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Chris stepped into the S.T.A.R.S. offices, immediately, and a hush fell over the room, all eyes locked on him. His ears burned as he walked to his desk. Just keep walking, just keep walking—
Chris sat down, and the chair squeaked in the silence. As he shuffled his paperwork, he noticed Forrest wandering his way over, trying and failing to not look conspicuous as he inched his way towards Chris. Pasting on a grin, Forrest’s elbow came down on the wood of his desk, body language casual even as he whispered to Chris in a panic.
“Dude, what are you wearing?” Forrest said through clenched teeth, eyes inching towards Wesker's office. “Wesker's going to kill you!”
Chris grimaced. “Lost a bet with Richard.”
Richard, who was currently silently losing his shit in the corner. Asshole.
The squeak of boots in the hallway. The sound of the door swinging open. Chris looked down, trying to look busy, as Forrest fled like a pigeon being chased by a toddler in the park. As the footsteps inched closer, there was an audible intake of air and an almost inaudible mumble of “What?”. Chris kept his eyes studiously locked to his paperwork. He didn't look, knowing that if he did, he’d melt into a puddle of embarrassment then and there.
There was the sound of a throat clearing, right next to his ear. “My office. Now.”
Chris was doomed. “Yes, Captain Wesker.”
Wesker shepherded him over to his office, closing the door behind them. After a moment of consideration, he also shuttered the blinds, stiff and furious. Hissing out a breath, he pounced on Chris almost immediately. “What the hell are you wearing?!”
Chris looked at him, face completely straight. “I'm wearing a S.T.A.R.S. uniform, sir.”
“Officer Valentine's uniform!” Wesker snarled, looking him up and down. “Which is clearly several sizes too small.”
Chris shrugged, playing it cool. “Mine was in the wash.”
Jill had left a few of her spares over at Chris’s place as a ‘just in case’. Given the look on her face when he came in, he was pretty sure this wasn't exactly what she had in mind. Regardless, there was no way in hell he was telling Wesker the details of the bet. This was bad enough. He was already probably going to be on desk duty for the next few months.
Wesker massaged his temples, clearly staving off a migraine. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't place you on desk duty for the foreseeable future.”
“My magnetic charm, sir?” Chris blurted out, and he wanted to kick himself. Mouthing off to Wesker was only going to make the situation worse. Forget the next few months, he was going to be on desk duty until the day he retired.
“I said a good reason,” Wesker responded, voice flat.
Chris scratched the back of his neck, hiding the dread lighting up his spine with a casual ease. As the tiny shirt rode up, exposing his belly, he noticed the path of Wesker’s vision. His captain’s face was firm, but it wasn’t hard to notice the way pale blue eyes shifted behind dark sunglasses, lingering on the tiny sliver of exposed skin around Chris’s stomach. And suddenly, Chris had an idea. A terrible idea, but one that made the hairs on the back of his neck raise in anticipation.
“Hmm,” Chris stretched, rolling the dice. “Well, what about my expert marksmanship?”
His shirt rode up again, and Wesker froze. Holding his breath, Chris doubled down. Slowly, he stretched more, exposing his stomach further.
“Or my ace pilot skills?” Chris continued. If he was getting fired, he was getting fired. At least this way, he wouldn’t have to worry about desk duty.
“Oh, or maybe even my—”
“Go home and change, Redfield,” Wesker interrupted him, pinching his nose. He was redder than Chris had ever seen him.
Chris smiled, trying not to look too smug. “Got it, Captain.”