Chapter Text
“You look nice in a suit.”
Chris chokes on his champagne and Wesker generously pounds his back until he regains his composure.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Chris is whispering, all too aware of the curious glances his coughing fit has attracted in their direction.
“Complimenting you, Chris.”
Chris opens and closes his mouth a few times, at lost for words. The glass of champagne he’s holding wasn’t made to support the brunt of his strength, and Wesker steals it from his dead grip before it can explode.
He wasn’t lying – Chris really does look nice in a suit.
His contact lenses are still the wrong shade of brown, but his usually messy hair has been carefully combed, and he has groomed his beard - it looks cleaner than usual, sharpening his features and making him look almost like an entire different person.
Of course, the suit does little to conceal his impressive build, but it’s only an added bonus.
Wesker still thinks Chris looks better covered in blood and punching a mutant to death with a snarl and glowing eyes, but the man can clean up nicely.
“Well, thank you,” Chris says, gritting his teeth so hard it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken his jaw yet. “But that’s not what I meant.”
Most of the guests have turned back to their own conversations. Wesker still angles his body closer to Chris, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“The same thing as you, Captain.” He straightens his back, taking a sip of champagne. Like all things here, it tastes sweet and expensive. “Enjoying the party. Waiting for the big event.” He smiles when Chris gives him his patented frown. “Are you here alone?”
“No,” Chris mutters, making a swipe at his stolen glass, and Wesker holds it out of his reach.
Rosemary Winters is probably already exploring the building. They didn’t enter the fundraiser together – too suspicious, especially with Miss Winters’s reputation.
“Eyes on the prize,” Wesker reminds him, smiling a bit wider when Chris crosses his arms on his chest with a hilariously petulant look on his face. “I can give you a hand, my dear.”
The pet name makes Chris huff something close to a laugh. “We all remember how it ended the last time you helped.” His lips twists at the last word, like it tastes sour in his mouth.
“You are still here, aren’t you?”
Chris throws him a calculating look. He knows Wesker won’t take no for an answer and follows him whether he wants it or not.
“Don’t make a scene,” he mutters, and Wesker hands back the glass with a courteous nod. “We’re supposed to be stealthy.”
If Wesker remembers correctly, Chris has never been stealthy a day in his entire life. Hard to be when one has his imposing stature. Or his undying love for rocket launchers.
“You know me. I’m discretion incarnated.”
Chris snorts, chokes on his champagne (again), and this time Wesker lets him struggle for a few seconds.
“You’re lucky nobody recognized you,” Chris manages to whisper once he has regained control of his vocal cords.
“Please. I’ve been dead for forty years. It’s you who should be concerned. You clean up nicely but your face is well-known around those circles.”
Chris makes a face – either at the concept of Wesker complimenting his look again, or at the idea that he’s some kind of celebrity.
But the probably biting retort he’s about to say is cut short when a woman drifts closer to their position, a plate of appetizers in one hand, a cocktail glass in the other. She’s beautiful in the way wealthy people are, her skin glowing, wrinkles smoothed out by expensive products, her dress tailored to fit her perfectly.
Wesker saw her talking to Chris a few minutes before he approached the man. Considering the wink she threw him before going to the buffet, her interest in him is most likely not entirely professional.
Her smile turns perfunctory when she realizes Wesker is not moving away from Chris. If she’s disappointed, she hides it well.
“Hello,” she greets him, her eyes raking over his body, searching for the sightless imperfections. Reassured by the excellent cut of Wesker’s suit, her smile grows an inch.
Rich people are so predictable.
“He’s an old co-worker,” Chris says with a strained smile. The woman wordlessly holds the plate of appetizers in his direction, nodding demurely with a little grin. Chris looks at the food with a despairing look. The appetizers look terribly small.
“Doctor Alfred Myer,” Wesker says with a courteous nod. He doesn’t offer his hand to shake – the woman’s hands are full, after all.
“Julie Langford.” She returns the nod, her eyes briefly glinting with interest. “Senior member of Vargas’s board.”
Vargas – a so-called pharmaceutical corporation specializing in cancer’s research - is CLT’s shell company. Chris managed to attract the attention of a big fish, and knowing the man, he wasn’t even trying to. If he was so much as a decent actor, he could try and seduce the woman for information.
“Did you also work for Teraxyl?” Langford asks, a perfect brow lifting.
The name vaguely rings a bell – if Wesker remembers correctly, it’s one of those Umbrella’s clones that appeared in the mid 2010, none of them managing to leave an impact on the world like their predecessor did. Chris probably used it as a cover for his presence at the fundraiser.
