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Wesker wasn’t even sure what he’d done to deserve any of this.
The light in his office stabbed at his eyes, even through the tinted shield of his sunglasses. The muffled chatter of voices down the hall reverberated through the office walls, every laugh and stray word bouncing inside his aching head.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. The tissue in his hand was already crumpled from overuse. “Ughh...” He muttered, the sound low and sharp, before blowing his nose again.
The reflection in the dark glass of the window caught his attention, pale skin, the faintest sheen of sweat at his temple. Pathetic, that was the only word for it. For years, he’d kept his body in peak condition, ready for any mission, any confrontation. And now... this?
He sat back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. A normal man- a lesser man would’ve stayed home in bed. Even he had briefly considered it this morning, which was telling enough. The very idea that he could be felled by something as mundane as a cold was absurd.
He stifled a cough into his fist, grimacing.
But, of course, he had come in. Umbrella’s leash was tight, they demanded perfection. S.T.A.R.S. required his watchful hand, his guiding authority. And, when the time was right, his subtle hand would see the team into their inevitable downfall. Sick or not, the wheels had to keep turning.
Another cough crept up before he could stifle it. He masked it with his hand, forcing his breathing steady, glancing toward the door. He’d already told the team not to bother him today, he’d made it clear that he had paperwork to catch up on and no tolerance for distractions.
They had seemed to understand, though a few too many glances lingered on him this morning. Pity, or worse, concern. Both were equally revolting. They knew, or at least, they suspected. It didn’t matter. He didn’t want their sympathy.
He set to reading a mission report, his pen tapping absently against the desk, counting down the hours until he could return to his apartment and sleep eight hours if fortune smiled. Ten, if he was blessed.
He was halfway through when a knock rattled the door. “Yes?” The single word came out clipped, just enough to warn the intruder that this had better be important. The door eased open. Wesker’s jaw tightened when he saw who it was.
“May I ask why you’re here, Redfield?” He worked to keep the hoarse edge out of his voice, but even he could hear it. “I believe I made it clear I am occupied.” Chris stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, Captain. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but-”
“You already are.” Wesker said flatly, cutting him off before he could even begin. Chris shifted awkwardly. “Right... well, it’s just.. I noticed something earlier- Actually, It was Jill who notice-” Wesker could already feel the irritation prickling at his skin. “Get to the point. My time is not infinite.”
Chris straightened a little, as if bracing himself. “It’s just... you don’t look so good today-” Wesker’s throat suddenly caught, and a cough tore through him before he could suppress it. He turned slightly, covering his mouth, annoyed at the loss of control.
“You look... sick, Captain.” Chris finished, his voice careful. “Don’t you think it’d be better to go home?” Chris took a step forward, hand half-raised as though he meant to steady him.
Wesker straightened immediately, tilting his head back just enough to reassert dominance. “Your concern is unnecessary, Redfield.” He said, voice low and clipped. Chris still didn’t look convinced.
“No offense, Captain, but one day off isn’t going to make this whole building collapse.” Chris said, his tone more confident now. Wesker’s jaw tightened. “I understand what you’re implying, Redfield. I have full faith the team could function without me for a day-”
“So why don’t you go home?”
Wesker’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. He closed them briefly. “Because I can’t.” Wesker replied. “S.T.A.R.S. demands one hundred percent attendance.” Chris frowned. “Don’t you have sick days? I thought everyone-
“Captains have a different contract.” Wesker said smoothly, the lie slipping off his tongue without hesitation. Chris crossed his arms. “Really? Huh. That’s funny, because I could swear I saw Enrico take a day off not too long ago-”
“Let it go, Chris.” The words were sharper now, but before Wesker could reclaim the full weight of his authority, his nose twitched. He barely had a second to react before a violent sneeze tore through him.
It was infuriating. For the briefest moment, he was not in control, he was just a man hunched over a desk. He snatched one tissue from the box beside him, wiping his nose quickly, refusing to meet Chris’s eyes.
“If that’s all...” Wesker said without looking up. “You can leave.” Chris hesitated, then obeyed without a word. The door shut, and Wesker let out a slow breath, leaning back into his chair.
The fever was a steady burn now, crawling under his skin. Tea briefly crossed his mind, but the thought of being seen in the break room by anyone was revolting. Chris seeing him like this, was already one witness too many.
