all the time, but… after my parents'… well, I figured maybe it would be something to keep your mind occupied.”

More shuffling and the door opened and closed, and Wesker managed to sink into a fitful rest. Of agony and loud noises. Pressure against his sore innards. Of choked lungs as dusk filled them, and suddenly his eyes shot open, and he was leaning up only to fall back into damp sheets, sweat prickling his skin, and his eyes shifted wildly around the room, but he was alone.

It was dark outside, and he couldn’t tell how long he’d been asleep.

Settling back further, his gaze caught something. It was a small chessboard with a small note.

‘Your move.’

Snorting, he didn’t realize that Chris Redfield was a chess player, but it was better than the other things he tried to keep himself occupied. The board quickly replaced anxiousness with curiosity despite the pulsing ache from where he had overtaxed the staples keeping his innards together.

“Alright, Redfield. I’ll play your game.”

Staring for some time as Chris left it to him to move his piece first, he chose the darkened side of the set and moved one of his pawns.

He was grateful that someone had brought his phone back, likely when he had been sleeping, and left it within reach, mostly charged, of course.

Looking at the time, Wesker was not sure if Chris would even receive the text. ‘C7 to C6.’

Slowly rising, he tottered his way to the bathroom to relieve his bladder. He was still supposed to have an escort, but he didn’t want to wait until someone decided to show up just so that he could take a piss.

Unsure how long he was on the toilet, upon his return, he had received a new response. ‘F2 to F3.’

Wesker chuckled, which ended in a wheeze, but he moved the piece as requested.

‘Playing it safe?’

‘I’m a bit rusty.’

After thinking about how he should plan his tactics, Wesker finally decided to feign his chosen path.

‘Fair enough. H7 to H5.’

Expecting a response sooner than later, Wesker waited and waited as his eyes grew heavier and heavier. And figuring Chris had fallen asleep, he set the phone aside, rolling over to try and get more rest.

Almost back into the succumbing darkness, there was a response, and too drained and too achy, he decided to ignore it.

Except instead of darkness, he was back in the ambulance, mind only able to grasp the wailing of sirens and ghostly hands holding him down as something burned its way through his side and up his throat. It seemed to last forever, and when he was able to wrench himself from the sudden remembrance of vague memories a squeak escaped him as a scarred face suddenly took up his field of vision.

“Oh, I did not mean to frighten.”

Trying to catch his breath, Wesker had wrenched himself back from the large bulky man who had crouched over his bed, the incision screaming at him at the suddenness of the movement, and a hand jerked towards it to counteract the pressure.

“Sergei… why are you here?”

Not moving from the hovering position, Sergei examined the weakened form as if he were trying to decide which cut of meat he wanted to prepare first. A hand swiftly dropped to press down against Wesker’s chest, gentle at first then crushing as he shifted his weight onto the single point.

Pale hands weakly scrambled against the sudden pressure that had cut off his ability to drag in air, “Sergei, stop! I… I can’t breathe. Sergei—!”

Wrenching his eyes open, Wesker jolted upward and immediately regretted it as he flopped backward, pulling a leg up towards the incision, trying to reduce the stretch of the staples.

“Sh-shit!”

Gasping, Wesker swept the room for the Russian, but he was alone. He couldn’t have been asleep more than a few minutes. He couldn’t remember having such frequent nightmares either since awakening in the hospital. Sergei was a formidable figure, but he wasn’t afraid of the man.

A familiar face appeared in the doorway, and the older woman captured the bright, glassy eyes, “You alright, Hun? Heard a noise in here. Checkin’ to see if you’re alright.”

Vision wavering as he let out a breath he didn’t remember holding, Wesker shook his head as his eyes squeezed closed, hand pinching against the prickling liquid and embarrassment that of all the nightmares thus far, the one about Sergei would be the one to disturb him the most.

“Just… bad dreams is all.”

She stepped in, closing the door mostly behind her to check his lines and the incision, which had torn slightly, small beads of red bubbled at half of the lower portion of the staples.

“It’s normal, but you should be more careful. It’ll take longer to heal if you keep moving around. And don’t think we didn’t notice you used the toilet without a spotter.”

Ignoring her, Wesker grumbled and looked away, not caring for the accusation nor to see the ugly incision line as the cold air prickled his skin, and just as he made to close his eyes he caught movement outside the corner of his eye.

A familiar one-eyed man with a nasty grin gazed back at him in amusement, and it startled Wesker more than he wanted to admit. Muscles tensing, and she tisked at him as he launched his gaze to the nurse and back to where he had seen the gray-haired Russian. But now no one was there, and it had all happened so fast he wasn’t sure if it was real or his exhausted, foggy mind imagining it all.

“Have… has anyone else been in here?” His voice was tenser than he’d have liked. The nurse looked at him with a raised eyebrow and then followed where his widened gaze had drifted.

She couldn’t be certain, but no one had passed by the station though there was another way to get to the area as it was a floor of individual private rooms.

“No one’s signed in, Hun. Not since this afternoon.”

Trying to reassure as the unsuspecting look of dread flitted to her and quickly back to the partially open blinds.

Silently she patted his shoulder as she soothed over blankets and closed the area where Wesker’s attention had been locked on. As she closed it, she heard him shuffle, and looking back toward him, he had settled once more, eyes closed.

She made sure the ‘do not disturb’ sign was on the knob before returning to other patients. Quietly, she mentioned to the other workers to keep an eye out for anyone that might encroach upon the room and to let her know if someone did.

Wesker crept his eyes open, looking at the blinds, and quickly shut them promptly. It felt like it took forever to succumb back to the blackness. And once he did manage to sleep, the sky had already begun to lighten as a new day started.

Chapter Text

The days dragged on and on and on, and for once in his life, he looked forward to seeing the faces of his coworkers and of William and even the few occasions he saw Annette and Sherry.

He welcomed the banter of Marini and Barry as they visited every other day or so, giving him specifics of the going on's of the precinct, of the shenanigans that were pulled, of the bullshit Irons tried to dump on the two of them and how Wesker should have said no to the fat lard right off the bat to all the extra work that had piled up on his desk that they were sorting through.

It went without saying that he was good at what he did. Too good. And because of that, others gave him more and more work to do because he was meticulous at his job of handling paperwork to get things done and on time.

“Seriously, Wesker. You need to put your foot down when you get back. Irons keeps saying how he misses his little ‘bitch’ which goes without saying he means you.” Marini did not pull punches when it came to Irons’ bullshit. Nor did Barry, and it made Wesker wonder how in the hell he had managed to let himself become the RPD bitch, or at least Irons’ bitch.

It was embarrassing having two grown men tell him how the chief of police saw him. When he eventually returned to the office, he was going to put his foot down. He had very little patience for Irons after hearing about his snotty whining about his prolonged absence.

Umbrella had the fat fuck wrapped around their finger, not the other way around, and he’d use it to good measure so he could focus on his and William’s ‘project.’ Spend less time in the stuffy interior office.

Nodding in agreement that he needed to confront Irons, he took the suggestion to heart. The disruption of his workaholic lifestyle was eye-opening, and he found that he had a knack for chess. He was absolutely grateful to Chris for having brought the simple chessboard so that they could strategize.

He had won the first several matches until Chris figured out his plan of attack, and they went back and forth, winning one or two and losing until tactics required a shift. Dare he say he had fun with Redfield, 13 years his junior.