“I did,” Wesker says, throwing a glance at Chris. The man is holding an appetizer and looks deeply uncomfortable. “I was in the research division.” He gives her a sharp grin. “Virology.”
The interest is back on Langford’s face. She makes an inquisitive sound, taking a sip of her drink, her eyes fixated on Wesker’s face.
“How interesting,” she says, red lips curling in a brief smile. “And who are you working for now?”
“Oh, I’m between jobs at the moment.” She hands the plate of appetizers and he refuses with a polite shake of head. “You could say I’m freelancing.”
It’s a miracle Chris doesn’t choke on his drink – he manages to hide it behind a rather convincing cough.
Langford throws him a curious glance, but he just downs half of his champagne to hide his wince.
“Oh, well. If you ever think about coming back to a more traditional job, I’m sure Vargas would be interested in your profile.”
Wesker mimics her polite smile. “Thank you.”
Chris finally eats the sad appetizer he’s been holding for the better part of the conversation, and makes a face – the taste doesn’t agree with him, apparently.
“If you excuse us,” he says, smiling without showing any teeth, “we have something to discuss.”
He puts his hand on Wesker’s arm, nodding at Langford, and the woman looks taken aback from a second before a knowing smirk appears on her face. “Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”
“Likewise,” Wesker says pleasantly as Chris starts to drag him to the side. The woman turns to join another group of guests, and Wesker bats away Chris’s hand, following him to the balcony.
It’s more or less empty – two women are chatting near the entrance, a man is smoking alone in a corner. Chris heads to an empty, secluded spot, and stands with his arms crossed and a thunderous look on his face.
“Always nice to see a friendly face,” Wesker says, leaning against the railing. “These events are dreadfully boring.”
“Wesker,” Chris whispers harshly. “You’re lucky she didn’t recognize you.”
“Please, Chris. She can’t be older than fifty. She was still in middle school when I died. It’s you who should be concerned.”
“None of your business,” Chris firmly states, holding out his glass to Wesker as he digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Why are you here, really?”
Wesker takes the glass so Chris can light his cigarette. “CLT is selling B.O.W’s parts to various bio-terrorist groups,” he explains, keeping his voice low. “They are getting sloppy – it’s the second fundraiser they are throwing this month to hide the sale and peruse for new buyers.”
“I already know that,” Chris mutters.
“With your inclination for running gun first into danger, I can never know, Chris.”
Chris’s stare turns even grumpier than before, but he doesn’t try to refute the affirmation.
“I’m curious about the origin of these samples.” Wesker doesn’t have much hope in finding anything remotely interesting in those except from some clues about who, exactly, created them. CLT cruelly lacks imagination, and constantly rehashes the same types of B.O.W with only slight changes in the hope of making them more efficient.
So far, the giant insects, clawed beasts and mindless zombies have been no match for Chris, Rosemary and the little team they usually drag behind them.
“The origin is CLT,” Chris points out, lifting his brows like he can’t believe Wesker missed that fact.
“They are merely acting as a relay in the transaction, Chris,” Wesker says with a sight. “We have a mysterious third party selling samples to CLT. That’s why I came here in the first place.” He takes a sip of champagne, watches Chris takes a drag of his cigarette with a frown. “And why I bought the samples.”
It takes Chris a second to compute. “You’re the buyer?” His tone is low, but harsh. The cigarette crumbles between his fingers, sending ashes billowing in the air between them.
Wesker gingerly pats his shoulder. “Yes, Chris. Sometimes, the best laid plans are the simplest ones.” Chris looks ready to strangle him, the expression endearingly familiar. “I bet you were about to try a daring break into the vault with Miss Winters’s help. Considering your track record, it would have gone… poorly.”
“Excuse me. I know how to break into places,” Chris grits out, stubbing his ruined cigarette on the railing and taking out a new one.
“Breaking in, yes. But your exits always tend to lean on the side of explosive.”
Chris childishly rolls his eyes. Wesker smiles. “You can just sit back and enjoy the party, Chris.”
“No thank you. What the hell are you going to do with the samples?”
“Study them.” Wesker shrugs at Chris’s suspicious look. “What do you want me to say?”
“Something that doesn’t make you sound like a mad scientist, but I guess that’s on me for hoping you wouldn’t do something stupid again.”
“I’ve never done anything stupid in my entire life,” Wesker declares in his most neutral tone, delighted to see Chris takes the bait and laughs incredulously.
“Sure. Alright.” Chris looks ready to dissolve into hysterical laughter. “Can you at least tell me if you’re planning on infecting the whole planet with another virus?”
