Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even as the train rumbled towards its destination - Raccoon City - Albert couldn't help but check through his luggage one more time, making sure all his things were in order. Clothes? Check. His clothes were in hues of the same blacks and blues; when he liked an article of clothing, he just tended to buy more copies of it so as to maximize his own comfort. He had never been one to stay up to date with fashion trends, anyway. The only garment he ever purchased because it seemed "cool" was something he was already wearing - a comfortable, if pricey, leather jacket. Even his sunglasses were prescription, as much as they completed the look he unintentionally assembled. Speaking of which, extra pairs of sunglasses? Check. Always nice to have several backups in case of emergencies. A large quantity of  books, mostly scientific texts, to keep him entertained? Of course. Even though he and his sister were orphans, neither of them could keep their noses out of books. He fondly remembers spending hours in different public libraries coinciding with different foster homes, reading long after the sun had set, until the poor librarians had to kick them out. It was paying off for Alex, at least. She'd been accepted into a good college to study virology, wanting to go into vaccine research and development. He, meanwhile, had been kicked out of his college of choice for "disruptive behavior", which is a shorter way of saying he punched a professor in the face because she "accidentally" used research that was clearly false to anyone with half a brain. The other students were just too scared to point it out, surely that's why he was the only one that noticed.

Albert scoffed at the memory. It was a disrespect to academic integrity and an insult to the intelligence of her students for her to try and pass off Umbrella's corporate-sponsored quote-on-quote "research" as legitimate when they'd do anything to skew results in their favor. And of course, the only place that would take him in after his little outburst was at the heart of its empire. 

Fate is cruel like that.

But whoever was running S.T.A.R.S. seemed to put stock in his intellect as well as his physical capabilities. He didn't fit the role of the archetypal nerd in that regard; he was physically very fit, pushing himself to keep a consistent exercise routine, and he fancied himself quite good-looking as well. It had the advantage of making him seem cool and mysterious, instead of revealing that he was just introverted and had horrible social skills. He was hoping that advantage would keep his new colleagues at a comfortable distance away from him so they'd never figure it out. 

The screech of the train wheels braking on the tracks filled his ears as it arrived at the last stop on his journey. Running a hand through his slicked-back hair, he checked his looks in a pocket mirror one more time, not allowing himself to be anything but the spitting image of perfection. Good first impressions had to be made if he wanted to keep this job.

Quietly, he closed his luggage and stepped off the train.

There was a small group of people leaving, but Albert chose a Sunday to arrive not just to get started on work right away the next day, but to avoid the inevitable rush hour crowds itching to return home to their families outside the city. The only thing he hated more than thoughtless people was whole swaths of them in a tight space, after all. Absconding from the platform as fast as possible, he threw a couple quick glances around looking for one Dr. James Marcus.

He was the one who set him up with this job, after all. Marcus taught at Albert's university - he had the kindness to set Albert up with this new job once he got kicked out. He had said he'd be present with the captain of S.T.A.R.S. upon Albert's arrival - and it seems that he's still as good as his word, waving the new arrival down nearby. Next to her was a man who was built like, pardon his language, a brick shithouse. Albert's eyes lingered on him, tracing the outline of his muscles through the man's clothes. A plain, olive-green shirt with some black slacks and boots, and a similarly black coat on top of it all. Large brown eyes and a short, scruffy beard made his masculine features not look as threatening as they otherwise would. As Albert approached, the man turned to face him, flashing a big, goofy grin. 

"You must be Albert Wesker!" He said, cheerfully, holding out a hand for Albert to shake. "Annette's told me all about you. I'm Captain Redfield - but we're off-duty right now, so just call me Chris." 

It was in that instance that Albert decided he hated his new captain. More than he hated being disorganized, more than he hated crowds, he hated everything about Captain Redfield already. He hated how the captain looked at him as if they were going to be friends. He hated how he treated his power and authority like it was no big deal when Albert had been working all his life to earn the scraps of respect that Captain Redfield was casually throwing to the wayside. And he hated that smile. As if it was a pleasure to be here. It was almost like he was gloating to Albert, watching him squirm at the idea that his future was in the hands of this… goofball .

"With all due respect, Captain Redfield, " he put emphasis on his new boss's rank as he shook the man's hand a little too firmly, "I believe it would be better if I referred to you with your proper title. Wouldn't want to forget my place , would I?" He spat the last part rather bitterly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Annette pinching her brow, already nursing a headache from her friend's less-than-ideal first impression. Contrary to his intended effect, however, this only seemed to encourage the Captain, not wipe the smile from his face. 

"Keeping it professional, huh? I like your attitude." He broke the handshake, casually crossing his arms over his chest. "I think you'll be a great asset to S.T.A.R.S., Wesker. I know a couple people that could take notes from you." He chuckled.

That stupid laugh only made the fiery feeling in Albert's chest grow stronger. Captain Redfield was challenging him, he was sure of it. Daring him to prove he was better than anyone else ever recruited to S.T.A.R.S. 

A small smirk grew on his face. "Good. You can tell them that they can start taking notes from me tomorrow."