Never did he imagine how mature Chris was, especially with the number of pranks he had apparently pulled during his absence, and it was during one of his own off comments that had caused Chris to become stone-faced and confess how absolutely terrified he’d been as he accompanied Wesker in the ambulance. Of losing his boss, mentor, and now, good friend, like he’d lost his parents.

It put his own existence into better perspective at the realization of how lucky he was as Chris nonchalantly mentioned Barry’s comment of Wesker dying at his desk, and he couldn’t help but imagine himself in that scenario, sprawled across stacks of paperwork for STARS, for Irons, for Umbrella, and William, eyes glassy and unseeing and frothy bile and mess splattered everywhere.

The vision caused him to shudder violently, and Chris quickly had to switch topics to return back to more light-hearted banter, like stuffing cloves in Irons’ expensive cigars and putting googly eyes on some of the sculptures and paintings scattered around the precinct; or putting glow sticks into some of the mounted animal heads so that there was an eerie light emitting from them when lights were off.

“How long did it take for him to notice?”

Bursting out laughing, Chris managed, “Three days! And then he demanded fingerprints which, of course, they came up with nothing! Hadn’t found the glowsticks yet, but they probably burnt out by now.”

Unable to stifle chuckling at how beet-faced Irons probably was as he lumbered around checking all his precious art, Wesker curled slightly into the incision.

Curious about the status of the googly eyes, Wesker couldn’t help himself, “Did he find them all?”

This question caused Chris to howl, hand slapping a leg, “Of course not!”

“Well, you know what has to be done, right?” Smirking and holding his aching side from laughter, he nonchalantly suggested exactly what Chris knew he would, to keep putting up googly eyes randomly but not get caught.

Chris winked dramatically with a thumbs up, “Already on it, Sir!”

Sighing heavily, Wesker realized he missed the lightheartedness of STARS, “Alright then, keep up the good work. Keep me updated.”

Wesker would have loved seeing Irons race around the long hallways, piggish features reddened furiously, sweating and enraged with some poor newbie sap on his heels with a fingerprint dusting kit.

Other team members visited, but not as frequently. Jill and Brad, Forest, and even the Bravo team. He had a row of useless flowers and ‘get well soon’ cards and balloons. He hated balloons, and they knew it. In his one act of kindness, he demanded the flowers and balloons be removed immediately and given anonymously to other patients who had none. Especially to the kids who needed something to brighten their day.

Normally he avoided children, that is, except for one. He very much enjoyed it when Sherry visited, to his surprise. She went on and on about what she was learning in her classes and how very bored she was waiting for the other kids to keep up. How once, she took up the chalk and drove the classes forward by breaking down concepts into their most basic form to make them easier to understand.

She was sent to the principal’s office by the teacher, and of course, the principal scoffed at the teacher for being so irked and gave William and Annette a referral for her to attend a more advanced school.

Seeing himself and William in her, he offered to teach her subjects not available to her upon his return home. More than happy to indulge the young genius Sherry obviously was, taking after her father.

William always brought news for him. Of how things were going and how he needed Wesker to recover quicker. Except when Wesker tried to push himself, he found his body didn’t want to listen. It was frustrating, and he snarled heated once in confession that his brain worked just fine and could do the tasks William needed help with, but that his physical mobility was very limited.

Huffing, William switched topics fast enough to let Wesker cool down, who grit teeth despite color returning to paled features. He knew what he had to do, but he certainly could not help William from his confined location, and things would have to wait until he was released from the hospital.

Despite the visits, some days, he was simply bored to tears. Literal tears as he lay sullen at his circumstance.

He read all the magazines available to him and eventually took up raunchy romance novels. He watched soap operas long enough to know who was who, who was planning murders and betrayals, who led double lives, and who faked their deaths. He watched the news for any updates on STARS’ activities that made it to mainstream media, which to his delight, none had, other than the fiasco last week and his hospitalization. He was thankful none of the reporters managed to sneak in to snap his picture, just his official photo the precinct insisted on taking of him upon his employment there.

Now, laying stiffly on his back, Wesker sighed at the small chink of metal being crunched, and he tried to keep his expression passive, but after everything the past two weeks, it was an uphill battle. The nurse ignored Wesker’s indignant stare as they continued to removed staple after staple, wiping away any red droplets that formed in the wake of each uprooting of the tiny prongs.

For the past few days, Wesker had been placing pressure on the incision because he knew he’d be scolded if he scratched at the itchiness from the healing skin.

Nothing was spoken as the nurse finished, spraying some first aid spray over the red pricks in his skin.

Some of the openings were elongated from where he had overtaxed himself, and the staples had torn the skin open. Those had already healed and were a shiny pink, prominent against the pallor of his skin.

The main incision was a thicker pink, but he tried not to concern himself with the ugliness of it marring his perfect skin as his hospital gown was lowered.

He could not wait to take a shower. A real shower. With real soap.

It was the first thing he requested after being told that morning the staples were going to be removed later in the day. Which he was, of course, told very reluctantly yes. Finally.

Until this point, he was told no showers. And for once, he did listen, lest he slipped and fall in the shower and be strapped to his bed. Again. It was the one threat used to keep him from doing something to cause any further complications.

But now, they couldn’t deny him this one basic request, and the staff relented happily. Of course, he required a spotter and was told rather poignantly by the head nurse. He only responded with, “Well? Send the first tech who’s available. I haven’t showered in almost two weeks, and I know you can smell me from across the room, Duchess.”

Duchess was his nickname for the head nurse when he was impatient and snide. She had been there for decades and had a chip on her shoulder but was the only one who would humor him and contend with his grumpiness with a smile on her face.

Not fond of being unhygienic, Wesker never missed at least a daily wash down. Not that he smelled appallingly bad, it was just a force of habit after working in labs that required decontamination. And right now, he felt downright grody. His skin was sticky and heavy from lack of scrubbing. It didn’t help he had sweat-drenching nightmares and had to have bedding replaced every other day.

Not to mention a particularly unpleasant visit from Sergei where he had been taunted to the point of seeing red and the sudden rack of adrenaline causing his temperature to rise. Oh, how the Russian infuriated him to no end. Accusing him of purposefully getting sick to be lazy. If his insides weren’t threatened with spilling out, he would have taken a few swings at the man for good measure.

A different technician, Chauncy, finally arrived, breaking his darkening thoughts away from Sergei as he waited patiently for once, fluffy robe in hand as he sat at the edge of his bed.

Chauncy made small talk, never minding how scornful Wesker looked at being so confined. They detached his IV line and taped it to the back of his hand, wrapping it for good measure with slightly water resistance gauze, “Try not to get it too wet, please. Don’t want to have to stick you again.”

Muttering softly, Wesker gladly would comply as he rose to his feet, hand clenching the sidebar for support and ignoring the proffered hand, “Fair enough.”

His legs didn’t shake as much as they did early in his recovery as he padded socked feet into the bathroom, thankful he could finally manage to stand longer and longer every passing day but still grew exhausted frustratingly quickly.

However, he had one goal right now. Being clean. Even a five-minute shower would be heavenly. Just long enough to soap down and wash his hair which had taken on a greasy consistency. Enough he didn’t need pomade to comb it back.

