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Things feel off as soon as they arrive at the Spencer Estate. Something killed Spencer's bodyguards. Something intelligent enough to leave them at the front door as a warning. The sense of deja vu only grows as they venture further and further into the place. By the time they get to the only spot left for Spencer to be hiding out, it's almost overwhelming.
It's just Spencer, Chris tells himself. Nobody else.
Letting out a breath, he looks at Jill and nods. He's ready. She nods back and braces herself. They're going in with a bang. Spencer's not getting out of here unless it's in handcuffs. One, two, three, and—
SLAM!
Spencer's dead. It's Wesker that's there to greet them, lightning highlighting the hellish glow of his eyes behind dark shades.
The next thirty seconds are short, violent, and painful. He's punched, kicked, shoved, and elbowed, bruises raising up along his skin with every raking blow. Jill isn't doing much better, but together, they hold on by their fingernails against the crashing wave of violence. Then, Wesker grabs her, and everything goes wrong.
Adrenaline lights up his veins as he goes for a punch, desperate to shove Wesker away from her. Wesker just dodges and catches it, shoving him away. Chris's stomach sinks, and in one smooth motion, Wesker sends Jill flying into one of the bookcases.
She crashes right into the glass. Nausea wells up in Chris’s gut at the crunch of it shattering against her back. She limply slides down the length of the bookcase, glass shards pushed around and tinkling against the floor. There's a soft thump as she hits the ground, motionless and silent.
The scream tears its way out of him, horrified and raw. “Jill!”
Please be alright, please be alright—
Chris reaches out for her, but Wesker grabs him by the shirt and hauls him up before he can even move. He's slammed against the dining table. The wood creaks under his weight, splinters digging into his back. He feels like a fish swimming against the current, slow and clumsy against an unstoppable force.
Cursing, Chris goes for a punch, but Wesker catches it, slamming his wrist against the wood. Chris fumbles free his other arm, slippery as an eel, but Wesker just turns the sloppy punch aside and pins that one, too. Everything is quiet for a minute as they stare at each other, panting. Wesker is the first to speak.
“You really are quite the pest,” Wesker muses.
“Good,” Chris snarls, glaring daggers. Blood rushes through his veins like lava.
“Still playing the hero?” Wesker asks, nonchalant. His fingers flex on Chris's wrists.
Chris shoves back against his grip, defiant. “Somebody has to.”
“And Jill?” Wesker asks. His tone is soft. Dangerous. In that moment, he reminds Chris of a barracuda. Quiet stillness hiding razor-sharp teeth. “She still isn't aware of your little secret, is she?”
Chris stiffens. He still hasn't told her. His best friend in the whole world, and he still hasn't told her one of his deepest, darkest secrets. A few times when he was drunk he’d come close, but—
God, he's such a fucking liar.
The guilt spikes as Wesker smiles, triumphant. He’s a fucking liar, and Wesker knows it.
“Interesting,” Wesker hums. “You're still lying to her, even after all these years?”
“No,” Chris protests weakly.
“You, of all people, keeping a secret for that long?” Wesker raises an eyebrow. “I'm almost impressed.”
Chris grits his teeth.
“She’s alive, you know. I can hear her heart beating,” Wesker says, motioning his head in Jill’s direction. His tone turns cruel. “Perhaps I should seize the opportunity to tell her myself when she wakes up.”
“No!” Chris shouts, face twisting in horror. He struggles against Wesker's grip, but it's like trying to push away a ton of bricks. “You—you stay away from her! You want me, not her!”
“Ever the martyr,” Wesker sneers. “But we both know why you’re here.”
Wesker shifts, and a flash of orange peeks out from under his collar, so unlike Wesker's usual style it's a shock Chris never noticed it before. A scarf, so thin and delicate it almost looks like chiffon. Sequins line the length of it, as beautiful and sparkling as the sun shining off the water at sunrise. Wait—not sequins. Scales.
“You—those are—” Chris stumbles, the world tilting beneath him. Just below his ribs, his secret scrapes him raw.
Selkies. Merfolk. Sea monsters. That's what the surface folk had always called his people, back when they remembered they existed. He knows what stories they tell, now that he's been topside for years. Steal something that should never be stolen. Break the most precious covenant of his people, and make a selkie slave to your will.
