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They had talked of children, once. Chris is wrapped in Wesker's arms, sticky and sore but so, so happy. A soft, secret smile, so unlike his captain, is pressed into his shoulder, loving and gentle. Chris loves then, wholly and unreservedly. He thinks himself loved in return.
“Would you ever want kids?” Chris asks into the quiet of Wesker's bedroom. He doesn't notice the Umbrella pin on the shelf, the way even Wesker's sunglasses are Umbrella brand.
“Mmh?” His captain is warm and sleepy, hair a messy halo around his head. Chris has never seen him so beautiful, before or since.
“Would you ever want kids?” Chris repeats, smiling as he playfully pokes Wesker. “It's a simple question.”
“With an answer that's not nearly as simple,” Wesker frowns into the bare skin of his shoulder.
“What's there to think about?” Chris asks, head tilted like a puppy’s. His younger self is so stupidly naive. “You either want kids or you don't.”
“What are the circumstances?” Wesker asks. “How many children? Would they be safe? Are they in good physical health? Would I be raising them on my own?”
Chris props himself up on his elbows, amused. His captain has always been an insufferable stickler for details.
Wesker continues, hesitating. “If something were to happen to me, would they be alone?”
“No!” Chris laughs. Wesker looks at him, startled, and Chris softens. He pictures happy, smiling children. They have his laugh, and Wesker's smile, and neither of their eyes.
“No,” Chris repeats, much softer. He takes his hand, their fingers slotting together like two pieces of a puzzle. Devotion fills him as he gazes into Wesker's eyes. They're the same beautiful, icy blue they’ve always been.
“They'll never be alone, not as long as I’m around.”
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Training Jake is hard, for a multitude of reasons. Clashing personalities, differing fighting styles, lingering grief over Piers, you name it. The hardest part is how much Jake reminds him of Wesker. Chris finds himself flinching, sometimes, expecting a familiar figure from the corner of his eye. Ducking a punch never thrown, a kick never made. Arms around his own, and a smile against his shoulder. Wesker is the ghost that haunts him, even now.
Chris does his best to ignore it, to give Jake the best damn training he can give. The kid’s got combat experience and a hell of a lot of guts, but neither mean much when it comes to fighting BOWs. If kicking the shit out of him in training means he survives whatever hell the world has waiting for him out there, Chris’ll do it a hundred times. And if his mind keeps running over an old promise like the tide smoothing a stone, well, that's his business.
He’d asked Jake to meet him here today. His mind is set on what he has to do, but finding the well of strength to do it is hard. The kid arrives, just as stubborn and angry as usual. Jake reminds Chris of himself. He wonders when the thought stopped hurting and started making him feel proud instead.
Stiffly, Chris reaches into his bag and hands Jake an old knife in a new sheath. The kid's graduation present. Curious, Jake draws it, staring hesitantly at the logo stretched across the base. Even all these years later, the S.T.A.R.S. symbol still glitters like volcanic glass.
This was your father's , Chris doesn't say, but Jake is his father's son. He figures it out. Chris can see the exact moment he realizes. Jake’s face goes through a dozen different shades of grief as he stares at the knife. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
Chris isn't expecting the hug that follows. Jake has never been the most tactile, and their relationship is one fraught with baggage even on the best days. Jake shudders in his arms, laugh wet. The flat of the knife digs into his back as his shoulder dampens with tears. He ignores it. This has been a long time coming. He can stand a little discomfort.
An old wound, tattered and aching, finally starts to scar over. Jake doesn't have his laugh. He doesn't have Wesker's smile. But he has Wesker's eyes, and for now, that's enough.