He was halfway through picking up his pen again when the door opened without a knock. “Chris, I told you-” Wesker began, irritation sharpening his tone, but stopped when Redfield stepped inside holding a mug and a folded blanket.
“What is this?” Wesker asked, his voice low with suspicion.
“Since you’re too stubborn to go home, you might as well let people take care of you.” Chris said, setting the mug on the desk. Then, without waiting for permission, he draped the blanket over Wesker’s shoulders.
Wesker stared at him in disbelief. The gesture felt insulting, almost mocking. He didn’t need care, didn’t need sympathy, and certainly didn’t need Redfield of all people trying to-
“There’s tea.” Chris continued. “Honey and lemon. Good for your throat.” He gestured toward the mug. “And I found some instant soup packets in the break room drawer. Poured boiling water over one, should be ready in a minute.”
Wesker blinked slowly. “I appreciate... your concern, Chris, but I don’t-”
“We’re a team, Captain.” Chris interrupted. “And a team looks out for each other.” That made Wesker pause. He studied Redfield for a moment. “Yes... that is correct.” He said finally, his mouth forming a hard line. “However, my condition is not an excuse for you to neglect your duties-”
A cough cut him off, forcing him to steady himself on the armrest. This time, Chris stepped forward and placed a hand lightly on his back before he withdrew it at Wesker’s flinch. “You’d do the same for any of us.” Chris said, smiling. “You’re still our role model, Captain… but we’d rather you didn’t push yourself until you collapse.”
Wesker covered his mouth as another cough raked through his chest. Though, in truth, the gesture was less about etiquette and more about stifling the dry, rasping chuckle that clawed at his throat. Chris, predictably, didn’t notice.
“I’ll ask Jill if she’s got any cough drops lying around.” Chris offered after a moment, already turning half toward the door. At the mention of Jill, Wesker’s head lifted slightly. Chris caught the movement and quickly added. “Oh, don’t worry, Captain. We know you don’t want word of this getting around. Jill and I will keep it to the grave.”
Wesker’s mouth curled into the faintest smirk. “I don’t doubt it... Chris.” Chris saw it and gave a smile. “The team has to stick together, right?” He said, turning for the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.” And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
The moment he was alone, Wesker’s first instinct was to remove the blanket draped over his shoulders, discard it on the floor, and return to his work. Yet... the heat clinging to his body was stubbornly comforting. It was... tolerable.
He took a slow sip of the tea. The honey dulled the scratch in his throat just enough to make swallowing easier. He leaned forward, eyes closing without conscious decision. At some point, he wasn’t entirely sure when, he falls asleep.
When he stirred again, his body was hunched forward over the desk. A pillow cushioned his head, the blanket wrapped tighter around him. Wesker’s brow furrowed. His sunglasses were gone, resting neatly beside his elbow.
He straightened slowly, sliding the glasses back into place. His gaze fell to the mug, now joined by a steaming bowl of soup and a folded note. He picked it up.
We didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you needed it. We hope the soup’s still warm when you read this. Get well soon, Captain - Jill and Chris.
Two small hearts were scribbled after the names, their hurried, almost embarrassed strokes suggesting they were drawn and then regretted. Wesker suspected Jill’s handwriting... though Chris’s sense of humor made him a viable culprit.
He rolled his eyes, crumpled the paper, and dropped it into the trash. Still, he picked up the soup, tasting it despite knowing it would be cheap, sodium-heavy, and entirely beneath his usual standards.
Yet he finished half before setting it aside, lifting the mug of now lukewarm tea for a small sip. Just for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the kind of warmth that wasn’t born of fever or blankets, but something else entirely. A quiet, genuine sigh escaped him.
A small, irritating part of him knew he would miss Chris, Jill, and the rest of S.T.A.R.S. when the time came. In another life- a weaker life, he might have even felt a flicker of guilt for what he intended to do to them.
Wesker’s mouth curved upward. Guilt had never been part of his design.
A laugh bubbled up, sharp and short-lived before dissolving into a sneeze so sudden it bent him forward. The mug tipped, splashing lukewarm tea onto his legs. His glasses slid askew, and half his face ended up covered in snot mess.
“Ughhh...” He groaned, grabbing for a tissue, glaring down at the damp mess.
What had he done to deserve this?