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For the third time that morning, Rosemary Winters promptly tossed her plate off of her high chair, scattering its contents across the hardwood floor.
“She is really not a fan of steamed broccoli,” Chris mumbled, mostly to himself. His hands fell to his hips, considering the mess on the floor in bemusement as Rose wiggled in her chair- taunting him. Beyond the kitchen’s archway, nose buried deep within a book whilst stretched out on the couch like a lazing cat, he knew Wesker was listening in- though making no effort to help.
As if he’d prompted the devil to speak, Wesker offered a nonchalant hum. “As I’ve told you. If she won’t eat it, we’ll find something else. We can try again once she’s a little older.” He called out to him, tilting his head back over the arm of the couch- into Chris’ view. Chris sighed quietly, staring off into the living room in defeat. “You know, I really expected you to be a bit stricter about what she eats. I thought you were supposed to be the doctor here, Al.”
“I was also a child once, and so were you, Chris.” Wesker muttered, sparing him a glance. Lacking the familiar comfort of his sunglasses, the weight of his cat-like stare caused Chris’ shoulders to sag. “Forcing her to eat something she doesn’t like will only cause further resistance.” He continued, before turning his attention back to his book. “And I was a virologist , not a doctor. In case you’ve forgotten.”
“Same thing…” Chris waved him off, ignoring the look the older male shot his way. He hung his head, leaning down to clean up the mess- setting the plate back down in front of the bubbly infant as he sauntered off to dispose of the soiled food.
To his surprise, Wesker had quickly taken a liking to Rose- and the feeling seemed to be mutual. Rose never seemed to be too put-off by him; if anything, her interest in him only increased over the passing months. Perhaps she vaguely remembered him from when Ethan was alive, and had gotten used to his constant appearance at Chris’ side- or, perhaps she only kept him around for the strange, mesmerizing glow of his inhuman eyes.
Whatever it was, Chris was grateful for the peace between them. Except for when Wesker opted to take Rose’s side- which was more often than he’d expected from his former Captain.
Broccoli’s a no-go… so what’s the next best option? Chris paused in front of the infant’s high chair, giving Rose a gentle smile. She stared up at him expectantly, legs wiggling under her tray. “How ‘bout we find you something different to eat, kid?” He said softly, and though the words utterly fell on deaf ears, her face lit up with a smile. He pivoted on his heel, moving into the living room- seeking a second, more intellectual opinion.
As Wesker came into his view, still lounging across the couch like a sun-bathing feline, his steps slowed to a stop- a warmth nestling in the pit of his stomach at the sight. He loved the man, he’d known it from the first day they’d crossed paths in 1996; but no matter how many times he’d observed his partner, he fell in love all over again at the very sight of him. All the same, his heart ached guiltily in his chest.
Everything had changed after Kijuju.
Everything seemed impossible, at first; the body of bioterrorist “Albert Wesker” recovered in Africa . He recalled how all at once, every responsibility relating to Albert Wesker had been forced upon his shoulders. Several endless trials sparked in a short period, seeking justice and punishment for every wrongdoing under Albert’s name; and despite everything Wesker had put him through, Chris fought back hard .
He’d gone from putting the man down like a rabid dog, to fighting to keep him out of the BSAA’s hands barely a month after his supposed death. But the trials weren’t the end of their hardships.
Their volcanic battle burned away any ounce of the man Wesker had once been. Even over a decade later, Chris noticed little things that suggested the toll it had taken on him had never really faded. The early years of rehabilitation and recovery had been the worst- the roughest and most demanding, both physically and mentally, for both of them. Wesker had hated feeling so weak, forced to rely on others. On the one man he’d betrayed.
Chris recalled how lost the blond had been in the first few months, as his injuries scarred over and his regenerated limbs regained their, albeit limited, mobility. He remembered how often Wesker had cried in those months, more than he’d ever seen from his formerly stoic and untouchable captain. His anguish seemed to be relentless, frustrations bleeding out in any way he could think of.
Every intimate detail of his life had spilled out like the swift fall of a guillotine. Every loathful thought, every venom-filled insult, every night spent agonizing over the man he became under Umbrella’s indoctrination, every self-deprecating quip caught on his tongue; Chris stood by and witnessed each and every bit of Albert Wesker unfold before him, and in turn, Wesker had repaid the favor when he needed him most.
They’d outlasted the worst years of their lives together, though not completely unchanged.
Wesker, especially, had changed greatly from the man he was before. He’d been through a lot; they both had, but his scars ran deeper beyond the physical. The following years domesticated him- sanded down his roughened edges and hard exterior. His clipped tones lacked their usual bite, though every ounce of sarcasm and condescension had unfortunately stuck around to see their relationship blossom.
Though he supposed that more than just his personality had changed. His eyes traced the curves of Wesker’s long legs, crossed and lounging casually over the arm of the couch. He took in the graceful rise and fall of his chest; the slight softness of his abdomen that had come with age and his time spent in recovery; and the deep pink scars that peaked out from between the undone buttons of his shirt, just over his heart, spanning across to his right shoulder and beyond.
A warmth spread through his chest. God , he was beautiful. He always had been, but introducing Rose into their dynamic had made him flourish. In all his years of knowing him, he never would have guessed that Wesker had a paternal bone in his body- and Jake Muller should have proven him correct. And yet, the blond was perfect with Rose; a loving partner, and a caring father even though the child wasn’t his own.
“We should get married.”
Wesker’s head raised slowly from his book, almost mechanically as he cast him a glance. Rays of sunlight streaked through his hair at the changed angle- casting shadows on the wrinkles of his face, enhancing the fine lines of white infiltrating the blond of his hair. The cat-like slits of his eyes contracted in the light. His eyebrows raised, intrigued. Surprised , even. “And why the sudden change of pace, Chris?”
“I dunno. Just… something I’ve been thinking about, I guess.” Chris leaned over the back of the couch, meeting the gaze of his lover. “I’m not hearing a no.” He teased, and found himself smiling before he could help it. Promptly, Wesker’s paperback swatted his arm. “You’re not hearing a yes , either. There are traditions, you know.” He retaliated, though Chris detected no real bite in his words.
Actually, the brunet caught on to the beginnings of attempted banter. He leaned down, flashing him a shit-eating grin. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you feel better if I went out and bought you a ring first?” He asked, and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Wesker gave a noncommittal hum, raising an eyebrow of his own. “Perhaps… Though, I suppose that if it torments you so greatly… we can forgo tradition, for now.”
“Does this mean I get to make love to my husband tonight?” Chris leaned down further, ignoring the way the hard wood of the couch dug into his hips. Blowing out a sigh, Wesker sat up to close the distance, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips- which he reciprocated with a smile. When he pulled away, he shot Chris a playful look. “Usually the correct term is fiancé , but… yes. I suppose that it does.”
From behind them, a loud clattering resonated from the kitchen. Wesker lifted his head slightly, face shifting into an amused grin. “It seems that your god-daughter has thrown her plate on the floor. Again.”
At that, Chris let out a long, exhausted sigh, sinking to his knees to bury his face in the back of the couch as his husband broke into laughter.