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His clothes are soaked by the time Chris finally manages to drag his feet across the pavement of Kiss street. He turns around to look at his car, blankly stares at the dashboard. He took the key. He knows that much: the edge of the keychain hanging on it is digging into his thigh in the right pocket of his jeans.
The fabric sticks to his skin. He doesn't even know what he's doing here. There's no logical reason for him to be out this late, to be out in a part of Raccoon City he never goes to. Northen Raccoon City houses only the rich and important.
Chris is neither of those people. He knows the people here will look at his car twice before they notice the S.T.A.R.S. logo on the side, and then they'll relax and walk away. Maybe he'll be written up for it all the same. Maybe he'll be lucky.
The car isn't the only thing that's a wreck, though.
There had been so much blood. There's still blood on his shirt. Chris manages to drag his gaze away from the car. He blinks down, and blinks again. Red. A darker red, mixed with rain and the darker blue fabric of his shirt.
Another shirt he won't be able to wear again without being reminded of the panic, the way his breath had stopped when he had gotten the call. Raccoon City hospital, room 103-2.
Jill had promised to take over his workload for the day, he remembers. He doesn't remember leaving, doesn't remember how his car got parked on the parking lot of the hospital.
He'll have to thank her someday. A day on which returning to work doesn't feel this far away, doesn't feel this distant. What good is he of an officer if he can't even save his little sister? The most important person he vowed to protect?
It isn't even that serious, in the end.
Minor accident. Two moderately wounded, of which the motorbiker was transported to the hospital by ambulance. First emergency contact called. Brother: Chris Redfield.
Nothing had prepared him for the sight of his Claire in that hospital bed, though.
His brave little sister had looked so fragile for once. Like there was harm that could get to her when Chris was at work, like there was a whole world of hurt open for her that he couldn't protect her from.
She had only sniffled very lightly when he had wrapped his arms around her tight enough to bruise, and the remaining blood in her hair had smeared onto his shirt. A trophy for being alive. A reminder that she's still real, still here.
A broken arm, a minor concussion, more bruises than he'd been able to count, and a cut on her neck that scared them all enough to keep her in the hospital for a few more days.
But she's alive, and she'll live through it. Chris won't have to bury another Redfield with his own bare hands.
And now he's here. Something along the lines of sir, you need the rest as well, and the patient needs her alone time, and there's a flyer in the back of his car that lists the visiting hours perfectly clear.
He had sat in the parking lot for minutes, maybe hours. Maybe a day. All Chris knows is that the skies have gone dark and that storm they've been talking about for weeks has finally hit the city.
He's wet. Yeah, he's soaked, and he shivers. Address listings flash through his mind. Right, he knows which house to go to.
Army St. had been empty when he made his way through it. No one on the sidewalks. Not even a lone passerby holding an umbrella while pulling a dog on a leash ahead with them. No, it had been entirely deserted.
He had turned left, and then right, and he had taken a left turn on Mina St. until Chris had been able to blink past the fog and could see a house he actually, finally, recognised.
The streets here are empty as well. He slowly lifts his foot again. Feet are wonderful things when they feel real and as if they actually belong to your body. Now, though, it feels like he's holding up a puppet by its strings and is desperately trying to lift up the right bodyparts.
He still remembers it so clearly.
Sirens everywhere. The ambulance parked in front of their home. The fact that the police officer couldn't manage to keep a straight face when they finally broke the news to him, on the day that fourteen-year-old Chris Redfield became an adult.
The shape of his parents' faces fades by the year. He doesn't remember the smell of his mother's perfume, or the cologne his dad used only on special occassions. Sometimes he wonders if Claire would even remember they ever existed if he didn't remind her every now and then.
His hand meets a solid underground that feels close to polished wood, and Chris manages to lift his fist twice to knock on it.
His mother had been big on superstitions. Don't jinx it, she had said more times than he'd been able to count, and his father had smiled, all soft and indulgent. Chris, don't listen to your father. Knock on wood. Again, Chris, again-
"Redfield."