Wesker pretends to think about it for a few seconds, letting Chris regains his composure.
“I’m not. Humanity doesn’t deserve it,” he says, and Chris very much tries to conceal his smile.
Which is strangely endearing, and a welcome sight after having spend two hours bored out of his mind in this pitiful excuse for a party.
“Okay. Moving on.” Chris clears his throat, looking a bit embarrassed by his display of utter unprofessionalism. “Are you going to hand me the samples if I ask?”
“No.” Wesker grins. “That would be too easy, Captain.”
Chris sighs loudly.
“It’s never easy with you,” he mutters around his cigarette. “I need to warn Rose. You ruined her fun.”
Wesker hands him back his glass with a grin. “And I’m deeply apologetic about that. Was she looking forward to your daring escape?”
“Probably.” Chris puts out his cigarette and grabs his now empty glass with a slight frown. “You better get me another drink to make up for this bullshit.”
“It would be my pleasure, Captain.”
Chris gives him a nudge with his elbow. Coming from him, it’s almost an affectionate gesture.
“You ruined all the fun,” Rosemary complains, appearing in his lab with her usual lack of manners.
She can teleport, a fact Wesker would find impressive if the girl didn’t use her remarkable power to bypass basic courtesies.
“Miss Winters, would it kill you to use the door?”
Rosemary throws him a deeply unimpressed look, taking off her jacket and making herself right at home. It should be annoying, but Wesker has gotten used to it over the past couple of months.
“No, but someone needs to keep you on your toes,” she says, giving her a little grin that’s eerily reminiscent of her mother’s.
As expected of her, Mia Winters was a quick-witted, insightful woman with nerves of steel and just the right amount of suspicion to make their interactions delightfully challenging.
She has called Wesker “an offense to science, morals and people with a doctorate” more than once. And Wesker was more than happy to remind her than her own experiences had doomed her precious family, which had prompted the realization that Mrs. Winters has a mean right hook.
All in all, Wesker is glad Rosemary convinced her mother to work with him. The serum they are developing together, to lessen the side-effects of the mold on Chris’s metabolism, is still coming around, but Wesker hasn’t had that much fun in a lab since he was seventeen and funded by Umbrella.
“So, Redfield sent you to supervise me,” Wesker notes, and Rosemary nods, leaning against the bench, peering at his computer with curious eyes.
She has been a frequent observer of his experimentations over the past months. First, she was here to guard her mother and make sure Wesker wasn’t going to hurt her – a ridiculous assumption on her part. Then she realized her mother was perfectly capable of handling the situation, and her caution had turned into ill-concealed curiosity.
“He’s busy.” Rosemary grabs a test-tube to look at the solution more closely. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, I could never get enough of your charming presence, Miss Winters.” Wesker takes the tube back with a slight frown.
Rosemary snorts and points at a Petri dish. “What’s in this?”
“Cell cultures. Can you be a good assistant and sit quietly in a corner, Miss Winters?”
“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Rosemary mutters, stepping away from the bench to sit on a stool. “At least you got to enjoy the party. I was stuck playing the waitress for the whole evening.”
“How dreadful”, Wesker says absently, taking the briefcase in which he kept CLT’s samples and opening it.
The three small vials filled with black mold sit on the inside, as still as they were yesterday.
On her stool, Rosemary is flipping through a book with a bored look on her face.
Interesting. She didn’t react – maybe she can’t feel the mold as long as it’s contained in the vials.
In the end, it’s a good thing she was the one who came to supervise him.
Wesker delicately takes one of the containers. From up close, the mold looks deceitfully harmless. The vial is the size of a finger, and it’s hard to imagine how much damage Wesker could do if he simply broke the container on the floor. Would the mold try to find a suitable host? Would it immediately crawl toward Rosemary?
“Miss Winters, come here please.”
Rosemary lifts her nose from the book, frowning – Wesker usually tries to keep her as far away from his experimentations as possible. Her eyes fall on the vial, and her face slackens.
She jumps to her feet, sending the stool careening to the side, the book dropping with a loud noise on the ground. “Wesker,” she says, and nothing else, apparently expecting him to guess the onslaught of accusations floating in her mind.
“The samples I bought from CLT,” Wesker explains, wiggling the vial in the air. The mold slithers lazily around for a few seconds. “I would have thought you would have felt it.”
Rosemary carefully steps closer, eyes on the mold. Her fingers are twitching, white veins glowing under her skin.
“I can’t feel it.” She tilts her head to the side, listening for something Wesker will never hear. “It’s strange. I usually... can.”
Wesker smiles. “What if I opened the vial?”