Starting the water to let it heat up, he stripped quickly, letting his gown crumple before kicking it away and managing to pull socks off without assistance. Chauncy averted their eyes as they picked up the discarded clothing as Wesker stepped delicately into the warm spray, and he couldn’t help the sound of pure enjoyment at the feel of heat, and he absently heard Chauncy remind him to keep his IV line from getting wet.

He pressed the hand to the wall, hunching forward slightly as he let the cascade of water pound against his nape and down his shoulders, saturating greasy strands as they covered his vision, and he watched mesmerized as water dripped from the tips of his hair.

It was then he looked down at himself, and he felt disgusted. He’d been there almost two weeks, and already he could feel the loss of musculature from the inactivity. Though he admitted defeatedly to himself, it had started long before his hospital stay. When he could barely manage to sit straight at his desk or lay flat on his bed without curling into the pain to try and alleviate the agony.

Ignoring the incision, he focused on his sagging belly from the high-caloric food they had been force-feeding him, and he pulled at the pudge as if he could just make it disappear. Looking away, he discovered small travel-sized products and grabbed the shampoo, dumping the whole lot into his palm to lather up and remove the layers of sweat and greasy from his hair and scalp.

Grumbling, he found himself putting more weight against his supporting hand as he continued to soap down, using the small bar soap directly over every inch of skin he could reach.

“Can you shift the chair over? I’m getting tired.”

Silently, his spotter did as requested, and with a grunt, Wesker lowered himself into the chair where he sagged, holding onto one of the anchored metal supports on the wall with his IV hand to keep it dry. He let his head fall into his free hand with a quiver, feeling his eyes prickle.

“Alright there?”

Taking a moment to huff in a breath, Wesker righted and, reclaiming the soap from where he dropped it into his lap to continue scrubbing, replied with a shaky, ‘Yea. Just… tired.’

He was thankful Chauncy didn’t rush him, and he used about half the bar of soap, scrubbing every bit of himself he could reach without the pull of the delicate incision.

With the industrial hot water heaters, Wesker could have stayed in the shower for hours, but he was exhausted. And hungry.

“Can you turn the water off?”

Chauncy did and handed him two towels to start drying down. One he draped over his head, the other he used to dry down his arms and legs, which proved more difficult than he imagined, his abdomen protesting the movement, and halfway he gave up attempting to dry his calves.

The chill of the air rattled him, and he ached as he used the metal support bar to pull himself upright to dry off his backside before his robe was presented to him. He took it gladly to wrap himself in some warmth, unable to stop the full-body shiver and chatter of his teeth.

He tossed a towel onto the floor and stepped onto it to dry his feet before shuffling his way back to his bed that had been made with clean sheets while he showered.

Thankful for the thoughtfulness of the staff, he felt slightly guilty for his shitty attitude as he sat on the crisp bedding, slowly drying his hair with one hand, the other draped in his lap as it ached from the IV line moving about more than it had in days.

It was almost lunchtime, and then it was definitely nap time. Or nap time and then lunch. He didn’t really care as he delicately reclined back into the bed with a pinched expression, presenting his hand to have the IV hooked back up.

Chauncy wiped it down with an alcohol wipe, drying off any water that had dampened past the dressing, and made sure fluids were running smoothly before tidying up and leaving Wesker in silence to bundle up under heavy thick-woven blankets.

Only a few more days, and he’d be out of there. Just a few more days.

These thoughts trickled into his dreams as he passed out, imagining himself in his own bed. Using his own shower. Eating his own food. Access to his computer to finally feel productive. And having no one scold him for being on his feet. Not that he managed to stay upright very long as it was, but still, it would be a thousand times better to reclaim his independence.

It would be a nightmare disguised as a blessing.

Chapter Text

With eyes clenched tightly, Wesker cursed himself for taking the top apartment as he lay where he had crumpled onto his couch, panting and pressing against the aching scar with a clammy hand. He didn’t even care to brush off the loafers that William had brought for him upon release from the hospital.

The past week and a half had dragged by as he was moved from the ICU to a normal room and from there and back to physical therapy. He refused to accept the limits of his body after the severity of his condition despite the intensity of the pain and being the stubborn person that he was; upon attempting to walk further than just to use the restroom, he collapsed, ripping staples and once more being scolded like an ungrateful child.

His stubbornness had brought upon him glares from the nursing staff as he’d made it well known that he would be as difficult as humanly possible every second longer he had to stay confined to the floor and the hospital in its entirety.

He had even made a small child cry who was visiting a relative as he sat mumbling out the periodic table with the most sour-puss expression. After the child was removed from his presence, he felt glaringly guilty, which put him into an even more insufferable mood. No one bothered him the rest of the day, and it had been absolutely lovely.

Even upon horrid nightmares, he had refused comfort and instead sulked, trying to run more numbers through his head just to displace the echoes of vivid recollections of his injury. Even when he knew some were falsely construed, he refused to speak with the on-site psychologist, despite sitting and glaring poignantly at the door for two full hours until the doctor launched upright and opened the door for him to wheel himself out.

However, the quiet comment he heard as the door closed solidly behind him froze his blood, and he wrenched his head over his shoulder to say otherwise, but his throat caught, and he was silent. ‘This was a complete waste of my time.’

Despite increasing nightmares and random sparks of panic, he was not referred back to the psychologist, rather he kept tight-lipped and refused to let it slip how much his trauma was affecting him.

And Sergei. The man was a living fucking nightmare. Literally. Haunting him in his sleep and even while he was awake and conscious, peering out of dark corners and suffocating him with pillows as he lay immobile and stranded.

 Apparently, the fucking bastard had visited him while he was unconscious in the ICU after his surgery, and if William had not shown up when he did, the burley Russian could have very well killed him.

Ignoring the loud clomping of William and an attending nurse, Wesker finally managed to regain control of his ragged breaths from having trudged up three flights of stairs. The longer it had taken him to lift his foot to each step, the heavier it became, and he’d become more and more embarrassed, and with that trembling rage.

Offering assistance, he’d slapped the hands away, snarling, “I’m fine!” Regardless by the third flight, he had to take one step at a time, and by then, he was huffing and puffing and sweat-drenched and shaking so severely that William had to open his door for him as he was unable to keep the key steady enough to jam it in the lock.

Now he lay, somewhat relaxed, glad to finally be back in his own home, ignoring the shuffling of feet, that is, until a finger poked against his forehead startled him, and he glared up with bloodshot eyes to see William and the nurse staring at him in deep concern.

“Al, are you sure you’re ok?”

Startled by this question, Wesker shifted his gaze between the two, “Wh-what?”

Sighing as he turned back toward the attending nurse, “I knew this wasn’t a good idea.” Turning back to Wesker, who gazed around with widened eyes, “Did you hear anything I just said?”

Silence permeated the room for what seemed like several minutes.

Yet, despite Wesker’s face paling, his demeanor oozed the same wretchedness he displayed in the hospital, and he sneered sullenly, “I was napping, Will. I’m fucking exhausted and bone tired and would like a little fucking peace and quiet and not have anyone up my ass about nonsense for the first time in two weeks. Can I have that? Please? That’s not much to ask. Is it?”

It was as much as Will expected as he stood from where he had crouched down to inspect the older man’s condition, “Sure, Al. Call if you need anything.”

The same dulled expression immediately responded, wariness forcing him to lay his head back down, “I won’t.”

