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Feeling Chris crumple like wet paper under his blows is the most satisfying thing Wesker has experienced in quite a while. Chuckling, Wesker goes for another punch, luxuriating in the give of a nose shattering against his knuckles. This is what happens to those that interfere in his plans. With a final blow, Wesker steps back, taking in the glorious scene before him.
Chris is doubled over, coughing. Blood drips from his nose, staining the concrete underneath his feet a fresh ruddy red. A sprig of mistletoe, put up by some past worker, hangs from a section of the unbuilt frame behind him. There’s a certain irony in that Wesker's beating has happened to position him under it rather perfectly.
Staring at the scene, Wesker finds himself flooded with a sense of deja vu. Mistletoe. When has he last seen mistletoe, of all things?
Suddenly, the memory hits, and Wesker remembers—
“Looks like we’re under the mistletoe, Captain,” Chris smiles.
It’s just the two of them. Everyone else has already gone home, the meticulously planned Christmas party a ratcheting success. His cover in S.T.A.R.S. remains secure and immaculate as ever.
“Yes,” Wesker murmurs. He’s close enough to trace the tiny freckles that spot Chris’s face like stars. They frame his face like a painting, reminding Wesker of a pointillist piece he once saw.
Chris swallows at his lack of a true response, looking uncharacteristically shy. Wesker finds it almost cute, to see him this flustered. It's an appealing sort of weakness. Something he could use, if he wanted to.
“Uh, you don’t have to—” Chris stutters, eggnog and embarrassment tinging his cheeks a pleasant pink. “I mean, I know we’re both guys and you’re—”
“It’s fine,” Wesker interrupts, huffing out a sigh. It’s merely a kiss.
At his acknowledgement, Chris looks around for a second before slowly, hesitantly leaning forward. Wesker meets him halfway, his hand resting against the green nylon of his point man’s vest. The kiss is chaste, but the lips against his own are warm. Chris sighs against him. He tastes like peppermint and happy memories.
—and gets an idea. A cruel, vicious, wonderful idea. There's more to harm than just the physical, and this is a particularly enticing weakness.
Dangerously, Wesker stalks back to Chris, grabbing his collar and hauling him up like a disobedient hound. Blue eyes stare weakly back at him, concussed but furious. How quaint.
“It looks like we're under the mistletoe, Chris.” Wesker purrs, cruelty lining his tone like velvet.
“...What?” Chris slurs, brow furrowing. He looks around. Wesker gives him a moment, amused by his confusion. When Chris finally spots the mistletoe, his attention flies back to Wesker as he flinches in Wesker's grasp. Wesker relishes the shocked horror painted across his face. “No! Hell no! Stay the hell the away from me, you absolute fucking psyc—”
Wesker grins viciously, smothering his protests with teeth and tongue. This kiss is anything but chaste. It's forceful. An extension of his own indomitable will. Chris fights in his grip, shouting against his lips. Wesker pulls his hair, drinking in the moan of pain along his tongue. He swallows down each little noise, soaking in the satisfaction of Chris's suffering.
It tastes like iron and victory.