That had never quite been the truth. Stolen scales grow back, a familiar tail returning to where alien legs once lay. An aching balm to soothe pure violation. Destroyed scales, the same. Scales given freely, on the other hand—
Chris feels sick. This is why his scales never grew back after Arklay. “You kept my scales.”
“You gave them to me,” Wesker smirks. “Why not?”
That which is given, cannot easily be taken back.
Chris misses the sea so much it hurts. This body feels more and more alien the longer he stays in it. He can't even sleep at night, sometimes. The gentle rocking of the tide against his underside is too nauseatingly absent. Homesickness still pulls at him like a net every time he hears the crashing of waves hitting the docks beside his apartment. To be reminded of the reason why he's stuck like this—
“You know what they are,” Chris rasps, voice hoarse. His fists clench like two pieces of driftwood. The one time he’d dared to go back, it had burned like he was being torn apart the instant the water had gone past his knees. “What they mean, you, you—”
Chris seethes, wrists shaking in Wesker's grip. He's so angry English is starting to drift away from him, his native tongue flooding back in to fill in the gaps like a rising tide. The last time he’d been angry enough to slip this much, he’d had his back to the floor and Wesker's gun in his face. The foreign syllables lurch out in a rough hiss, sloppy with fury and lack of practice. “You son of a bitch!”
Wesker shakes his head, amused at his fruitless rage. Chris stiffens as Wesker pushes him into the table, shoving into his space and boxing him in. Looming. His body is warm, and Chris’s heartbeat speeds up at the press of it against his own. They haven't been this close in a long time.
“There’s something about you that I’ve always found rather curious,” Wesker murmurs. “They say the one who steals a selkie's skin becomes their master, yet you never followed my orders even when I so graciously enlisted you to be part of my little pet project.”
Chris holds his breath, swallowing down his happiest memory and greatest shame. His scales are his deepest, darkest secret, but not in the way Wesker thinks. Behind his shades, Chris sees the way Wesker's eyes flick over him, studying his face like they're picking apart every tiny microexpression. It feels disturbingly like being dissected.
“You obviously remain fixated on those scales. So then, tell me. What does it mean ?” Wesker continues, voice like a conch shell roaring softly in his ear. “What’s the difference between a gift stolen…”
Chris can't take his eyes off the golden scales strung around Wesker's neck like a fair prize. Wesker had been shining like the sun the day they’d met. The evening sky had framed him like the light sparkling off of a seashell, or sand drifting through the tide. He’d been the most beautiful creature Chris had ever seen. So when Wesker had reached for his scales—
“...and one given freely?”
Chris's response is instant. “Fuck off.”
Wesker's fingers squeeze warningly around his wrists. “Tell me.”
“Fuck off,” Chris repeats, heart racing. Wesker can’t know. He can't find out—
The grip on his wrists tightens hard enough he can feel the bones grind against one another. “Agh!”
“ Now ,” Wesker presses. His sunglasses slip down his nose, showcasing eyes glowing bright and cherry red. “I won't repeat myself again, Chris. What does it mean?”
Chris's throat is so, so dry. He licks his lips, missing the sea more than ever. “Let’s get married.”
For the first time, Wesker actually looks caught off guard. “...What?”
“It means, ‘Let's get married,’” Chris hisses, rubbing it in. Wesker wants the truth so bad? He can have it. “‘Right here, right now.’”
“You—”
Chris doesn't let him get a word in edgewise. He's had to deal with this bullshit since Arklay, and it’s coming out like an unstoppable tidal wave now that he’s finally forced to air it. If he stops now, something inside is going to shatter.
“The thing you've been wearing around your neck for the past seven years? The thing I’m so goddamn obsessed with?” Chris laughs, feeling like broken glass. He's not sure whether he wants to laugh himself sick or cry until his eyes are red and raw. “It's a wedding band.”
“What? ” Wesker's grip loosens in shock, and Chris seizes the advantage. He hooks his legs around Wesker's knees and flips them, shoving Wesker against the table. Chris's fingers dig into the lapels of Wesker's coat, but weirdly enough, he doesn't fight back. He just stares, frozen like a block of ice.
“Happy Anniversary, honey,” Chris grinds out, feeling more spiteful than ever. “Nice of you to finally realize it.”