It was not normal for Wesker to be so rude, especially to his compatriot, but Will couldn’t really blame him. Not entirely. He’d suffered an incredible trauma. Had nearly almost died. And he knew there were other concerns, yet he had hope that with Wesker being in his own home, there would be more restraint of the nasty attitude.

He watched pale eyes flutter shut as the form settled deeper into the couch, and he pulled a blanket from the back of the furniture to drape over the long legs, yet it did not prompt any further movement or comment.

“Well, he’s out. When’s the next check-in—”

“Shut. Up. And go. Away.”

Eyeing the form that hadn’t moved despite the raspy demand, Will snorted, jerking his head towards the door to the nurse, who rolled their eyes.

Wesker listened for the footsteps to retreat and the door to close and the quiet to settle, and once it did, he slit an eye open, then the other to gaze around his apartment.

It was just as he’d left it that night.

Wesker slowly pushed himself upright, a hand pressing against the scar. At times, it felt as if he’d lose his guts if he moved a certain way, and he suppressed a muffled noise behind clamped lips, head tilting back as his eyes slid closed.

It was blissful, yet painful, silence.

For all of five minutes.

It didn’t take him long to realize just how quiet his apartment truly was.

There were no mumblings of overlapping voices. No beeping of machines. No scratchy linens or cool, crisp, filtered air. No squeaky wheels rolling over linoleum.

Just pure, utter, dead silence.

He snatched up the TV remote and flipped the television onto a news station only to see his own face from when he’d been shuffled into the waiting ambulance.

Sneering nastily, he flipped through the channels until he settled for an inane cartoon station. Only to lower the volume minutes later when he felt his brain rotting from the ridiculousness of it.

Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet by the edge of the couch with a grunt, and holding his side, he shuffled through his apartment toward the bathroom, and he caught his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t remember seeing himself so gaunt, or his hair such a shaggy mess, and eyeing the shower stall, he turned away in loathing at his diminished state.

The desire to shower in his own bathroom seemed too much effort now, and he made his way into the kitchen where Will and the nurse had set out his medications on the counter with directions and the time to take each.

It was not quite time yet as he glanced at the stove clock, and he turned to open the fridge door, feeling slightly hungry, but nothing seemed appetizing or required too much effort for him to waste the little energy he had left to prep any such subsistence, and so he abandoned his search to fill his tightening stomach.

At least at the hospital, snacks and meals were always a push of the call button away.

But now, here he was on his own once more.

Exactly as he wanted.

He shuffled his way back to the couch, body stiffening as he lowered himself gracelessly with a tightened grimace and a hissed breath as he dropped back against the softened cushions to gaze absently at the screen where a poorly drawn cat and dog were scheming to achieve some unimaginable goal about food.

His stomach grumbled in protest, and he picked up the remote and snapped to the next channel, which was a tele-sermon which he quickly snapped to the next channel, and the next, and the next, and finally, he arrived at the weather channel and gave up, defeated.

He droned out to the weather person waving their arms over swirling clouds as a storm brewed in the mountains, threatening the region with freezing temperatures, gusty winds, and several inches of snow.

Sighing, he lifted his legs up with a breathy hiss as he deposited his head back onto the pillow. He made a half-hearted attempt to pull the blanket back over himself before the heaviness of the limb became overwhelming, and it flopped to rest against a cushion.

With the lack of busybodies the hospital provided, the chatter of swirling memories dragged him down beneath the surface of unconsciousness, only to be startled awake violently as a commercial delivered bright flashes of red and blue across his closed eyelids, wrenching him from the buzzing static his mind had plummeted into believing he was staring once more at the ceiling of the ambulance.

Rasping he turned the volume down as the laundry detergent commercial ended, and the doppler radar returned. Wesker draped a sagging arm across his vision before his expression crumpled, and frustrated tears prickled at his eyes. He pressed his arm harder in an attempt to stop them, but they wouldn’t stop.

Even after he reassured himself that everything was fine.

But nothing was fine. He felt awful and miserable, and he had chased away every person who had extended their hand to assist him during his recovery. Even Chris had stopped sending him chess texts.

With quivering lips dragged back over clenched teeth, Wesker couldn’t stop the quiet weeping, his abdomen aching severely with each deep heaving breath he sucked in, and he curled into himself in an attempt to reduce the sharp pangs only made the scar ache even more.

Normally, if his heart rate increased, one of the staff would check on him, even if it was to poke their head into his room to silently observe. But now there was no one. It was just him.

Never had he felt so very alone in his entire life.

Chapter Text

After resting upon his initial arrival home, he realized everything in his fridge was spoiled after he had poured milk into a much-desired cup of coffee, only for lumpy chunks to splash the rich black liquid onto the counter.

Snarling in disappointment, he tossed the carton in the sink, where it erupted in a wafting unpleasant nausea-inducing aroma, causing stomach upheaval and violent retching. The involuntary movements to rid stomach contents, or lack thereof, caused Wesker’s side to ache with vengeance for not realizing after being gone for two weeks that his fridge had become a cesspool of mold and sludge.

After almost collapsing to his knees as he caught his breath, Wesker proceeded to toss everything from his fridge into the trash before spraying down the sink with bleach and changing his clothes that smelt of stale sweat and rank bile.

Grumbling and avoiding the mirrors, he showered and, despite his initial misgivings, finally examined the condition of his body in full. He was both fascinated and disgusted. The scar from the removal of his gallbladder, and the subsequent cesspool of infection, marred his skin angrily compared to the rest of his paleness, and he traced a finger along the incision line where it had pulled from his unruliness during his hospital stay.

He dared not press too hard for fear of sudden remembrances. Regardless, it twinged as he continued to trace it, hands trembling more so with each pass.

After burning its image into his memory, he sighed defeatedly and continued on with showering. Washing his hair that had become greasy with oils and soaping down the build-up of sweat and the few days of lazing about and sleeping since his last shower.

Upon fatigue from standing so long, it did feel refreshing. With fresh loose clothing and a thick bathrobe, he flipped through the phone book to find something to eat.

Health and easily digestible. He didn’t want to have to process anything harsh and opted for his favorite sushi restaurant, though chose items that were cooked. Being a regular customer, they were happy to deliver free of charge. He would not mind, of course, paying for the delivery, but they insisted.

Upon the arrival of food. Good food at that. He still tipped the deliverer a hefty amount for their troubles as it was a large order, and he was on the third floor.

Wesker dove into the soup first. The first sip was heavenly, and his roiling stomach quieted after several more spoonfuls until, finally, he gave up and slurped it down from the side of the container.

After his belly was as full as he could stomach, he curled into his bed, uncaring of any lingering dust from his absence. Sighing contently and ready for much-needed rest, Wesker drifted quickly into REM sleep, but it was not the rest he had hoped for as a plague of hellish memories replayed in his head, where his mind distorted everything from lack of full remembrance of the events of his trauma.

Of losing his balance and falling backward and down his apartment stairs.

Of Sergei approaching him after he first woke up with a syringe of unknown fluid. “Do not worry, Conrad. This will make you heal faster. You have work to do.”

Of the ambulance running off the road and crashing into the small creek. Helpless and screaming as freezing water rushed into the vehicle creeping up his body that was secured by the gurney buckles. Of water filling his mouth as he yelled for help. But no one came.

Of waking up during his surgery only to see a single doctor, covered in blood and gristle, unraveling his intestines with a face-cracking grin.

