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In the beginning, it had just been for convenience. The station was updating its paperwork, and everybody needed an emergency contact number. Claire was away at college with no access to anything beyond a payphone, Barry was busy enough with his own kids, and his parents were long since dead. So when Chris had looked at the line stating ‘Emergency Contact Number’, he huffed out a sigh and scribbled in something he vaguely remembered as being Wesker's cell phone number.
Wesker had taken the updated paperwork from him, scanning the document with his usual meticulousness. Chris could tell the exact moment he hit the emergency contact line. Pale blue pupils stuttered in their movement, Wesker's brow furrowing as they flicked back over the line, startled. He looked back up at Chris, eyebrows raised, and Chris shrugged. Chris didn't really have anybody else he could put in. His captain was as good a choice as any if worse came to worse.
In the end, Wesker sighed, wrote his approval on the updated form, and that was the end of it.
When the BSAA had formed, they’d grabbed his old S.T.A.R.S. file and used it as a base for his new agent file. Something about not wanting to deal with the hassle of regathering data that already existed. All they did was hand it over to him for corrections and call it a day.
This time, when Chris came to the ‘Emergency Contact Number’ line, his hand twitched, smearing a dab of ink onto the page. Wesker's number was still there. Chris should—he should change it. The last person on Earth he’d want to show up in an emergency would be Wesker. Wesker probably didn't even still have the same number, anyway.
But Claire still didn't have a cell phone. Barry was in goddamn Canada. And he hadn't learned Jill's new number since they moved to Britain. He could keep Wesker's number on there for a while. Just until he could get ahold of Jill’s number to replace it.
He meant to change it, really.
Call it laziness, but he could never be bothered to change it. Every time the BSAA asked him to update his emergency contact form, he just shoved Wesker’s old cell phone number into the thing and ignored it. It’s not like it even mattered, really. He never got sick or injured enough to need it, with all the work he put into keeping his body fit and healthy. Until one day—
…he did.
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“Hello, is this a Mr. ‘A.W.’?”
“Doctor, but yes. Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“This is Mercy Hospital in St. Louis. You're listed as the emergency contact for a Mr. ‘Chris Redfield’, correct?”
“...Yes.”
“Mr. Redfield appears to have been suffering from acute appendicitis. Upon arrival, he was taken into surgery, but his appendix ruptured during the procedure. At the moment, he’s in critical condition.”
“...”
“Sir?”
“What's the address?”
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Getting to St. Louis in a timely manner had been…challenging, but Wesker was used to challenges. The opportunity to see his greatest enemy broken and helpless was too intriguing to resist. He’d strolled right into the lobby, noting the disgustingly lax security as he marched up to the front desk.
“I'm here to see a Mr. ‘Chris Redfield’,” Wesker stated to the receptionist, plastering on a pleasing, mild-mannered expression. “I received a call that he's currently in the Intensive Care Unit?”
“Oh!” she blinked, clearly too absorbed in her own inanities to notice him enter. Registering his statement, she typed into the computer at her desk, shooting Wesker a look so sympathetic it made his teeth grind behind his placid, pasted-on smile. “He's in Room 112.”
Wesker nodded. The room wasn't far. Just down the hall and around the corner from the entrance.
When Wesker arrived at the tiny, sterile room, the first thing that struck him was how small Chris looked. Chris always attempted to look bigger during their fights, and it seemed like he got larger and more muscular with every new meeting. Now, curled up on his side like a wounded animal, he looked almost as small as he'd been back in S.T.A.R.S.
Wesker drew closer. Chris was pale and drawn, tanned skin uncharacteristically light against the white sheets. His hair hung tangled and knotted across his forehead, somehow even more of a mess than usual. Stretched limply across the bed, Chris was deathly still, the quiet beep of the monitors the only thing breaking the silence.
The door creaked closed behind Wesker, and at the noise, Chris's eyelashes fluttered. Hazily, blue eyes slid blearily open. The pupils were blown wide as coins, glazed and unseeing. Chris mumbled something, reaching out blindly.
“...Captain?” Chris murmured. He sounded surprised. “You're here.”
Chris's hand grasped his sleeve, and Wesker stiffened.
“Didn't think you’d show,” Chris slurred, smiling dopily. “You're always so busy.”
“You entrusted me as your emergency contact,” Wesker replied.
With the cocktail of medications he was on, it was unlikely Chris would remember any of this. Yet somehow, Wesker still found himself responding. Justifying his presence, perhaps. It wouldn’t do to have any nurses interpose on their meeting. As his words registered, Chris's eyes crossed, as if trying desperately to remember something.
“Oh yeah!” Chris giggled. “Was gonna change it.”
“Really,” Wesker stated flatly. It wasn’t a question. Naturally, his high-as-a-kite former subordinate took it as such.
“Jill got a cellphone,” Chris explained, as if this all made perfect sense. “Forgot. So despite everything, it's still you.”
“Lovely,” Wesker said, shooting Chris a withering glare.
“You—” Chris huffed. He smiled. “You’re lucky I love you.”
At those words, Chris seemed to calm, slipping back into blissful unconsciousness. Wesker stared at him, frozen. Slowly, he shook his head, casting off the unexpected response as a simple product of Chris’s confusion. It meant nothing.
Sliding into the seat at the side of the bed, Wesker folded his legs and took out a book. Dispatching Chris in this state would give him little to no satisfaction. Not to mention, odd mumblings aside, he knew the look on Chris’s face when the medications wore off would be absolutely magnificent.