Rosemary stares at him, her face strangely unreadable.
“It can’t be stronger than you, Miss Winters,” Wesker points out, lowering the container. “If anything, you are more likely to absorb this tiny little strand than it is to do you any harm.”
Rosemary makes a face. “I know. It’s just, very uncomfortable. Like...” she rubs her forehead with a frown, “trying to tune into a different radio station. We’re not on the same frequency.”
Wesker opens the vial.
Rosemary swears loudly and stumbles backward. “Wesker!” At least she’s not trying to shoot him. “What did I just say?”
“That it was uncomfortable for you, Miss Winters,” Wesker calmly says. The mold is not moving, staying safely tucked in the vial. It’s not trying to expand or infect him. “Not that it was dangerous. I think you can handle a little bit of tuning for the sake of science.”
“You call that science?” Rosemary hisses, circling around the room like a panicked animal, keeping her eyes strained on the mold. “Aren’t you supposed to follow a protocol or something?”
Wesker shrugs. “Miss Winters, what do you feel?” He puts the container in a holder and takes his notebook.
Rosemary glares at him. But the mold is not moving and Wesker is patiently waiting, so she finally stops acting like a headless chicken and steps closer cautiously.
“Told you, it’s like two different frequencies trying to...” she claps her hands together. “I can feel it now. It doesn’t have a mind of its own. It’s just trying to fulfil his role. Finding a host. But it’s too weak to do that on its own.”
Wesker jots down a few notes. “A host. Someone like you?”
Rosemary throws him a strange grin. “No. Someone who isn’t infected. It knows I would just... swallow it in my own little network.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing at the sample. “It recognizes me as a rival. Something like that. It can’t compete against me, so it’s not even going to try.”
“Interesting,” Wesker muses, closing the vial. “Thank you for your dedication to sciences, Miss Winters. You can go back to your corner now.”
Rosemary grabs a box of syringes lying around and throws it at his face. He ducks right in time and it crashes against the wall.
“You’re welcome,” she mutters, stomping back to her stool with a murderous expression on her face.
“Oh, and you should warn your mother. I’m sure she would love to give me a hand.”
Rosemary sits on the stool, arms crossed, and she snarls more than she smiles. “Warn her yourself, Wesker. She can’t say no to me, but she won’t hesitate to send you packing.” She can be quite childish when she wants to – unsurprising, considering Chris’s role in her upbringing.
“Fine.” Wesker won’t take the bait. He’s more than convinced Mrs. Winters will understand the gravity of the situation and come as fast as she can once Wesker contacts her.
He smiles at Rosemary’s exasperated huff, and starts looking for his phone under the mess of notes and blueprints littering his desk.
He’s trying to find the perfect way to phrase his greeting – he can’t come across as needing something from Mrs. Winters, but he should make her feel wanted – when Rosemary speaks again.
“You know, maybe you’d be more successful with Chris if you stopped doing shit like this,” she says casually, flipping through the pages of her book, not even deigning to lift her eyes.
Wesker stops hesitating between a comma and a semicolon and looks at her.
“Miss Winters,” he says. “I would love to exchange stories of our romantic conquests but now is not the time.”
She snorts, finally giving up on her book to look at him. “You think what you have with Chris is romantic? Please.” She leans against the wall, crossing her legs at the ankles and giving him a little smile.
Wesker chooses the semicolon, writes a quick farewell and sends the text before putting his phone down and sitting on his chair. Rosemary, emboldened by his silence, smiles a bit wider.
“I decided to use this word because you react like a prudish spinster every time I dare to say the word ‘sex’ in relation to your beloved mentor.”
“I’m not prudish,” Rose hisses, face heating up despite her words.
Wesker lets himself smile. “What word should I use, then? Enlighten me, Miss Winters.”
She blinks, apparently trying to come up with an expression that doesn’t involve the dreaded s-word.
“Fuck-buddies,” she manages to say after a long silence. “Or not, you guys aren’t friends. Fuck-nemesis? Is that a thing?”
“A point for originality, Miss Winters.”
She glares at him. “I’m serious, Wesker.”
“Me too.” He starts adjusting his microscope. “As amusing it is to see you try to interfere with our relationship, I have to remind that I am much older than you, and know what I’m doing.”
“Really.” Rosemary doesn’t sound convinced – and Wesker can’t really fault her for that. She’s still young. He remembers when he was her age, so sure of himself, deeply unaware of his own ignorance. “Alright. At least you just proved to me that you can establish boundaries in your relationships.”
Wesker throws her a perplexed look. She shrugs.