The last one was so frightening that he bolted upright, screaming in terror at the horrific imagery. His muscles screamed at him from the violent awakening as hands scrambled to ensure that his insides were where they should be.

Confirming that he was indeed whole, he burst into angry weeping, rocking himself regardless of the strain of his muscles, mumbling over and over to try and reassure himself that none of it was real.

*****

After several days, Wesker had foregone any attempts to sleep in his bed after multiple stints of nightmare-induced insomnia kept disrupting any such much-desired rest.

Now, he sat glowering at the news reporting, volume lowered to a murmur, of how crippled the city had become due to the anticipated storm being much harsher than expected. Which would certainly delay the arrival of the sedatives that he demanded, though it was more begging from William, who promised to bring them when he visited next.

If the roads were as bad as the news was portraying, William wouldn’t be coming for another day or two at the earliest.

Nor would the physical therapist. This meant he had to do the dreaded exercises required to get back to the condition before his gallbladder attack, before the sepsis, to where he could run the mile in under five minutes and smoke his team to tears.

Though that reality was a very, very, long way away. It was impossible for him to even consider running a mile in under ten, much less twenty minutes. He didn’t think he could run at all.

Despite jacking up the heat to compensate for the frigid temperatures outside, Wesker still felt the chill, which caused his side to ache.

Bundled in blankets and duvet and his thickest socks and bathrobe, he eyed the floor-to-ceiling windows at the swirling, squalling mess of snow. He could barely make out the closest building because the snow was so thick.

Frowning, his stomach grumbled, and he shifted his gaze to his kitchen and mulled through the available contents of his food stocks. Barry, Enrico, and Jill had stopped by his second day home bringing food stuffs and pre-cooked meals.

They were a God send.

Chris had stopped by later in the evening, disrupting a fitful nap on his couch, but he welcomed the younger man with a genuine smile which he was scolded for. Normally, he sported a flat line of skepticism as he went about his day, but he was happy to have such company.

“Oh, shit, is that a smile? I feel the great blessing bestowed upon me by the mighty Captain!”

Grumbling colorfully but not turning the brunet away, he welcomed Chris in. He offered up some of the premade meals, to which Chris quickly went about heating one up. They sat and chatted over meatloaf sandwiches and played a few games of chess.

Chris did the few dishes and was about to pull his coat on as it was getting late before Wesker awkwardly requested the younger man stay a bit longer.

“Sure, Cap. Do you need me to do anything?”

The expression on Wesker’s face was not one Chris had ever seen pass his Captain's face. Reluctance and embarrassment.

So, Chris waited patiently until Wesker spoke.

“Could you stay so I can sleep?”

It was an odd request that Chris was not expecting whatsoever, “Is everything… alright?”

Avoiding eye contact, Wesker huffed, but it caught in his throat, and he pinched his eyes as he huddled over further, “I can’t seem to get any amount of decent rest. Could you stay? Just long enough for me to get a couple of hours of sleep?”

Slightly unnerved, Chris agreed, and the relief on the pale face was absolute. Though the weariness had settled heavily over Wesker’s features, and Chris wouldn’t dare make mention of the glassiness of his captain’s eyes as he breathed deeply, lay himself down with care, half-heartedly pulled a blanket over himself, and fell asleep quicker than Chris thought humanly possible as the tall figure sank into the cushions.

Just as he watched over Wesker in the ICU, Chris sat and gazed upon his Captain. Who didn’t quite seem like himself. There was an unsureness, and he saw it slightly in their chess game, and it was very much apparent in his request for Chris to stay.

He’d mention it to Barry. It wasn’t like Wesker would listen to the brunet who was a third younger than him. He’d stay as long as Wesker needed him to. That was what battle buddies were for, and both being military, he knew when to shut up and just be there without question.

.....

Chris wasn’t sure what woke him from his awkward napping, but he heard it again, and his eyes shot open. He’d fallen asleep watching over Wesker, but now the older man was writhing, expression pained as another noise erupted, and Chris did the first thing he could think of was reach out and grasp an ankle just as he had in the ambulance.

“Wesker, you’re ok! I’ve got you!”

Bloodshot eyes wrenched open to stare in confused oblivion, the tall figure frozen in a twist of rumpled clothing, sheets, and blankets as the foot quivered in Chris’s warm grasp but did not pull away.

In realization, blue eyes rolled back, and dark bagged eyes slid clothes as Wesker fell back into an exhausted sleep.

Gaping at Wesker, Chris let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Still gripping the ankle, Chris's eyes widened at the exposure of the tender scar where clothes had twisted up and blankets skewed from covering the older man.

It was certainly not what Chris expected to see. Unable to look away, he continued to examine the long line where the surgeons had opened Wesker up to remove the infected organ. It was unnatural. Marring the perfect skin.

Sudden movement disrupted Chris’s gaze, and the brunet almost had a heart attack as Wesker twisted, pulling blankets over the exposed skin. But Wesker never woke back up, despite the ankle slipping away from Chris’s gentle hold.

Deciding then and there that he would stay the night, Chris settled back into the recliner he’d dozed off in. He didn’t mind, and Wesker certainly looked as if he needed the sleep.

The morning was not as awkward as Chris thought it would be, and once Wesker waved him off, he called Barry, letting him know his situation and that he’d be in late. It was worth it, though, seeing Wesker slightly refreshed and again that small appreciative smile as he handed Wesker a glass of water upon the request.

“Call me if you need anything, Cap.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Chris. And… thank you.”

Oh, how he wished Chris were there now so he could get some damn sleep, but he couldn't ask that of the brunet. It would be selfish and put the younger man in mortal danger.

The next best thing was filling his stomach. Erupting from his cocoon of blankets, he made his way to the kitchen to grab a glass of milk and chocolate chip cookies someone had left. Trudging back and plunking the glass and package on the coffee table, he wrapped himself in blankets once more before devouring half the package. It wasn't like he planned on winning ay beauty contests or marathons anytime soon.

*****

And so, the days came and went, and people visited and left.

Some days were good.

Some days were bad.

Some days were completely and utterly crippling.

But Wesker learned that he couldn't only rely on himself anymore for everything. That he needed to lean on those who cared for him and ask for their help.

His team. William and Annette. And surprisingly of all, Sherry.

*****

Wesker heard the doorknob jiggle, and for a moment, he was uncertain who would have a key to his apartment, and fight or flight forced him to his feet faster than he was ready for. Eyes not leaving the front door, his hands searched for anything to use as a weapon, not nearly in any shape to fight off an attacker.

But no burley burglar entered, just a bob of blonde hair and a grin that fell as youthful eyes discovered Wesker hunched over and shaking, ready to clobber her with a book, but upon realization, it was dropped from trembling fingers, and Wesker erupted into guilty blubbering, “Sh-Sherry. You-You’re here. Why are you here? I wasn’t… Didn’t know you were coming.”

Sherry smiled, but it was tight-lipped, having seemingly caught Wesker off guard on more than one occasion, “Don’t you remember Uncle Albert? I was here last week and said I’d be stopping by today to check on you.” She ignored the older man’s flushed features and glassy eyes but became concerned as his hand clenched at his middle. “I apologize if I startled you, Uncle. Are you in pain?”

Wesker clenched his eyes tightly, grimacing at the ache he had caused himself, and he slowly made his way to sit on the closest piece of furniture, a divan. Sherry repeated her question as she dropped her backpack and shoes near the door and stepped harder than normal so he could hear her approaching and not to startle him.

