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The bar was louder than Chris expected for a Thursday night. It was all chatter and jukebox static, no one needed to think too hard about why they were here. The new girl – Rebecca, he thinks – was the new addition to the team. That was enough of an excuse to go out and celebrate. She’d been so damn proud when she walked back into the office this morning, eyes shining with the ambition of youth. Barry suggested drinks to celebrate, with his usual booming enthusiasm, and before long they had everyone on board.
Everyone except Captain Wesker, of course.
Chris didn’t think he’d show. Nobody did, really. Their captain wasn’t exactly known for joining the squad after hours, it was almost like he was allergic to the idea of being human outside the office. That was why Jill nearly dropped her beer when he walked in. Nobody said it out loud, but everyone noticeably shifting in one way or another. Wesker ordered a drink, vodka neat. That was it. Chris didn’t think he’d even finish it before leaving.
He, on the other hand, was already halfway through his second beer – and yet, Barry shoved a fresh glass in front of him with a clap to the shoulder when he returned from the bar.
“Drink up, Redfield. You’re buying next round, though.”
Chris groaned but didn’t argue. He could already tell he’d have the headache in the morning. Truth of the matter is, he needed an excuse to let loose a little, what with his sister just heading off to college and so much work piling up. Barry’s laugh boomed as usual while he raised a glass, offering a toast.
“To Rebecca! The youngest and fastest damn trainee I’ve ever seen clear the range!”
Rebecca flushed a little. “It wasn’t that fast…”
“Fast enough,” Jill laughed. “Better than Chris did, I think.”
That got the whole table laughing, but Chris didn’t crack a smile. Instead, his eyes darted more than once toward the far end of the booth where Wesker sat. He hadn’t joined in fully, of course. Just sat straight-backed with that untouched vodka neat in front of him. Chris turned back quickly, draining what was left of his beer. No sense staring.
After the third (or was it the fourth?) drink was finished, he could feel himself loosening up. Felt good. He’s always been a heavyweight, something he was grateful for on many occasions. Jill suddenly leaned in close, whispering to him as if everyone at the table wasn’t within earshot too.
“I can’t believe he actually came.”
“Who, the captain?”
She gave him a look that said, don’t play dumb. Chris shrugged, pretending to not share her enthusiasm as much as he really wanted to. He glanced down the table, tracing the ring of condensation his last drink left on the wood. Wesker hadn’t even finished his drink, sipped it real slow as if he was proving a point by being responsible. If Chris were a betting man, he’d say the captain was counting how long it would be before someone embarrassed themselves. Odds were good that “someone” was going to be him.
“I’ll get the next round,” he muttered, not that anyone heard him.
Chris slid out of the booth, and beelined it for the bar. Unfortunately, the bartender looked like he was pretty busy with a handful of other customers. So, he found an empty stool and plopped down, tapping his knuckles against the wood as he waited. Soon his eyes drifted, like it always did, back to Wesker. Three quick glances turned into four or five before he realized what he was doing. God, was he staring again? Wesker seemed out of his element, but he smiled a bit and sometimes played along with the occasional “mhm” here and there.
It was when Wesker finally looked back that Chris froze. He tried to pretend he’d been watching the game on the mounted TV nearby, but it was too late. Wesker slid out of the booth. No one at the table even noticed him leave. But Chris noticed. He took the stool beside him like it was preordained. For a moment, he said nothing, and Chris hates silence. He cleared his throat, with the alcohol buzzing in his head. Fine, he’d be the one to say something first.
“You enjoying yourself, Captain?”
Wesker tilted his head. “Define enjoyment.”
“You know, being out with us. Have you been babysitting that same drink?”
“One of us ought to remain sober.”
Chris finally flagged down the bartender with more confidence than usual. Maybe it was the beer talking, or maybe it was just the way Wesker sat beside him.
“Yeah, another round for the table–”
“Cancel that,” Wesker cut in. “Two old-fashioned will do. I’m paying.”
Chris blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Guess that means you’re sticking around?”
Wesker didn’t answer right away. Just shifted the glass in his hand, thumb pressing against the rim absentmindedly. “I prefer this over their shouting.”
Chris snorted. The bartender slid the drinks their way, and Chris found himself staring at the amber glow in the short glass. Stronger than the beer he’d been putting away all night. He lifted it anyway.
“To Rebecca, I guess?”
Wesker reluctantly lifted his own glass only about an inch, with a nod that counted as agreement. Chris felt his face burn, chalked it up to the alcohol. When Wesker set the drink down, his fingers once again tapped against the side of the glass. It must’ve been a little tic of his. Chris’s eyes followed, caught on the way the veins in his hands looked in this light. God, he’d never paid attention to the captain’s hands before. He looked back up too late, just in time to catch his own reflection in Wesker’s glasses. Those dumb glasses…
He swallowed hard, throat dry despite the liquor. Has his jawline always been this sharp, or is he only appreciating it now? Questions, questions. Wesker leaned in slightly, as if reading his mind.
“You’ll stare a hole straight through me if you keep doing that.”
“What?” Chris jerked back a little, heat suddenly burning his ears. “I’m not staring.”
One brow ticked up, enough to say liar. Chris took a bigger sip than he meant to, the burn of whiskey blooming down his throat. It loosened something in him, or maybe just snapped what was left of his restraint. He let out a laugh that didn’t feel entirely sober and set his glass down a little harder than necessary.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”
“Like what?”.
