Work Text:
You find him in a fit of rage.
He’d been gone for a few days. A business venture, he’d said. One you weren’t permitted to join.
You never expected this.
You hadn’t even heard him arrive. No greeting, no shutting of the front door nor footsteps that normally tipped you off to his presence.
You hear a heavy thud, not unlike something being slammed against a wall. Then another, and another, and another. You scurry through your home toward his office, finding the sounds of snarling growls and shattering, splintering wood to be that much louder. You’re almost afraid to open the door, but you know you must.
Whatever happened, whatever state he’s in– you swore long ago that you’d be by his side through it all. The creaking of the door makes him spin around, eyes a sharp red even through the dark tint of his glasses. His chest heaves with heavy breaths and his fists are balled so tight you can practically hear the creaking cry of crushed leather. He seethes through bared teeth as if to warn you away when you take that first step inside.
You know better.
“Al,” you croon, treading slowly. Glass crunches beneath the sole of your shoe and he appears to flinch the slightest bit. “Sweetheart,” you take another few steps closer, hands in front of you to show the surrender within your approach. You don’t know what to say. It seems as though nothing in the world can quell the hurricane brewing within.
His unrelenting gaze all but dares you to cross the fray. Will you be so bold as to enter the eye of the storm? Could you?
As you come closer, you notice the damage. His black coat is torn in several places, bloodied in others– flecks of it in his hair. Gloves scuffed at the knuckles. Glasses cracked at the corner, sitting at an odd angle due to a missing nose pad.
You reach up slowly to remove them, pushing them up to rest atop his head. His breath catches audibly. Wesker’s upper lip curls and trembles, nose scrunching in a way that you would ordinarily find cute were it not for the typhoon of rage written across his face.
Your hands trace slowly down his temples to cup his cheeks. You can tell he’s reluctant to let you touch him. He doesn’t speak, but he also doesn’t look away. His eyes drill straight into you. It’s as if looking away means to be consumed by the same force that split the desk in two and wrecked the room.
“Breathe, Al.” You whisper, thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You watch him take a shuddering breath before his hands shoot up to grab your wrists. You wince at the tightness of his grip.
He falls to his knees, head lowered.
You go down with him.
Whatever splinters you’ve landed on sting, but there are matters far more pressing than that.
“I am nothing.”
His voice is small and so incredibly unlike the man you know. There is no authority, no edge, no strength to it. With a hand at the back of his neck, you pull him to hide his face against your chest. You’re about to open your mouth to counter such a terribly false statement when a crushing grip settles on your shoulders.
“Manufactured.”
His hands shake despite the force of their hold. Something had truly rattled him to his core, something big. Flashes of memories blow through your mind of every time you’d seen that perfect composure crack. His fury at his old teammate, frustrations with achieving his dream, and–
Like shattered glass revealing an unspoken truth, you connect his words with his most persistent anxiety.
The old man.
You realize why your presence was forbidden, why he wouldn’t tell you his whereabouts nor his plans.
For every night he’d laid awake chewing a hole in his lower lip, tossing and turning, fretting and torturing himself. Each moment he’d lose the time staring at the wall, contemplating his strange fixation on none other than Oswell E. Spencer himself. All of the time and resources spent tracking down a ghost.
Had his efforts paid off?
His grip grows stronger as he launches into a tirade– Umbrella, Spencer, Project Wesker. You merely listen with wide eyes as he tells the tale of his creation, and everything you know of his upbringing becomes so much more sorrowful. Not merely an orphan, nor a prodigy with exceptional ideals and a mind to change the world.
A product.
An idea.
Another man’s dream.
A borrowed last name.
A boy stolen from those that would have nurtured him. Taken from the people who would have celebrated his mind, not simply capitalized off of it. Who would have cared for his milestones and held his hands through each one.
Who would have loved him.
His eyes are unfocused as he tells every detail. It’s as if he’s gone to hide within himself.
You suspect such a state is far worse than his rage could ever be.
He’s silent for a time, though the tightness of his grip remains. His mouth twitches, lips parting as if he means to say something, over and over again…
“Who am I?”
The quiver in his voice shatters you. Those cracks in his poise you’d seen during those anxious frets over finding Spencer, of finding Chris, his disgust with the human race and their penchant for self destruction and cruelty– it’s all split wide open now. You see the raw nerve that he truly is. And all you want to do is shield him from the pain.
But you can’t.
The damage is done. It has been for decades.
The best you can do is hold him close and coo love and reassurances in droves. You encourage him to feel it.
Don’t suppress it. Don’t swallow the pain nor bury it deep to drown in itself.
Feel it.
You card your fingers through the hair at his nape. He seethes and shakes to hold back his cries. You still feel the tears soak your shirt all the same.
“Whoever you are,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Whoever you want to be…”
His grip slackens.
“I will love you, always.”