She stood next to his huddled form as he turned away from her approach, and she gently laid a hand on a tensed shoulder, “Can I get you anything, Uncle?”

He rolled slightly to hide his face in shame for forgetting she was stopping by. That she had stopped by twice the week prior. And part of the week before, when he’d first returned home, “I’m… so… sorry… Sherry. I… forgot… you were coming.”

“It’s alright.” She gently patted his arm until the noises quieted. This was not the first time she had watched him get upset. He had not been himself since his surgery, and it was not letting up. She needed to come up with a way to help him remember to do things.

Looking at the time, Sherry tried to strike up a distracting conversation, “Have you had lunch yet?” It was however almost 4 in the afternoon, and he had been forgetting to eat.

Wesker had to think as he let his eyes flutter open against his palms, thinking if he had eaten anything that day or drank anything. He couldn’t remember, and he was tired of the bouts of unhinged emotions, utterly embarrassed that he had broken down in front of an 11-year-old.

His silence was answering enough, and she patted his head, smoothing unkempt hair back into place, “I can make you a sandwich if you’d like. Turkey and cheese. Tuna fish. Green eggs and ham.”

Her little joke made him chuckle, but he groaned and wrapped both arms around his middle, and he gazed up at her in misery. He hated this. He felt weak and even worse that he couldn’t even remember simple visits, his mind playing tricks.

Like replaying that dreadful evening over and over and the events preceding it. The gallbladder attacks. Ignoring the worsening symptoms and now he didn’t know how long it would take him to recover. It was going on the second week, or maybe it was the third, since his arrival home.

“You worry me, Uncle.”

Sighing heavily as he pressed his face into the divan, he grumbled at her retreating form, “I know, Dearheart. I know.”

He could hear her moving about the kitchen and figured any kind of sandwich would suffice at that point.

A quiet suggestion wafted from the kitchen in a small yet suggestive voice, “I can help you set a schedule.”

Blinking to clear dried tears, he muttered solemnly, “Oh, what kind of schedule is that, Miss Sherry?”

Piping up louder and enthusiastically, “Well, for starters, maybe some self-care, like showering, putting on clean clothes, eating meals, brushing your hair.”

In a soft tone, he turned towards her as she prepared them a meal, “Do I look that bad?”

Halting her task, she returned his questioning gaze across the room before nodding in affirmation.

Breathing heavier, he ran his fingers through his hair, scratching along his scalp, and the weight of it was telling as felt how oily it was, how dry his skin was.

“Point taken.”

Rising, he stepped over to the kitchen where she slid a plant across the counter to stop in front of him where he made to sit on a stool, “Alright, you may advise me on a schedule. Maybe then I will remember planned visits.”

Smiling, she waited until he took a bite from his sandwich, which sprouted into a pleased smirk at the reaction of another bite and another until he was stuffing his face. Just as he made to finish the sandwich, she slid a second plate across the counter toward him.

Gracing her with a smile, he queried even as he reached for the plate, “What about you?”

Leaning on her elbows, she grinned, “I already ate lunch. I’m just happy to see you eating.”

Wesker agreed, rolling his eyes as he took a large bite from the new sandwich, and as he swallowed, he requested a favor of her sincerely, “Can you make some more of these? Not for now, but for later.”

Sherry quickly went about making several more sandwiches and wrapping them for later snacking. And he watched her diligently to remember how to put it all together.

“Pickle juice? Really?”

Placing a finger to her lips, she shushed him, “It’s a secret.”

Jokingly he made an ‘X’ over his heart with a finger, chewing another mouthful exuberantly.

“Thank you, my Dear.”

“You’re very welcome, Uncle.”

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks. Healing was a slower process than Wesker could have anticipated. Ever. He had thought being confined to his bed in the hospital was boring but being confined to his apartment was even more so. At least, at the hospital there were people he could annoy who would interact with him.

He found himself almost desperately chatting with the rehabilitation nurses when they came to check on his condition and have him go through the strength routines. Which, even they were showing up less and less as he gained more strength.

But there were still days that seemed to last forever and yet also vaulted forward like a rug being pulled out from under his feet. Now he lay on his side in his bathtub, arm draped over one side to halt any sliding into the cooling water.

Maybe he had taken a bit more of the painkillers than he should have, but it left his head more quiet than it had been in recent days. Except for the annoying buzzing and pounding.

‘When did my internal monologue adopt Barry’s voice? So many others to choose from…’

“Wesker! Wesker! What in the nine hells are you doing moron!”

Blond brows pinched in confusion, but he didn’t move any more than a twitch of his fingers.

There was a burly red-faced man standing in his bathroom doorway yelling at him.

It took Wesker a moment to realize that what he thought was his inner monologue was in fact Barry breaking into his apartment since the blond didn’t bother answering after the minute-long door banging.

“Bar…”

Finally after catching his breath, Barry crouched down so he was level where Wesker’s head was smooshed against the porcelain, “How long have you been in here, Wes?”

The brows pinched again and water sloshed as Wesker made to move but a swallowed peep of shock halted the movement as blue eyes widened, “Lo-long enough to cramp up.”

“Damnit, man! This is not how yer supposed to be healing! Shit, you can crash on my couch if you need babysitting!”

Helping Wesker roll to where he could get his feet under him, the blond shivered violently either in response to the offer or being exposed to the chill air, he managed tightly, “I-I’ll pass.”

“Sure? The girls can sing you lullabies to get you to sleep. You shouldn’t be over-medicating like this.”

Pursing his lips, Wesker started to refute, “I’m not..—!!”

“Can it, dingus. I can see you have been taking those happy pills a bit too often.” Clamming up further, Wesker allowed himself to be manipulated out of the tub that was now draining away, and with it the cocooning warmth. He was shifted to sit on a closed toilet seat before a towel was draped across his lap and another over his shoulders. He couldn’t help shivering or the chattering of his teeth.

Barry had stomped off somewhere and Wesker managed to bring the towel around him tighter with trembling hands.

“Where’s your damn thermostat?”

Managing a curt response, Barry seemed to find it as his heating suddenly clicked on.

The footsteps made their way back to him, “68, really? You have a death wish or something?”

Managing a scowl through the cold, Wesker muttered, “68 is a reasonable temperature—“

“Yeah, in the summertime dummy!”

A robe was thrown at him and it landed in a heap at his feet, and for a moment he just stared at it puddled at his feet, before asking, “Could you, you know, actually hand it to me?”

A huff from the cross-armed figure in his doorway, “Still, that bad.”

“Yes.” It was reluctantly spoken, but Wesker held his gaze upon Barry’s as the redhead stepped forward and helped him get his arms in the sleeves before offering a hand to assist Wesker back to his feet.

“Where do you want to go?”

Teeth gnashing from cold, Wesker stumbled toward his bedroom. Looking around at the messy piles of clothes, dirty or clean, Barry could not distinguish.

“Just to the bed, please.”

Aiding Wesker to his requested destination, Barry let go as he felt the blond’s strength give and he assisted in at least getting bare feet up under thick covers. Barely covered, Wesker almost instantly conked out.

“That tired, eh? Were you sleeping in the tub, too?”

Silence and just when Barry didn’t think he would get an answer, Wesker managed a quiet yes.

“Did it work?”