Redfield merely raised an eyebrow, nodding. "Well, if you're so confident, I'm sure you won't need us to guide you to your apartment." After a moment of silence, where the two stared each other down whilst Marcus sighed and ran a hand through his hair in the background, he added, "Think fast." before quickly tossing the apartment key to him. Albert reacted instantly, catching them with relative ease despite the odd angle they were thrown from. Deliberately trying to catch him off guard, surely, but he was better than that. His captain seemed pleased. 

"I'll see you in the office, sir ." He got in one more snide remark before running off, trying to be the one who got the last word in.

Game on, Captain.

Chapter Text

It was 11 PM on a Friday night, and Albert Wesker was still holed up in the S.T.A.R.S. office. 

He had decided to keep working on reports so as to not leave anything unfinished before the end of the official work week. The rest of S.T.A.R.S. had left hours ago, practically rushing out the door and going out for drinks. Even Marcus was joining, although he had claimed it was just to keep an eye on the others. Only one person besides Wesker lingered elsewhere in the dim office - none other than the captain , of course. Christopher Redfield always stayed behind to "close up shop" for the night, insisting everyone go home and get some sleep. 

His first few months at S.T.A.R.S. had been… good , all things considered. He found that the other two members of Alpha Team, Ada Wong and Frank Armstrong (teasingly called HUNK, which allegedly stood for "Human Unit Never Killed"), were surprisingly tolerable. Frank was quiet, and a great shot, while Ada had a surprising amount of wit and could keep up with him easily enough. They had even proved themselves in combat together multiple times by now. It almost made Albert want to reconsider his distaste for working with others.

Captain Redfield, though, was still a source of constant frustration for the younger officer. The man was puzzling, almost like a Rubik's Cube in the sense that none of his faces matched . He was nothing but kind to his team, and unlike first impressions suggested, he knew when the cheerful optimism he insisted upon had to be shoved off to the side in favor of more useful emotions. But Albert could always see the gears turning in his mind, how he was always so clearly thinking of so many things at once, and Albert was desperate to dig around in his brain and figure out what his problem was, why he was so upbeat if something was clearly eating away at him, why he couldn't behave like Albert expected someone in his position to behave. Years of experience with authority figures had only proved that all their smiles were just for show, so what was Chris doing it so much for? He was the only variable in this equation that didn't have a defined value yet, and Albert hated that so much-

"Wesker? You in there, buddy?"

Albert yelped, his sunglasses tumbling off his face as he shot upwards, sitting perfectly upright when he had previously been hunched over. He felt his ears heating up as he realized he apparently had the pen he was using in such a death grip that there was now a sizable inkblot on his otherwise pristine report. Standing tall above him, Captain Redfield chuckled to himself, having snuck up on the distracted officer with ease. He had a habit of doing that, popping up in unexpected places, as if he knew people were thinking about him. Albert snarled in response, quickly bending over and snatching his shades off the floor. "Yes, captain, I'm 'in there'. Just finishing some reports , as you can see." He sat back up again, carefully placing the sunglasses on his face first before facing the captain so Redfield couldn't read his eyes. 

The muscular man sighs, leaning back on the desk behind Albert's, and just… stares at him for a few moments. Gears turning in his head, looking like a wolf contemplating making a dive for a juicy morsel of prey. In that moment, the thought to choke Redfield to try and get him to tell his recruit what exactly he's thinking barges intrusively into Albert's mind before he shoves the rage-filled urge back from whence it came. Instead, he chose to silently seethe about how he would never understand what exactly was running through his superior's mind. It wasn't like he trusted Redfield to give him a straight answer if he asked, anyway. He'd probably laugh the question off without a second thought. Infuriating .

Finally, after what feels like an eternal staring contest, the captain spoke. "It's late, officer."

Albert raised a platinum-blonde eyebrow, barely concealing the next wave of fury that hits him. Of course he knew it was late. Did Redfield, that son of a bitch, think he was so stupid as to not know the time? His hands balled into fists, knuckles turning white from the pull of the sinews in his fingers obstructing blood flow. Through gritted teeth, he venomously spat out, "I'm well aware."

Redfield didn't falter one bit. "I'm glad you stayed back, actually. I need to talk to you about something."

Wait, what? Albert did a double take at that. He was in trouble. He had to be. Inwardly, he sneers, at first assuming he was just good at his job so as to not bruise his own ego. But then, the reality sinks in - he had been back-talking Captain Redfield constantly because he thought he knew better, somehow. Because he was so far up his own ass that he had to be right all the time. "I don't understand." He stammered, mixed responses verbalizing themselves in one wave of confusion. "It's- you never commented on the back-talk before, sir. Why are you firing me?" He didn't want to admit anything about this to himself, but he was happier at S.T.A.R.S. than he was at any other point in his life. Things finally seemed to start looking up for him here, and he had to foolishly throw it all away-

Redfield cocked an eyebrow at his subordinate. "I didn't say anything about firing you."

Albert's shoulders untensed themselves a bit. "...oh. Right." He coughed, trying to reassert his spick-and-span, presentable image immediately. That was a moment of weakness and vulnerability he'd never want to replicate again. "Erm. Yes. What do you need from me, sir?"