“I’ve read a few books. It helps with the whole...” she points at her temple, “mental link thing. Possessive behavior. All of that.”
“Good for you, Miss Winters.”
She looks at him in silence for a few seconds as he prepares a slide for the microscope.
“I was expecting you to gloat,” Rosemary quietly says. “So that’s weird. Have you talked about it with Chris?”
“Me gloating?” He grins to himself when she sighs.
“No. What the fuck you two are doing. And don’t say sex. We already established that part.”
“Miss Winters, is there a purpose to this conversation, or is it just a roundabout way of trying to break things off between me and Chris?”
She winces. Pinches her lips. Looks to the side, fidgeting in her seat. Takes a deep breath and forces herself to look at Wesker.
“I don’t like the fact that Chris decided to start sleeping with you.” Understatement of the century. “But as much as I hate it, Chris apparently… needs you, something like that. And I want him to be happy, right?” She smiles. “From the mold’s point of view, a happy host is a good one. I need him. And I can’t kill you because,” her smile slips from her face, “you’re the only one who has a chance to stop me if I go ballistic.”
“So, I need Chris to feel at ease with whatever he’s doing – which is you – and you’re not helping him by being your usual… annoying self.” She makes a vague gesture, encompassing Wesker’s whole being with a frown. “So I’m asking you nicely,” she stresses the word with a meaningful look, “to set things straight.”
Barely a second passes before she snorts. “Well, not straight because…”
“I get it, Miss Winters.”
She regains her composure quickly enough, the ghost of a smile lingering on her lips.
“What are you expecting me to say, Miss Winters?” Wesker wonders, putting aside his experimentation to look at her more closely. “I highly doubt Chris asked you to be his life coach. Putting aside your mold connection, he’s old enough to decide what makes him happy.”
“I know that.”
“Do you, Miss Winters?”
“Fine! I’m adding a clause to our deal!” She slams her hands on her tights, glaring at him with all her might. “You have to talk about your relationship with Chris at some point. That’s it. I’m not even pressuring you into breaking things off.”
Wesker pointedly lifts a finger. “Giving you information about CLT, engineering a cure for Chris and a kill switch for you, and now bending to your ridiculous demands about my personal relationships? Miss Winters, a deal is supposed to be an equivalent exchange.”
Rosemary glares at the floor. “What do you want in exchange?” The words come out strained.
Wesker leans back, considering the question.
“A favor,” he says, and she only thinks about it for a few seconds before nodding.
“Fine. A favor. But if you ask me to destroy the world I have the right to say no.”
Wesker throws her an amused grin. “I would never, Miss Winters. I would rather have you go on this path by your own volition.”
She rolls her eyes, making a show of opening her book at a random page to escape his eyes. Wesker checks his phone – Mrs. Winters has accepted his invitation, and will be here in an hour.
Perfect. Just the time for him to start his experimentations.
“Why are you here?” Chris hisses, helping Mia with her coat like he has somewhat developed some kind of gentlemanly manners in the past twenty-four hours.
“Because I am, apparently, half of your research team, Chris,” Wesker pleasantly says, holding out his own coat and savouring the twitch of Chris’s eye at the gesture. “And because I miss your charming hospitality, of course.”
Mia stares at them for a second or two before deciding that this is not her problem anymore, and heads straight for her daughter to hug her like they just came back from war.
“I thought only Mia was coming,” Chris grumbles, putting the coats away. “You could have texted.”
Unsaid is the fact that he’s not very comfortable with Wesker knowing where he lives – as if Wesker hadn’t known for the past two years. But they usually meet up in Wesker’s apartment, or in his lab, or in any other places that are not somewhere private for Chris.
Wesker looks around. It’s a small apartment, terribly furnished, like Chris went shopping in a dumpster. The furniture is old, paint chipped away and fabric suspiciously stained. Not a lot of personal things around – pictures, mostly.
“You should probably sit down, Chris,” Mia says, one arm around her daughter’s shoulder. With the two of them standing next to each other, the family resemblance is even more striking.
Rosemary is staring at Wesker with no small amount of exasperation. She’s obviously displeased by his presence.
“Why?” Chris throws one last warning glance at Wesker and stomps toward the small kitchen. “Is the world ending again?”
“Maybe.” Mia’s voice is calm. Chris busies himself with his antique coffee machine with a grunt.
Rosemary looks at her mother with a frown, then turns her eyes toward Wesker. He simply smiles at her.
“Alright,” Chris says, a tired sigh in his voice, holding four cups of coffee with surprising dexterity. “What did you find?” He sits on the couch, makes a vague gesture to indicate the few sits left, and takes a sip of coffee. “Rose told me it was mold.”