A shift of the body, Wesker continued, “Not... particularly.”

Silent, Barry went about cleaning up the piles of clothing, dumping everything near the washer. There was no point trying to sort through the mess and just get everything started for washing.

“I’ll have one of the guys check in on ya in a few and switch laundry over.”

There was a shift as the ruffle of damp blond nodded, but no eye movement or further protesting.

Shaking his head at the poor living conditions, wondering when the last time someone had dropped in on their Captain to check his well-being. He knew Chris stopped in to play chess and some other to bring meals but it had been some time since he had stopped by.

Pouring a glass of water, he dropped it and a set of pills on the closest nightstand along with a cell phone and handset for Wesker's landline a bit away from the water, of course, least Wesker knocked the glass over and got the phones wet.

After staring at the lump of blankets and robe-covered towels, Barry left to finish trying to declutter some of the garbage that had piled up around the overflowing trash can, “And I thought Chris was a slob.”

But despite his grumblings, Barry was quite worried. This was very unlike their Captain. He just hoped they wouldn’t lose him. He wasn’t sure he could deal with Irons’ bullshit if he ended up as Wesker’s replacement.

*****

Wesker hissed as the cold liquid soaked into his t-shirt, jerking his head around he grabbed what he hoped was a semi-clean towel to soak up what had not leeched into the thin material.

There had been an uptick in check-ins after Barry caught him half-sleeping in his tub high on painkillers, but those had dwindled to one every few days. Even Sherry had not visited that week. It didn’t help that his mood had soured exponentially. And the seemingly intended, or maybe unintended, abandonment.

It left him feeling cold and empty and helpless, far from the man he’d been months ago.

But that started long before all this, before the hospital, before the whole gallbladder bullshit.

He yelled at himself. Chided himself. ‘This is all your fault!’ But it went in one ear and out the other.

And when he did acknowledge the teeny tiny nagging voice, he admitted finally, “It is my fault isn’t it.” And he found that he just didn’t care, stuffing his mouth with another large spoon and chilly and cheese someone had brought him.

A sudden knock on his door startled him from the game show he had settled into watching every day, and finally, after more knocks that became louder and more persistent, he roused from his almost permanent spot in front of his TV to answer the door.

Not caring to see who it was, he knew he should have been surprised but he just found very little care in anything Umbrella had to offer and just as he had the door wide enough to see who was on the other side, he was closing it.

A large hand halted the heavy wood from returning to its frame and another thick hand swatted into Wesker’s chest, knocking the breath from him and almost causing him to lose his balance.

“Aww, just look at you! You are slob! A disgrace…” The large Russian waltzed in, gazing around with his single eye until it landed back upon Wesker, who was hunched over, a hand leaning against a bookcase, the other pressed against his chest, wheezing heavily.

“Get the fuck out.”

A hand whipped across the room faster than Wesker could follow and it caught his cheek full-on, knocking him back and causing him to lose his balance and stumble to the floor in shock. Just as he managed to collect his wits, Wesker attempted to snarl back at his offender only to receive an unforgiving boot in his side.

Right where his healing injury was hidden by a stained undershirt.

Anything he had eaten or drank in the hours proceeding his uninvited guest’s sudden appearance made its way up from his belly. It was much not much but enough to turn his stomach as he managed to regain any amount of air into his lungs. Despite this, as he lay spitting out mouthfuls of rapidly accumulating saliva, Wesker managed to drag up a middle finger to continue to show his disdain for the Russian.

This rude gesture prompted further kicks and punches that were ruthless in their delivery, ripping cries and grunts as Wesker felt like something snapped inside of him.

The beating seemed to not end until a familiar voice broke through the thick insults of ‘Pig, worthless, should have put you down when I had the chance!’

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing to him??! Stop!! STOP!!! Or I’m calling the police!!”

This loud order halted the brutality of Sergei’s fury, who turned to regard the younger man who dared interrupt his moment.

But the handgun that clicked that was pointed straight at his face was not how he wanted to finish his evening.

Keeping an even stare with wild hazel, Sergei clicked his tongue, “I am impressed. Your boy has guts, Conrad. You should be proud he is willing to give his life for yours. You owe me a good, long… chat, Wesker. I will be calling, again.”

Chris jolted forward as Sergei slowly made his way to the still-open front door, hands up where Chris could see them. Sliding closer to Wesker’s prone form, that weakly writhed trying to get himself at least sitting but it was a lost cause, and he lay sucking in short rasps of air.

The tall Russian disappeared, closing the door with a quiet click.

Chris continued to hold his ground, but after a few moments rushed from his spot to lock and bolt the door, back resting against it before returning to Wesker’s side.

“Wesker, who was that?! What happened?!”

Sucking in tight gasps of air, Wesker’s head spun violently, and the only way to stare at the brunet’s panicking expression was, “Made... a bad bet.”

Sputtering in disbelief, Chris grasped for the trembling hand reaching out towards him, “Didn’t know you to be a betting man.”

Trying to sit up but failing miserably, Wesker opted to roll and attempted to drag himself up using Chris’s grip, “There’s… a lot… you don’t know about me.”

Forlorn at the agony written across Wesker fast, Chris did his best to assist, “I can imagine. Seems like a shitty guy to owe anything to. You need to be more careful.”

Grunting and falling onto his side, Wesker managed to wrench out, “Duly noted.” A sputtery cough left Wesker hacking up his lungs, half cradled in Chris’s arms.

Looking about for something, anything, but upon seeing the red trickle down between the older man’s fingers, Chris grew frantic, “Shit, shit, shit! We need to call an ambulance.”

Wobbling bloodshot eyes attempted their best to maintain the brunet’s attention, “No… no ambulance. No… more. Please.”

Gaping back with disbelief, Wesker coughed up another red glob, “Are you serious right now? Wesker, I just saw your ass being handed to you, and.. and you’re bleeding!”

A moment of clarity hit as Wesker did indeed notice the blood, “Oh, well, that is concerning.”

“Con-concerning! That’s all you can say?!”

Cringing at the volume, Wesker pushed Chris away, clamping a hand over his eye. Taking more huffing breaths, he managed, “I… I will call someone… to come check—”

Having abandoned Wesker’s side, Chris was scuttling about the apartment, a damp wash cloth was suddenly being pressed against Wesker’s face, he did not protest as he immediately gathered the warmth and coughed sputum into the material.

“And how long will that take?!”

Wiping away anything left he could feel along his cheeks and neck, Wesker replied hoarsely, “Shouldn’t be long. Phone’s… in the kitchen. Bring it here.”

Internally cursing Sergei to eternal hell, Wesker managed to pull himself up enough to lean against the closest object, the couch.

“What… are you doing here anyway?”

Visually inspecting the rigid figure, Chris replied guiltily, rubbing his neck, “I… it’s been a while and I figured we hadn’t played chess in a long time and thought you could use some company. So, I stopped by, and as I was pulling in, I saw your door wide open… and I kinda panicked. I busted my knee pretty badly slipping on some ice. Your property managers suck by the way.”

“Yes, yes they do. And, thank you. You really did save my ass.”

“Obviously.”

A pregnant pause filled the space between them, and nervously, Wesker swallowed several times before finally avoiding Chris’s intent gaze that was inspecting visible wounds, “I have not… been myself of late. I’m… always so fatigued. There are… flashbacks. Horrid flashbacks. I can’t tell what’s real and… what’s not at times. I...”