The voice cuts through the memory with a practiced ease. That voice is safe. Familiar. Chris's shoulders lift. His feet land on more solid ground when he rightens his back, fixes his stance. His clothes feel a lot more wet like this.
And then his vision unblurres, and in front of him, Albert Wesker holds open the door to his house with a less than pleased expression on his face. "I suppose this is no scientific experiment to test your combat skills with the added on weight of wet clothes, is it now?"
All he can do is shake his head. No, it's not. His teeth clatter when he tries to open his mouth, and he can't contain the full body shiver that goes through him.
"I would appreciate it if you didn't stand there like a headless mutt," Wesker mutters. He reaches out, his hand resting on Chris's shoulder. He's so warm, his usually cold captain, and Chris shudders.
He's pulled inside and let go off before he can fully process it.
Wesker's house is clean. And neat. A little too neat, for Chris's liking, because it looks more like a lab than it would resemble a normal house for a normal man, but Wesker has never been anything close to ordinary.
He's dripping water on the white tiles of the floor. Chris can almost watch his own reflection in them, and Wesker waves him off when he tries to apologise. "Stay, Chris."
And then Wesker disappears into another room, and Chris is left looking around. It should remind him of the hospital, maybe, but there's a safety here than he knows isn't found in sterile rooms with empty beds and bleached sheets.
There's a white blanket on the couch. A few books are stacked on the table next to it, all fancy words and difficult looking cover pictures, and there's a page with scribbled notes on them. Maybe his captain was working.
It's a weekday, after all. Is it?
"Yes, is it," Wesker answers from behind him. Chris doesn't whirl around like he would if this was anyone else, if he were anywhere else, if he was anyone more composed than the man he is right now. No, he lets his captain wrap a towel around his shoulders like he matters, and that's it. "A tuesday, Chris."
He nods, slowly, and watches as the world moves upside down. His head feels heavy. He doesn't remember voicing the question out loud. Did he even talk?
"You did," is the curt reply, and then Wesker's hands are on his shoulders again. He's steered towards the couch with a bit too much force. He stumbles, and Wesker's grip tightens on him.
"Wesker?" he murmurs. He tries to turn his head. The white of the wall blends into the dark brown of Wesker's bookshelves, and Chris frowns at the flashy triangular shapes in his vision. "Your house didn't move."
He gets an irritated sigh in return. "It didn't, Chris. As I haven't moved, either," his captain says, and then he's sat down on the couch.
Wesker's couch feels uncomfortable. It's too rigid, too stiff, too weird, too white. Chris would rather be at his own home with his own couch, but then Claire wouldn't be there and he'd have to watch football on his own tonight.
He frowns, again. "Claire is at the hospital, still," he mumbles.
It's quiet, at that.
Chris isn't good with silence. Not usually, not when it comes to his captain. He wants to impress him, he wants to do good. Now, though, he wants to close his eyes and sleep until his life feels like his again.
"She will be there for another night, surely," Wesker says.
Chris blinks up at him, surprised. There's a blanket around his shoulders. The same blanket he saw on the couch, the same perfect shade of white that he'll ruin just by touching it. But Wesker doesn't seem to mind.
So he lets it go. "Why?" he asks, so tired and so done.
The hospital staff barely explained anything. They sent him home with some paperwork to fill out and too many questions on his mind to answer.
Wesker makes a non-committal sound, then turns on his feet so Chris is left looking at the back of his head. "She is to be kept from physical and mental strain for 24 up to 48 hours to soothe the concussion. She will be monitoired for confusion and possible seizures."
A lot of words. But it makes sense, and it's his captain speaking, so Chris nods until he feels the words land a bit more.
The warmth of the blanket seeps into his skin, slowly but surely. He blinks again. There are books on the bookshelves, he realises. Spillover, one of the titles reads. Viruses, plagues, and history. Intimate relationships: 9th edition. The Great Mortality: an intimate history of the Black Death.