“It is,” Mia says, taking a seat without relinquishing her hold on her daughter. She unexpectedly turns to Wesker, lifting her brows.
“A familiar strand of mold,” Wesker adds, settling down in the remaining armchair. “Created by exposing nematodes to a genus of fungus. It can assimilate the DNA of any host it infects, and will alter said host to incorporate DNA from other organisms they have assimilated.”
Rose and Chris are wearing the exact same slightly confused expression.
“In other words, it’s exactly the same as Miranda’s cadou,” Mia explains. Her tone is neutral, but her hands are tense on her laps.
The words take a few seconds to be registered, and Wesker takes advantage of the silence to grab the cup of coffee he knows Chris has not put any sugar to take a sip.
“Miranda,” Chris repeats, the same aggravated tone he uses to say Wesker’s name. “She’s dead.”
Rosemary is staring in the distance, eyes wide and unfocused.
Chris thinks Miranda was a nutcase with a serious case of folie des grandeurs who couldn’t even protect herself against an untrained lone father.
Rosemary thinks Miranda is a nutcase too, but one that haunts her nightmare, ruined her life and kidnapped her twice. She’s scared of her, even if she tries to pretend she is not.
“Debatable,” she whispers, and Mia takes one of her hand, eyes softening. “It’s like Eveline. She’s still here.”
“Didn’t you say you killed her ten years ago?” Chris looks like he’s fighting back the urge to get up and pace. “With your... father?”
His struggle with the last word is obvious. Mia briefly looks to the side, her jaw clenching, before smoothing her face back into a neutral expression.
“It was only a temporary death,” Wesker points out. “A recurring theme for you, Captain.”
Chris grits his teeth and angrily sips his coffee, probably biting back a scathing you should have stayed dead, something he so often throws Wesker’s way the insult doesn’t even sting anymore.
“But Miranda doesn’t have a physical body,” Rosemary says, a bit too loud. Like she’s trying to drown out the sound of Chris gritting his teeth beside her. “Even if she’s still around, she couldn’t have...” she waves a hand in the air, “gone back to her mad scientist’s bullshit.”
“Experimentations,” Wesker corrects, and receives three exasperated stares for his troubles.
“Maybe someone else is doing it in her stead.” Mia is frowning at the coffee table, absently rubbing her daughter’s hand. “Maybe the root infected someone, and she got into their head. Or somebody stumbled across her research notes and decided to follow the steps.”
“The important thing is, CLT is buying cadou from someone and selling it to bio-terrorist groups,” Wesker says. “Even if we all know those groups are usually terrible at creating viable B.O.W, it’s still a matter of concern for you.”
This time, the stares are more bewildered than irritated. He shrugs. “I may not share your sympathetic views on the sanctity of life and the wonders of the human race, but I can still tell when something is dangerous.”
“That’s reassuring,” Chris mumbles. “For a moment I thought your moral compass had finally decided to show up.”
“I’m afraid it is a bit too late for that. Thankfully, I have you to keep me on the right path, Chris.”
It’s always a delight to see Chris blush. And Rosemary’s amused smile is only a bonus. Two months ago, she would have winced in disgust.
“The road to redemption is not a straight path,” Rosemary says, and her mother stifles a laugh behind her hand. Chris’s blush grows a shade darker.
“Very funny, kid.” He’s almost seventy-three and he looks like a mortified teenager. “Can we circle back to Miranda? I think it’s more important than Wesker’s attempts at being a more or less decent human being.”
“Emphasis on the less,” Rosemary mumbles, apparently still smarting from Wesker’s very reasonable experience with the sample.
He just gives her a small grin, and she discreetly flips him off. Mia clears her throat. Wesker has to give it to her – the small sound is enough for her to grab everyone’s attention.
“Rose, and by extension Chris, should stay away from the cadou. We don’t know what will happen in case of extended exposure, and I don’t attend to find out.” She eyes Wesker, a frown passing on her face. “So stop fucking around.”
“Or what, Mrs. Winters? Are you planning on attacking me with a chainsaw when I let my guard down?”
He ducks right in time to avoid the cushion aimed at his head. It runs in the family, apparently. Chris groans – in shame or in exasperation – and Rosemary looks ready to kill Wesker with her bare hands.
“I’ve told you not to talk about things you don’t understand,” she hisses under her breath. Her mother affectionately pats her now glowing hand.
“It’s alright, sweetie.” Her voice is sickly sweet. “I’m sure Wesker understands how bad it could get for him if he keeps being an asshole.”