The concern in Chris’s voice caused Wesker to return his gaze upward, “Have you told anyone about this? Your PT nurses? Your doctors? Anyone?”

“Do you think they would believe me if I did?”

“Yeah, I think they would. Actually, I know they would.”

Mumbling offhandedly, Wesker tried to make some space between them, “Says you.”

“Hey, listen here! When… when my parents died. I… had flashbacks. Imagine shit that never happened. Shit happening differently. How, maybe, I could have done something… anything to change what happened. It took a long time to get over. Maybe… maybe I’m still not. This” and an arm waved over Wesker’s propped-up form, “definitely has brought up some old nightmares.”

“I’m… sorry… to have caused you... so much grief. I—“

Seeing the crumbling of Wesker’s expression as the blond dropped his gaze to his trembling abdomen, lip pulled tight between pink teeth, Chris squatted down to recapture the older man’s attention, “Not like that! My issues… it is not your fault! Never your fault!”

Keeping his suddenly watery gaze averted, Wesker croaked, “I know… but… I could have done better.”

“Wesker, there’s no going back. You nor I can change the past. But we can learn how to deal with how we process the now. Doesn’t that… make any sense?”

Confusion wavered the watery bloodshot gaze, and a gurgled response puffed from the form wrapping arms around his torso, “Yes… No… Maybe… I mean look at me, Chris. Does it look like I’m all here? I’m barely… functioning, I… I… feel so lost.”

It was then Chris took a really good look at Wesker. He looked like absolutely shit. He did just have his ass kicked, but everything else seemed out of the ordinary. Gaunt, dirty clothes, scruffy face, hair an absolute mess, and the smell. The halitosis could be from vomiting but Chris imagined it probably had been some time since Wesker actually brushed his teeth, or even gargled. God only knew when was the last time Wesker put clean clothes on.

“Alright, where’s your phone? Let’s call your doctor, I hope. And I’ll help get this… mess… cleaned up.”

Chris ignored the sob that was poorly masked by a growl as fingers pinched the bridge of a reddened nose, “S-sure.”

There was a pause before Wesker muttered with melancholy after the retreating figure, “Thank you. For keeping an eye out for this old fool.”

Quickly returning to Wesker’s side, Chris patted the blond’s upturned shoulder, trying to instill hope, “Hey, I care, Wesker. We all care. A lot. I know we haven’t been around as much as we should have been but… I just don’t want to see you lose yourself, lose everything you worked so hard for. We’d probably all quit to be your full-time babysitters. Can you imagine it, Barry, in a maid’s outfit!”

A wet chuckle erupted from the half-prone figure, “Pre...pos… terous… Ah-ow-ow-ow, st-stop mak-ing me laugh!”

There was little more Chris could probably do, but he gently squeezed his grip to let Wesker know that he was not alone. Will never be alone. STARS had to do better. WILL do better. Even if it drove the blond to absolute madness, they would never abandon their Captain ever again.

“Just wait here, I’ll bring you the phone.”

*****

A week passed, and there was no sign of Sergei after Birkin put in a formal complaint on Wesker’s behalf.

“You could have caused a complete rupture! You’re lucky there was only a small tear!” Birkin refrained from calling Sergei any names lest the beast of a man lash out at him. The Russian was oddly silent, a tiny smile curling his lips as he let the tirade go in one ear and out the other.

After being interrupted from a very important ‘date night’ Birkin did end up calling an ambulance as there was no safer way to check for any severe issues than scans. The blood had been concerning, and Wesker attempted to pass it off as a laceration to his cheek but William Birkin was having none of it.

After several scans, Wesker was required to stay overnight. In the meantime, STARS was busy cleaning their dear old Captain's mess of an apartment.

Now, waking to an obnoxious alarm that had been placed halfway across his bedroom, Wesker shifted trying to find the momentum to get up and turn off the ridiculous noise blaring louder and louder.

“Whoever brought YOU here will be demoted!”

After turning off the monstrosity, Wesker stumbled into his now kept, and rightfully stocked kitchen, making coffee and staring at his to-do list.

After returning from the hospital a bit more healed but still unsure of himself, a young brunet paid Wesker a visit to motivate him to take better care of himself. At first, he refused, barking how silly such a thing as a ‘to-do’ list of personal hygiene was. But Chris insisted, and he had made copies. Enough for a month.

At first, Wesker scoffed at the list of daily questions.

Wash your hands?

Brush teeth?

Brush hair?

Shower?

With soap?

Wash your face, pits, etc.?

Drink water?

Eat breakfast? Lunch? Dinner?

And on and on it went. To extremes of utter embarrassment.

At first, Wesker became irritated and ignored it, until finally, after two days of staring at it, he found himself checking off that he had showered that day. He couldn’t bring himself to do any more than that but did contemplate brushing his teeth. Before Bed that is. Which was most of the time as he was still exhausted and his run-in with Sergei did cause some complications.

It became a grueling routine of visits, check-ins, and phone calls. “What did you eat today?” It wasn’t a matter of IF he ate, but WHAT he ate. “Well, that’s not healthy. I’ll stop by and make you my grandma’s secret spaghetti. You’ll LOVE it.”

There was NO getting out of the babying. Until it stopped being babying, and became more of his yessing everyone. Even Sherry was taking on more of a caregiver role and adding even more to-dos to his ever-growing checklist of self-care questions. He couldn't be more grateful, and though loathe to verbally thank each and everyone, every single day, the wider, more genuine his smiles became were worth their weight in gold.

The STARS teams visited and each one worked on different things.

Getting him moving around, which was shuffling from one end of his apartment to the other. Which slowly included leaving his apartment and subsequently walking down the stairs. He was incredibly proud of himself once he managed to walk his entire block without becoming winded or pain irking him.

Lifting weights starting with neon pink 2-pound Barbie dumbbells. He was livid but found that even 2 pounds was seemingly too heavy.

Eating healthy was much easier when other people were cooking. But, he managed before his self-inflicted injury, and he continued to manage now, with easy recipes and the occasional pre-made meal.

Journaling. He could not look back at how many days he sat staring at empty pages. Then he started making lists. Of frustrations. Of wants. Needs. And so on. The writing helps immensely to get out anything making his head spin in the wee hours of the nights. It also helped him keep a list of questions for his caregivers, and of STARS.

There were so many holes in his memory, that he wanted to make sure he had everything straight. And the moments he was plagued with nightmares and flashbacks, he’d utter mantras of the true events to break the mental spell of false memories to bring himself back to the present.

And finally, the one thing that he silently dreaded. Driving. It was the last thing on his to-do list before returning to work. It had taken him a few tries, the pressure of the seat belt causing unwanted memories and residual pain, but he managed with encouragement to finally take steps to pull his idle vehicle out of its seemingly eternal parking spot.

Everything came back quickly, and after a while, it surprised him how long he and his passenger had been driving around the city. More than an hour. He didn’t feel any of the pain he remembered from the building infection. He felt fine actually.

A smirking brunet sucked the remnants of a soda before popping the most anticipated question of Wesker’s recent memory just as he parked back into his assigned parking space, “So, do you think you’re ready to come back, Cap? At least part-time?”

Turning his head slightly, dark shades adorning his nose to keep the bright rays of the sun out, Wesker grinned, “I think... I would like that very much.”