Redfield chuckled at him again, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Amused. Albert was glad his sunglasses hid that he was avoiding eye contact out of shame, but a warm tingling reached his ears, presumably painting his cheeks a rosy pink. "Field operations are probably gonna get more intense soon. Raccoon City's facing an uptick in crime recently." The captain idly drummed his fingers on the desk. "Which means S.T.A.R.S. is gonna get more organized. And believe it or not, I don't mind the back-talk. Actually, I think it could be an asset moving forward."

Albert's mouth hung open for a moment, stunned. A feeling of excitement started to burn in his chest, starting to overpower the nervousness. "You can't be serious, right? Is this a joke?"

"You're my smartest recruit." He started. "You pick up new skills incredibly quickly. You consider a situation from every angle. You're a great shot, and keep calm under pressure. So, I want you as my pointman." Captain Redfield stated plainly. "First one in, last one out. Second in command."

Albert swelled with pride at the praise. Of course, he knew all this about himself already. …But it was nice to have someone finally recognize it out loud. It was like somebody finally cared about all the effort he put in to remain a cut above the rest, and didn't just take it for granted like so many people seemed to do. "Of course." he sniffed, trying (and failing) to remain aloof and indifferent. "It would be my pleasure."

The captain clapped a hand on Albert's shoulder. He was warm, Albert thought, in comparison to his own self. His breath hitched slightly. Typically averse to physical touch, he found that this sensation was unexpectedly a welcome one.

"I'm glad. Raccoon City needs you, Wesker." Redfield said, his voice rich with sincerity. "Now get out. That's an order."

"Wh-What?" Albert spluttered. "I thought I was doing everything right! I have reports to-"

Redfield shushed him calmly, the soft, fond smile he wore for Albert not leaving his face. "The reports can wait. I need my second-in-command in tip-top shape, alright? I know you think you're some sort of work machine, but you need to give yourself a break."

Reluctantly, Albert pulled away from the hand on his shoulder. "Yes, sir." He sighed. Allowing himself to admit he was feeling tired, he grabbed his stuff and made for the door. Pausing before opening it, he quietly turns around. "Good night, Captain." He murmurs.

"G'night, Wesker!" Came the reply as Redfield, ever smiling, gave him a two-fingered salute. Albert nodded, turned on his heels, and walked out.

It was only when he was already on his way home that he realized how easily he allowed his attitude to be changed at Redfield's approval and praise. Stranger still, he couldn't find it in himself to be angry. Perhaps his captain was right - he could just be tired. It was soothing to know, though, that his superior's care wasn't just for show like he thought.

That was one thing he didn't hate about Chris Redfield, he supposed.

People like to claim it takes less muscles to smile than to frown. Chris thought about that as Wesker left - he figured that was probably why he did it so much.

Most of his smiles were part of a carefully-constructed facade he had been building ever since he was aware enough to know he could and should do so. It was how he had always done things, especially since joining Umbrella, slowly collecting a short list of allies and a much longer list of people to stab in the back at a later date, carefully laying plans years in advance, all to finally get control of his own damn life from the company that practically raised him.

He was good, Chris knew it. After all, he was trained to be the best virologist Umbrella could ever ask for, along with Claire. The corporation probably wanted him to be a good little boy and serve their own interests dutifully, as if he didn't have bigger dreams. Dreams that didn't involve Umbrella. 

All things considered, for something he had been doing practically since he came out of the womb, the process of virology wasn't even something he was particularly interested in. Since leaving his post at Arklay for other pursuits within Umbrella, he had taken a crash course on mycology for fun. That little venture ended up turning into several courses, a dissertation on a species of mold he found distinctly fascinating, and another doctorate. He also made a hobby out of flying planes during that time. The fun part of virology, at least to him, was the carnage of testing a new strain. Watching flesh contort and warp in a cacophony of screams, failure after magnificent failure. It never got boring. The need to vent all the built-up stress from his life had given him a veritable sadistic streak as soon as he got to Arklay and got his hands on the Tyrant virus. 

Maybe that just made him an overgrown schoolyard bully. The tests were too fun for Chris to care about that. 

Besides his little hobbies, there wasn't much that got a genuine smile to cross Chris's face. 

Wesker was proving to be a fascinating exception to this rule. The new recruit was desperate for anyone to recognize the talent he so clearly had. He put a hundred and ten percent into everything he did, silently begging for someone to notice and praise him. His cynical bitterness about human nature was crumbling the longer he spent with S.T.A.R.S., and with that, Chris decided it was about time Wesker received the praise he was looking for. 

Because Chris didn't have to lie about Wesker's strengths to make his subordinate more inclined to work with him. It has been so long since someone genuinely impressed him like this. He wondered if Wesker's sharp mind could pick up on virology or mycology just as fast as it adapted to new combat techniques and memorized rulebooks. 

Once he didn't need S.T.A.R.S. anymore, he'd still try to keep Wesker, he decided. His best man was much too valuable an asset to let go of.