“Relaxed,” Chris gestured vaguely. “I mean, not looking like you’ve got a stick up your ass.”
“Careful.”
“Yeah, yeah,” He muttered, taking a larger gulp than he should. “Sorry, it’s just nice to talk to you so loosely without being in the office, y’know?”
The silence stretched long enough that Chris started to feel it, and he hated it. Never could find comfort in the lull between conversations. He filled it before he could stop himself, instead.
“Guess that’s something I’ve wanted more of. You sometimes look at the others, like Jill, and say things that show that you’re proud of them, or whatever. Give them looks of approval, and I just–” Chris cut himself off with a nervous laugh. “Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Finish it.”
Chris blinked. “I guess I just wish you’d look at me like that more often.”
Wesker’s glass hovered near his mouth, and his expression was unreadable. Chris rubbed the back of his neck, the warmth in his face impossible to blame entirely on the alcohol now.
“I mean,” Chris huffed out a sigh. “I know you think I’m a screw-up half the time. Just wish you’d say something different to me than everyone else.”
“Different in what way?”
“Yeah, like… I don’t know. More praise? That’s stupid, I guess.”
“Wanting recognition from your superior is hardly unusual, Chris.”
“See, that’s the thing,” Chris said, leaning in now, emboldened by liquor. “It’s not about recognition, not like that, but… I like it when you look at me.”
The words slipped out before he realized how they sounded. His eyes dropped, lingered on the sharp line of Wesker’s jaw. The way the shadows cut across his features. His pulse jumped, but Wesker didn’t move away from the proximity, which made him want to lean in closer to him even more. And Chris wanted to. Hell, he really wanted to, and that last drink was hitting now.
“Interesting. You’re jealous of my attention to the others?”
“No,” Chris groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then clarify. What exactly do you mean by liking when I look at you?”
“Well,” He leaned in closer, across the narrow space between their stools. “Guess I just like seeing you every day. In the office. Even when you’re chewing me out for something, or getting on my ass about reports.”
Wesker arched a brow. “Is that so?”
Damn. The alcohol had loosened his tongue too much to back out now. “I know I complain, but I don’t mind being there so much when you come in. You ever notice when you walk into a room, everyone straightens up?”
“Of course they do.”
“Well, I’ve always liked that about you.”
He stopped, the half-confession tumbled out like he was saying it to a friend, not his commanding officer. His laugh followed a beat later, bubbly warm, as if to make it less serious. Wesker didn’t laugh, but regarded Chris quietly. Probably trying to make out the implications there, and measuring what to say. The younger man tipped his head back and downed the rest of his drink like that might make them disappear. Wesker’s verdict on the situation came after he tilted his head to the side a bit, fixing Chris with a very specific look.
“I’d hope you like your captain doing well at his job.”
“No, I mean, you’ve just got that thing about you,” Chris hiccuped between words. “You walk into a room and everybody knows who’s in charge, doesn’t matter if you say a word or not. I kind of want to be like that, you know? You make it look easy.”
Once again, Wesker said nothing as he watched Chris continue to dig himself into a deeper hole. Then he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Wesker’s mouth. Not a smile, God forbid, but close enough to count if you were desperate. And Chris was, naturally. He leaned in closer, grinning wide as if he heard the funniest joke. In the low bar light, he swore he could see something in the way his eyes lingered a fraction too long. A small tell, maybe.
“You find this funny?”
“Don’t press your luck,” Wesker scoffed, fixing him with an unamused look.
“You never look at me like this in the office. Means I got your attention.”
Yeah, the alcohol was talking as if it took the goddamn wheel.
“Bold of you, Chris.”
“You’re always so serious, all business,” He pressed on, words tumbling out. “I spend half my time wishing you’d treat me the way you treat Jill. Instead, I get‘Redfield, your reports are late,’ ‘Redfield, you’re getting sloppy’–”
“Chris.” Wesker arched an eyebrow again, voice more firm. “Don’t mock me.”
“No, no, ‘m serious,” Chris leaned further, shoulder brushing Wesker’s. “Even when you’re chewing me out, hell, I like it. I’ve always wanted that presence you have. Want to be like that, like you are. I guess I just like you. Do you know what I mean?"
Damn, that last question hung in the air like it had some weight to it. Chris realized it too late, lips pressing shut, eyes glassy in the low light. He chuckled recklessly and anxiously, leaning on the bar to ground himself as the room began to spin. The older man just sat there with that unreadable mask of his, deliberating a response in real time. Chris never wanted to crawl under a rock more.
“You’re drunk, Christopher,” Wesker finally said.
“No, I’m–” Chris hiccupped, then tried again. “I’m not drunk! Just, tell me, do you ever feel like that too?”
“Go home and sleep this off. You’ll be less inclined toward embarrassing yourself in the morning.”
Before Chris could scramble for another denial, Wesker was already sliding cash across the counter to pay for the drink he hadn’t even finished. Chris just frowned, trying to sit a little straighter, but the alcohol weighed him down. He was visibly dejected, and his protest came out slurred.
“Wait, don't go yet. You’re really not gonna answer me?”
“I’ve heard nothing that requires an answer,” Wesker replied, slipping out of his stool. “And I’ll continue to pretend I haven’t. Try to be less tactless next time.”
With that, he headed toward the exit. Real smooth, Redfield. Chris let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, dragging both hands down his face with a groan. He wished he’d stopped after the third or fourth drink, but he wished above all that Wesker had stayed longer.