If only the B.S.A.A didn’t cure her from the mold’s infection. Mia Winters would have made a formidable monster.
Wesker nods courteously, and Chris remerges from his hiding place – his hand, slapped against his face – to throw him a very disappointed look.
Wesker is approximately eighty years too old for his glare to have any effect on him.
“I agree with Mia,” Chris says, desperately trying to keep his voice even. “Can you two... get more info on the mold? Where it came from, exactly?”
“Probably Romania,” Mia immediately says, a wry smile passing on her lips.
“The zone is monitored. The root is supposed to be dead.” Chris sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “They couldn’t have...”
“Monitored by the B.S.A.A?” Wesker asks pleasantly, and Chris frowns. “Well, we all know how easy it is to circumvent them.”
“No budget,” Chris grunts, keeping his eyes on the coffee table. “They lost almost all support from the government over the past fifteen years. Anyone could have swooped in and collected jars of mold.”
“Or they could have received a hefty bribe to look the other way,” Wesker adds, grinning to himself when Chris grips this cup a bit tighter.
He was one of the founders of the agency, after all. One of his greatest accomplishments, and his most bitter failure.
Rosemary bites her lips but stays silent. She’s probably aware of her own role in Chris’s fallout with the B.S.A.A. They failed to protect her, and Chris went on a rampage after her father’s death, trying to understand how the situation could have escaped him so badly. How he could have gone unaware of corruption running rampant inside his beloved institution for years.
Heads had rolled in the aftermath, but Chris’s trust in his lifelong achievement had been forever broken, and it didn’t take him long to slowly start to retreat, before going rogue for good as soon as Miss Winters turned eighteen.
Time to change the subject, or at least attempt to steer Chris away from dangerous waters. “Do you have any contact in the B.S.A.A that can forward any information about the area?” Wesker asks, keeping his tone light.
Chris snorts. “Sure, they will be ecstatic to see me crawl back to them after I told them they were a bunch of cowardly sell-outs.”
“You told them that? My, Captain, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Chris glares at him. “You stay in your lab, Wesker. I know what I need to do.”
And what a sight. One of Wesker’s greatest and funniest accomplishments in his life was to turn Chris “paperwork is useless when you’re a good shot” Redfield into the most efficient paper-pusher to ever exist. Give the man a few tax returns and an internet bill, and he can unravel some obscure conspiracy happening on the other side of the planet.
Wesker gives him his most pleasant grin. Mia sights and puts her half-empty cup on the table. “Alright. Sweetie, you’re coming home with me?”
Rosemary eyes Wesker for a second before nodding. Her face is more wistful than suspicious.
“Wesker, we’ll see each other tomorrow.” Mia’s tone is more of an order than a suggestion. “Chris, try to get some sleep.” She briefly pats the man’s shoulder before getting up, gathering the cups and heading to the kitchen.
Chris lets her – they are apparently close enough that he doesn’t feel the need to fuss over her invading his privacy. Rosemary also pats his shoulder and gets up.
“See you tomorrow,” she throws behind her shoulder, grabbing her jackets and waiting for her mother to come back from the kitchen. “Wesker…”
He turns his head to look at her expectantly. She winces, hands going to her pockets, as if to hide her fidgeting. “Don’t forget about the deal,” she states ominously, apparently forgetting that Chris can hear her and is probably going to pester Wesker about that once she’s gone.
“I won’t, Miss Winters.”
He ignores Mia and Chris’s questioning looks, and politely waves the women goodbye.
Once they are gone, Chris stares for a few minutes at the wall, brows furrowed in concentration.
“You managed to find Vargas, Chris,” Wesker lightly points out, when it’s clear the man is not going to speak anytime soon. “You can retrace the samples’ trail. No need to look so tortured.”
Chris mumbles something unintelligible and gets up. “Sure. I love spending hours poring over tax returns. Truly what I was born to do.” He scratches his head and looks around uselessly, as if trying to ignore Wesker’s presence.
“That’s what right hands are for, Chris,” Wesker points out. If his information is correct, Chris’s second in command is rather good at gathering intel. She probably helped Chris discover Vargas’s link with CLT.
“Yeah, Marta is even more allergic to that bullshit than me.” Chris pointedly looks at Wesker, then at the door. “Why are you still here? Are we having a sleepover?”
“I don’t know what that word means,” Wesker says dispassionately.
Chris’s bafflement only lasts a few seconds, enough for Wesker to start smiling.
“You’re not funny,” Chris sternly tells him, pointing a finger at him. “Also, you grew up in a lab, excuse me for believing your childhood was very different from mine.”