Wesker is talking on the phone on the wall when Chris looks back up at him. He wants to ask, wants to know, but he's not sure if he can manage to think of a single question. Wesker must read a lot in his free time.
It looks important. Chris wants to be important to him more than anything, more than he wants to save the residents of Raccoon City from all incoming danger and doom. He wants to know why these book are here specifically.
He blinks down at Wesker's notes. He has the handwriting of a scientist. The handwriting of a doctor, even, and he can barely make out a scribbled William Birkin.
"The hospital has been informed of your current wereabouts and predicament, Chris," Wesker says, and his gaze flicks over to meet Chris's. There's a quick panic that spreads over Wesker's face before it settles into its usual passive mask.
Chris wants to know. He's so tired.
"They will call me on this line in case of any further complications," Wesker then continues. He stares at Chris with the power of a captain and the strength of a man. "No news is good news. You may sleep soundly."
Chris manages to nod, again. He wraps the blanket a bit tighter around himself and closes his eyes for just a second. By the time he manages to open them again, Wesker has placed a hot coffee on a coaster on the table in front of him.
Black, no sugar. Exactly how he takes his usual coffee.
Wesker is sitting on the other end of the couch. His posture is perfect, as always, and he's holding a book in one hand while writing down notes with the other. And Chris yearns to be aware of his secrets.
"Talk to me," he manages to rasp out.
There's a flicker of amusement in Wesker's eyes before it snuffs out, and his usual serious expression doesn't change. Maybe he thinks Chris is pathetic. Maybe he's just another one of those subordinates who are too eager to please their boss.
Maybe Wesker considers him none of those things. His captain would tell him if he was, after all.
"Very well," Wesker concedes. He lifts up his book, Pandemics: the Invisible Enemy, and Chris nods quietly. Wesker's voice settles into a softer hush when he starts talking again.
"That first course was taught by experts recruited by Langmuir to turn EIS officers into disease 'detectives.' Personally, I doubt this entirely. We've known plently of men like Langmuir throughout history."
It's so nice, this. Chris's head tips to the slide, resting against the couch more. He'll be able to vist Claire tomorrow, play a few games with her, and she'll be able to tease him about his sleepover with his captain.
"Personal gain will stand above any other goal in life. Humans are selfish, Chris. There is not a single human in this city who'd be truly willing to sacrifice their life for anothers. I have trained my S.T.A.R.S. exceptionally well, in this too."
There's a soft thud when he slides down the couch a bit more, resting his head against a pillow. Wesker trusts him. Has let him into his home like this.
The murmuring continues until he's on the brink of falling asleep. He vaguely registers the soft sound of Wesker's book closing, of the scribbling on his papers coming to a halt. And then a whisper, close to his ear: "I'm pleased you came to me, Chris. You are mine to look after, as the best of my men."
Chris's dreams are often restless. More often than not he dreams of his parents looking down at him, scrutinising his every move. Claire tells him he's too hard on himself when he wakes, when she finds him with dark eyebags under his eyes.
It's not the case today. No, today Chris dreams he is in his office, and Barry cracks a lame joke that makes even Jill look up from their paperwork. And then Jospeh laughs, and Chris feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards.
It doesn't take long before they're all laughing like little kids.
Chris finally looks up from his desk after a few long minutes. His side hurts. His lungs burn, and there's a stray tear in the corner of his eye. He doesn't remember the last time he laughed this hard.
He meets Wesker's gaze through the window of his office, blurry and hazy from the edges of his dream, and he instinctively freezes. But his captain isn't mad. No, he merely looks amused, before the corner of his lips tick up as well.
He relaxes further against the couch. The soft fabric of the blanket brushes past his cheek, and Chris stirs before he lets sleep pull him under again. He's safe here.
The keychain on his car keys pokes into his thigh, and his clothes still feel wet on his skin, but the blanket is keeping him warm and sheltered from the rest of the world. He'll know if the hospital has to reach him.
Wesker is here, after all. His captain has his back.