“We had sleepovers all the time.” Chris lifts his brows. “The screams of dying children made for fantastic background music while we compared what virus they gave us that day.”
Chris looks appropriately disturbed. “Stop trying to get pity points by playing the sad childhood card.”
“Pity is the last thing I want from you, Chris.”
Chris crosses and uncrosses his arms on his chest, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.
“Were you serious?” Chris asks, and Wesker throws him a questioning look. “The right path thing.” He waves a hand around, encompassing their situation with a broad gesture. “If I turn my eyes off you, are you going to blow up the planet?”
“That’s logistically impossible, Chris.”
“Wesker.”
Wesker leans against the back of his seat, crossing his hands in front of him.
It took Chris four months to ask the question. For a man that hates talking about his feelings more than anything, it’s not that bad.
Granted, they don’t usually meet up to have deep conversations about the future.
“It was an oversimplification,” Wesker says, and Chris makes an irritated face. “Don’t ever think for a second that you can control me, Captain.”
Chris barks out a laugh. “Yeah, it didn’t even cross my mind, don’t worry.”
Wesker gives him a thin smile. “And I hope it never will, Chris.”
Chris stares at him, a conflicted expression passing on his face before he nods, once.
Wesker gets up, and Chris doesn’t take a step back. “If anything, I have a personal interest in keeping you alive and well. And if this objective includes following your naïve values without believing in them, well.” He tilts his head to the side. Chris’s eyes are laser-focused on him, the yellow iris glowing in the dim light.
“Let’s say that I’m willing to compromise a few of my own principles to reach my goal.”
Chris opens and closes his mouth a few times.
Wesker waits patiently.
“Were you always this weird?” Chris wonders, looking like he just had an epiphany, and is not exactly thrilled about it. “You want to continue fucking me so you’re going to be good for now?”
“No need to be so crude.”
Chris throws his hands in the air, almost slapping Wesker in the process. “Sorry, but that’s what I’m hearing!”
“Well, we always hear what we want to hear,” Wesker points out, not bothering to hide his smile. Chris makes a fist with his hand, but doesn’t punch him, only slightly shaking it before unclenching his fingers.
“You’re so annoying. You know that, right?”
“That’s what I’ve been told, yes. But I don’t usually bother with people’s opinion of me.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Wesker has a few answers to give him, but none will satisfy him.
“Well, I was actually hoping you will deliver on the fucking part,” he says.
Chris stares incredulously. “And they say romance is dead.”
“Well, I did die and came back, so if anything, romance is undead.”
Chris slaps his hand against Wesker’s mouth, frowning. “Shut up. I think it’s better when you don’t talk.” When Wesker lifts his brows in a silent question, Chris takes out his hand, grabs him by the collar, and kisses him roughly.
All things considered, it went way better than Wesker thought it would.
“Don’t piss off Mia,” Chris orders, but it almost sounds like a plea.
Wesker looks at him, amused.
“I don’t go out of my way to get on her nerves, Chris. She’s a bit too sensitive, that’s all.”
They are standing near the door. It’s still early – the sun has barely started to rise, and Chris looks half-asleep, hair mused and shirt rumpled.
“She’s allowed to be sensitive,” Chris grumbles, lightly pushing him toward the door. “Now get the fuck out of here, I’ve got a lot to do.”
Wesker leans to look at him more closely, and Chris takes a step back, as if fearing Wesker is going to do something as ridiculous as kissing him goodbye.
“Good luck, Captain.” With that, Wesker turns around and opens the door, ignoring Chris’s spluttering behind him.
“Wait!”
“Do you want me to leave or stay, Chris?” Wesker leans against the doorframe, lifting his brows, and Chris winces.
“What was Rose talking about yesterday?” He makes a vague gesture. “The deal thing?”
Wesker gives him a little grin. “That’s between me and Miss Winters, Captain. If you’re so curious about it, why don’t you ask her?” He tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Or make use of your handy little telepathic bond?”
“She’s hiding it from me,” Chris says, obviously displeased by that fact. “She’s getting really good at it.”
Wesker shrugs. “This is not my problem, Chris. I made a promise, and I don’t intend to break it because you bat your eyelashes and ask for it.”
Chris turns red – in anger or in embarrassment, it’s hard to tell. “I don’t – I’m not batting anything!”
Wesker gently pats his cheek and steps into the corridor, grinning to himself when he hears Chris’s outraged groan resonate behind him. The door slams and it’s a miracle it doesn’t get torn off its hinges.
Wesker keeps his satisfied grin well into the morning, and Mia Winters looks absolutely exasperated by it.